rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Yawn

I can barely keep my eyes open tonight. That's happening a lot lately. It would be a terrible thing if I were de-nocturnalizing. What would I do with all those unfamiliar daylight hours? How would the night get along without me? All those raccoons unnoticed, all those stars unwatched, all those crickets heard only through a veil of dreams. Not to mention the fact that I'd probably end up watching daytime television. What a fate!

For now, the crickets get some appreciation, though their slow, steady chirps threaten to soothe me to sleep, as does the purring of my cat, who has decided that this is lap time, despite my attention to the keyboard. I'm probably unlikely to nod off while in a sitting position on an armless chair (if I do, injury is likely,) but as soon as I move to the living room couch Morpheus is apt to snuff out my attention and have his way with me. Maybe I can find something very raucous to watch on television. Better than being sacked by sleep when it's barely midnight.

Oh, the balmy, soporific nights of August!




Sunday Verse


August


by Algernon Charles Swinburne


There were four apples on the bough,
Half gold half red, that one might know
The blood was ripe inside the core;
The colour of the leaves was more
Like stems of yellow corn that grow
Through all the gold June meadow's floor.

The warm smell of the fruit was good
To feed on, and the split green wood,
With all its bearded lips and stains
Of mosses in the cloven veins,
Most pleasant, if one lay or stood
In sunshine or in happy rains.

There were four apples on the tree,
Red stained through gold, that all might see
The sun went warm from core to rind;
The green leaves made the summer blind
In that soft place they kept for me
With golden apples shut behind.

The leaves caught gold across the sun,
And where the bluest air begun
Thirsted for song to help the heat;
As I to feel my lady's feet
Draw close before the day were done;
Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.

In the mute August afternoon
They trembled to some undertune
Of music in the silver air;
Great pleasure was it to be there
Till green turned duskier and the moon
Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.

That August time it was delight
To watch the red moons wane to white
'Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees;
A sense of heavy harmonies
Grew on the growth of patient night,
More sweet than shapen music is.

But some three hours before the moon
The air, still eager from the noon,
Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;
Against the stem I leant my head;
The colour soothed me like a tune,
Green leaves all round the gold and red.

I lay there till the warm smell grew
More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew
Between the round ripe leaves had blurred
The rind with stain and wet; I heard
A wind that blew and breathed and blew,
Too weak to alter its one word.

The wet leaves next the gentle fruit
Felt smoother, and the brown tree-root
Felt the mould warmer: I too felt
(As water feels the slow gold melt
Right through it when the day burns mute)
The peace of time wherein love dwelt.

There were four apples on the tree,
Gold stained on red that all might see
The sweet blood filled them to the core:
The colour of her hair is more
Like stems of fair faint gold, that be
Mown from the harvest's middle floor.

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