I finished the cleaning just in time. As I put on a jacket to go out and watch the stars a while, my left shoulder went out of joint. It had better pop back in by Monday. I can't cook one-handed.
L'Invitation au Voyage
by Charles Baudelaire
My child, my sister, dream How sweet all things would seem Were we in that kind of land to live together, And there love slow and long, There love and die among Those scenes that image you, that sumptuous weather. Drowned suns that glimmer there Through cloud-disheveled air Move me with such a mystery as appears Within those other skies Of your treacherous eyes When I behold them shining through their tears. There, there is nothing else but grace and measure, Richness, quietness, and pleasure. Furniture that wears The lustre of the years Softly would glow within our glowing chamber, Flowers of rarest bloom Proffering their perfume Mixed with the vague fragrances of amber; Gold ceilings would there be, Mirrors deep as the sea, The walls all in Eastern splendor hung- Nothing but should address The soul's loneliness, Speaking her sweet and secret native tongue. There, there is nothing else but grace and measure, Richness, quietness, and pleasure. See, sheltered from the swells There in the still canals Those drowsy ships that dream of sailing forth; It is to satisfy Your least desire, they ply Hither through all the waters of the earth. The sun at close of day Clothes the fields of hay, Then the canals, at last the town entire In hyacinth and gold: Slowly the land is rolled Sleepward under a sea of gentle fire. There, there is nothing else but grace and measure, Richness, quietness, and pleasure.
Now I faintly hear a whisper of breeze, once again rising before the sun. The common world comes back to life. Another day much like yesterday, I suspect. The season threatens to settle into monotony. I hope for rain to come soon, and wash away the last leaves, and my incipient ennui as well.