After a rainy Friday, we woke up to a bright, shining Saturday morning. And a horribly loud chorus of birds. I love our little grove of trees behind our apartment building–much nicer than the busy road we had at our old place–but man. Some of these bird are so loud and repetitive that they are worse than alarm clocks! There’s one that I call “Old School Rapper,” because its call sounds like “skeetskeetskeetskeetskeet.” I told my husband that this morning and now he can’t unhear it. It was quite comical.
The Sun Rising
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me
Whether both the’Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear: ‘All here in one bed lay.’
She’is all states, and all princes I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us all; compar’d to this,
All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy’ as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.