…
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
…
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
[Algernon Charles Swinburne 1837-1909, The Garden of Proserpine]
Something about deadweak made me recall this. My final critique for Painting III is tomorrow. Number of paintings finished this quarter: 1. Number I plan to finish tonight: 1. The triptych is going to have wait until next year it seems. Sadness. Also what’s the deal with finals week anyways?
