Hi, friends in exile, got a minute?
My older brother, my only sibling, passed suddenly a couple of days ago. I have the usual regrets: why did we not try harder to get together over the years? My mind has turned to a poem I memorized many years ago, Sonnet #73 from William Shakespeare, especially the last two lines:
That time of year thou mayst in me behold,/ When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang/ Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,/ Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang./ In me thou seest the twilight of such day,/ As after sunset fadeth in the west,/ Which by and by black night doth take away,/ Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest./ In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,/
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,/ As the death-bed whereon it must expire,/ Consumed with that which it was nourished by./ This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,/ To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. [my emphasis]
Smiley Mudd
Musings of the Rev. Smiley Mudd 