A note not part of project note

My dears,

I have had a bit of Mao Tsetung today, and brights of Pope and darks of Milton. Sick of everything today there is today, I left this lusty land of lists for early on. Take a moment; I’ll let you to your snickers. There. Who would skip back and forth like this is only hurried. Or is hurried and has little much of else to spare. With all the what there is to why this is how I who. Some ungenerous fop left a woodchuck cider in my fridge, and after one sip I’m too offended to drink. So I call Kristen before she comes home, “Are you bringing beer? I sincerely hope so dear.” While I await her bicycling arrival home from work, I offer these:

Read Milton’s smaller works: bite sized to fit in your bonnet. Sonnet XI: (a sonnet).

A book of writ of late call’d Tetrachordon;
And wov’n close, both matter, form and stile;
the subject new: it walk’d the Town a while,
Numbering good intellects; now seldom por’d on.
Cries the stall-reader, bless us! What a word on
A title page is this ! and some in file
Stand spelling fals, while one might walk to Mile-
End Green. Why is it harder Sirs then Gordon,
Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?
Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek
that would have made Quintillian stare and gasp.
Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek,
Hated not Learning wors then Toad or Asp;
When thou taught’st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek. (1673)

Read this excerpt of a poem by J.C. Squire called The Birds: Early 20th Century. I have rudely cut it crudely from the text for your pleasure:

As I this year, looked down and saw the same
Blotches of rusty red on ledge and cleft
With grey-green spots on them, while right and left
A dizzying tangle of gulls were floating and flying,
Wheeling and crossing and darting, crying and crying,
Circling and crying, over and over and over,
Crying with swoop and hover and fall and recover.
And below on a rock against the grey sea fretted,
Pipe-necked and stationary and silhouetted,
Cormorants stood in a wise, black, equal row
Above the nests and long blue eggs we know.

O delicate chain over all ages stretched,
O dumb tradition from what for darkness fetched:
Each little architect with its one design
Perpetual, fixed and right in stuff and line,
Each little ministrant who knows one thing,
One learned rite to celebrate the spring.
Whatever alters else on sea or shore,
These are unchanging: man must still explore.

(end)

Ohh. I sigh. The suns set for its going down now…goodnite.