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| Returned today to that place in the forest that can only be reached by boat. It's the solitude that I love. It reminded me of something I memorized many years ago: |
Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before. In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light, crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, and Time--that gave--doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, and delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, and nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
~William Shakespeare
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