Poem of the Week

The poem of the week is coming a little late. Sorry. Just been crazy busy. I was feeling a bit romantic, so one would think I would turn to the Romantic Poets of the 18 and 19th centuries. No. Unfortunately, "Romantic" in that sense has a very different meaning. A hint for any guys out there: if you want a poem to woo a lady, you need to look for the Cavalier poets of the 17th century. That's where you'll find the good stuff.

IX: Song: To Celia

by Ben Johnson

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee

As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe

And sentst it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

I need to come up with stuff like this, because I say really stupid things once in a while. A while back, an e-Harmony commercial came on television. I told Lesley we should send our profiles in to see if it would match us up. She asked about what if it wouldn't. I responded, "Well, we haven't been married so long to get that strong of an attachment." WRONG!!!!!

It's times like these when knowing about the Cavalier poets of the 17th century comes in handy.

Poem of the Week

Ode on Solitude
Alexander Pope

Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed; sweet recreation
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

Pictures

I know the reason most people check out the blog is to find out how we're doing and to see pictures of the cutest baby ever. Sorry about the recent rants. I just had some stuff I had to get off my chest.

Anyway, here's some pictures. I'm trying to give a perspective of how much Jacob has grown. The pictures above are Jacob with daddy when he was 1 month old (top) and 6 months old (bottom). It's really hard to remember how small he was when we brought him home. The pictures give a perspective, but to think about holding that little guy in my hands is really difficult.

Below are three pictures. The first one is from when Jacob was 2 months old. To get a perspective on his size, we took his picture next to a piece of looseleaf paper. The next two pictures are of him when he was 2 months old (think looseleaf paper) and his 10 month picture next to the same door.

Yep, he's standing on his own now. All he needs is a hand to hold and he's pulling himself up to look around. He can step his way down the edge of the couch now, too, so we figure walking isn't too far away.

It's just hard to believe that the little bundle of fat and bones we brought home from the hospital that didn't weigh 5 pounds is getting ready to start walking. Amazing really. And fun. I love being a daddy. And being a mother has made Lesley even more beautiful than she was before, which was hard to top. Lesley is the love of my life. Jacob is the fun of my life.

Poem of the Week: Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

William Shakespeare