The End Is Near!

Well, this bes the last day we're at Taylor. Mr. Wilkie is coming this afternoon to pick up Jenn and all her crap (which has not been packed yet) and take her home. And me and my crap too of course. I'm not sure if I'll have internet access at Jenn's house. I think they still have dial-up, so I may not update for a while (because I just don't think a dial-up connection would do so great with publishing my blog). If I don't, know that it's not because I've been taken ill with the 'ysterics (ten points for identifying what movie that phrase comes from, and twenty if you can also tell me who said it), hate you all, or have lost the urge to write.

Speaking of writing... I haven't done as much of it as I intended this week. I have a feeling that's about how the whole summer is going to go. I'll just get so caught up in having fun that I won't remember to do any of that really ambitious stuff that I said I was going to do. Ah well.

And I think I'll leave you with possibly my favorite John Donne poem ever (plus one in honor of being at Jenn's - I stole it from her). I'm sure you've heard at least the first one; it's rather famous. All you un-poetry people better look away now.
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As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go;
While some of their sad friends do say,
Now his breath goes, and some say,

No; So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
’Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th’ earth brings harms and fears
Men reckon what it did and meant;
But trepidations of the spheres,
Though greater far, are innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers’ love,
Whose soul is sense, cannot admit
Absence; for that it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we, by a love so far refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Careless, eyes, lips and hands to miss,

—Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if th’ other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th’ other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circles just,
And makes me end where I begun.
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Sonnet #8

Batter my heart, three person’d God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow mee,’ and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurpt towne, to’another due,
Labour to’admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely’I love you,’ and would be loved faine,
But am betroth’d unto your enemie:
Divorce mee,’ untie, or breake that knot againe,
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you’ enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.
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Oh, and did I menion Truce?!