What with cross-country skiing all day yesterday with Tom and Paul, and driving to piano lessons this morning, and grocery shopping, and bread baking, and being on boy-bedroom-ream-out patrol, and taking the boy to the mall tomorrow to buy dress-up clothes for a choral performance, I'm not at leisure to perseverate here. In my stead, I'll leave William Blake. He never gets easier to read, does he?

Ah, Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime,
Where the traveller's journey is done;

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.