There and Back Again
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Third Age Correspondence
Proper dwarves offer their services before they leave.
The Grey Havens - 04/03/2004 Long Time Gone - 22/02/2004 Only for Now - 04/02/2004 The Neverland - 19/01/2004 There's no times at all, just the New York Times - 15/01/2004 Links and RingsNo Shame Pieces Untitled Story Other Writings |
14/03/2002 - 6:11 p.m. You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from being alive. I wrote a parody of one of Keats' poems today. I'll put it up here as soon as I retreive my notebook, but it's upstairs and I can't be bothered. It's pretty funny, well, to somebody who would care, and understand. I'll put up the original version when I put mine up too. Basically I was bored, what more can I say? Er, em, did I mention I hate my family? (Only for about the millionth time this week, you reply, skipping to somebody else's diary in disgust.) Well, I'm tired of it too. And I have to live here and put up with it. Aren't you all glad you're not me now? One more day of school until Spring Break. Good and bad, I guess. Good because I'm not at school, bad because I'm here. However, I'll have a chance to watch my movies and write here, which ought to be nice. Do my Government paper too, I suppose. It'll be nice to get over this mood I've been in. Eternal blah. Of course, I seem to be the only one. Everybody else in the world is being disgusting. You can't make it through the halls at school without having to see at least four sets of people who can't keep themselves to themselves. Please people, get a room and leave us all out of it. It's been a huge influx... who said humans don't have mating season? Right, the poem. Here's what Keats wrote. Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art �Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors � No � yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever � or else swoon to death. And here's my version. Would I were steadfast as thou, Art- If you understand either of them, you're probably smarter than my English class. I thought it was funny, however, and rather than discuss the actual poem, wrote my parody. Yes. This is what I do for fun. �From the Shire, down the Anduin, to Mordor
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