Not quite Petronius' Sybil

York isn't really the Cumaean Jar. It just feels like it sometimes.

DH wrote:

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself

I do feel a bit like Aengus:

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

Must stop: First Figging because ah, my foes, and oh, my friends-- the light is not lovely.

I will find out where she has gone/and kiss her lips and take her hands/and walk among dappled grass/and pluck till time and times are done...