Sunday, February 22, 2009

Lace Love

Some lace love:

Elizabeth Zimmermann's February Baby Sweater, aka the Baby Sweater on Two Needles, from The Knitter's Almanac. 4 skeins of Knit Picks Shine Worsted in Apple Green, almost entirely used up--I have enough for the stem of an upside-down daisy hat left, I think. I have some really cute buttons that look like white flowers, and I'm going to use yellow embroidery floss to attach them. For a friend, who's due in May with a little girl.

Evelyn Clark's Lace Leaf Shawl (Fiber Trends pamphlet), in Mountain Colors Bearfoot "Ruby River." 11 pattern repeats, and I didn't knit the last two charted rows of the border (which was a very good decision--I have about 7 inches of scrap yarn left after weaving in the ends). I love Clark's patterns--they're great for knitting until you run out of yarn. The final measurements on this were 51 inches along the top, and 26 inches down the spine, which is totally respectable. The recipient seemed quite pleased with it, and put it on immediately, which is always nice!

Monday, February 2, 2009

Silent Poetry Reading


It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That love me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known, -- cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honor'd of them all, --
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one t me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bounds of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle, --
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me, --
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads, --you and I are old;
Old age hath yet beyond his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men who strove with Gods.
The light begins to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are, --
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seak, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred, Lord Tennson (1809-1892). Poet Laureate of England, 1850-1892.

"Ulysses" was first published in 1842.