Alone and Forsaken
We met in the spring time when blossoms unfold
The pastures were green and the meadows were gold
Our love was in flower as summer grew on
Her love like the leaves now have withered and gone
The roses have faded, there's frost at my door
The birds in the morning don't sing anymore
The grass in the valley is starting to die
And out in the darkness the whippoorwills cry 🎶
Ode to Psyche
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden,
I’M WEIRD.
Everyone says so. I suppose it’s because while other fifteen-year-olds are talking about the best lip gloss and which movie star is hotter, I would rather be curled up with a book. Seriously—have you been to a high school lately? Why would anyone sane want to interact with Cro-Magnon hockey players, or run the gauntlet of mean girls who lounge against the lockers like the fashion police, passing judgment on my faded high-top sneakers and thrift-store sweaters? No thanks; I’d much rather pretend I’m somewhere else, and any time I open the pages of a book, that happens.
Jodi Picoult - Between the lines