Little Gratitudes

It's Friday of what has been a busy week. Well, from the looks of my workload, all my weeks are going to be busy for some time. Not that I'm complaining.

I have three little things to be grateful for this morning. I just called my credit union to make sure our automatic mortgage payment went through (our mortgage company was bought by a different bank, and I wasn't going to take it for granted that all the account info transferred properly). While listening to the ten most recent transactions, I learned that I just received my first direct deposit paycheck as a temporary employee. That was good news.

I woke up early enough this morning to finish an article I'd been working on for Suite101 about a technique that can speed up knitting. It's been hanging over my head for days because I was too swamped to tie up the last few details. It's posted now, so that's a relief.

And while I was looking for something else on the Internet this morning, I stumbled across a Yeats poem I didn't know and which I found very beautiful. So I decided to share it with you.

Broken Dreams

THERE is grey in your hair.
Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath
When you are passing;
But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing
Because it was your prayer	5
Recovered him upon the bed of death.
For your sole sake—that all heart’s ache have known,
And given to others all heart’s ache,
From meagre girlhood’s putting on
Burdensome beauty—for your sole sake	10
Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
So great her portion in that peace you make
By merely walking in a room.
Your beauty can but leave among us
Vague memories, nothing but memories.	15
A young man when the old men are done talking
Will say to an old man, ‘Tell me of that lady
The poet stubborn with his passion sang us
When age might well have chilled his blood.’
Vague memories, nothing but memories,	20
But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed.
The certainty that I shall see that lady
Leaning or standing or walking
In the first loveliness of womanhood,
And with the fervour of my youthful eyes,	25
Has set me muttering like a fool.
You are more beautiful than any one,
And yet your body had a flaw:
Your small hands were not beautiful,
And I am afraid that you will run	30
And paddle to the wrist
In that mysterious, always brimming lake
Where those that have obeyed the holy law
Paddle and are perfect; leave unchanged
The hands that I have kissed	35
For old sake’s sake.
The last stroke of midnight dies.
All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air:	40
Vague memories, nothing but memories.

I hope this Friday the 13th brings you all good luck rather than bad.