Good Morrow.

I have been a very busy person. I haven't got the time I wanted to do everything I want to do. I have been so very tired. And because I know me, I know that when I am tired I feel a strange sadness that makes me think of the things that have been here but are gone. So I read poems out loud as a vain way of cheer me up. Does it make any sense to you, reader, reading this in this exact moment? I don't know. All I know is that I have been reading all sorts of poems today.  I cannot say it doesn't work but...

But it all comes to a poem.  The poem. My poem.

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then,
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea discovers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to others, worlds on worlds have shown:
Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemishperes,
Without sharp North, without declining West?
Whatever dies was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.

The Good Morrow, by Sir John Donne.