My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
I have a busy few weeks ahead and the blogs seem to be moving slowly, for whatever reason, at least for me. So .... I take leave of you now and will not return until around mid-June or a bit later -- certainly before the arrival of the next Blue Moon -- with the possible exception of a brief tease or two should some fascination in the form of a person, place or thing pass within reach of me.
Using the term "existential" correctly and not as television reporters and politicians faddishly seem to insist on using it fallaciously these days, in the "existential context" of my sometimes-belief regarding the concept that "in my end is my beginning," I might also mention the first lines of Yeats's poem. They are these:
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song ....