Half way there!

I met with my advisor yesterday regarding my thesis. I handed her my review of literature chapter (24 pages), my Mytho-Poetic chapter (14 pages), my works cited (4 pages), and an outline of my biographical framework. Only about twenty more pages to go, and then I'll be done. I'm actually enjoying my research, but it is still much more fun to talk about than to write about. I'm going to use the last two lines of the following poem in my title. I thought it appropriate as my thesis is about the ambiguity of "Goblin Market." Here's the poem (this is one of my favorite of her works):

Winter: My Secret
Christina Georgina Rossetti


I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
WHen drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.

Sunday Poems by Rossetti

These two poems are from a collection of sonnets called Later Life: A Double Sonnet of Sonnets. It's made up of (as the title suggests) 28 sonnets - one for each line of two sonnets. These are largely religious and reflective (and have been compared with the Holy Sonnets of John Donne). since it's Sunday and I didn't make it to church this morning, I thought I'd copy out a couple of poems (one sacred, one secular) that caught my attention when I was reading this morning:

Sonnet 4
So tired am I, so weary of today,
So unrefreshed from foregone weariness,
So overburdened by forseen distress,
So lagging and so stumbling on my way,
I scarce can rouse myself to watch or pray,
To hope or aim, or toil for more or less,--
Ah, always less and less, even while I press
Forward and toil and aim as best I may.
Half-starved of soul and heartsick utterly,
Yet lift I up my heart and soul and eyes
(Which fail in looking upward) toward the prize:
Me, Lord, Thou seest tho' I see not Thee;
Me now, as once the Thief in Paradise,
Even me, O Lord my Lord, remember me.

Sonnet 17

Something this foggy day, a something which
Is neither of this fog nor of today,
Has set me dreaming of the winds that play
Past certain cliffs, along one certain beach,
And turn the topmost edge of waves to spray:
Ah pleasant pebbly strand so far away,
So out of reach while quite within my reach,
As out of reach as India or Cathay!
I am sick of where I am and where I am not,
I am sick of foresight and of memory,
I am sick of all I have and all I see,
I am sick of self, and there is nothing new;
Oh weary impatient patience of my lot! --
Thus with myself: how fares it, Friends, with you?

I'm back, baby!

Okay, after composing a series of lame and overly academic blogs for my stupid comprehensive exams, I'm ready to start getting back to the day to day entries. I'm sitting next to the scabby elbowed Christina, who is my bestest, new friend. Her skin feels a might clammy - I just checked it. She's singing "In the Garage" to an unknown person on the phone. Last night, she Chad, Jean, and I hangeded out at Pub 500 last night. These guys had me in stitches. Their rendition of the clapping lesbian was brilliant. Jean, you rock! I have really nothing of import to express, except for the fact that I really dislike Emily Dickinson, and don't want to discuss her at the pub tonight.