Here's a poem from John Donne, perfect for this time of day-- even if Donne's 'scene' is very different than my own at the moment.

Breake of Day

Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise, because 'tis light?
Did we lie down, because 'twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well, I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honor so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.

Must business thee from hence remove?
O, that's the worst disease of love.
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.

BTW, a great resource for the literary-minded is right here, including a great set of links to net material. When I say literary-minded, I should say "poetry minded"; I still have a hard time thinking of the prose-minded as literary-minded per se. Yes, I'm being very flip again.

Any of you who have heard my impression of T.S. Eliot reading James Brown's greatest hits (and it is very hard to believe that bit is now *seven* years old) may have thought I was doing a gross disservice to the man. Though I can never *completely* hear what I sound like when I do, I suspect I'm actually being kinder to Eliot than he ever was to himself. If you doubt me, check out this record of Eliot reading his "La Figlia Che Piange" and tell me I'm wrong. NOTE: Requires Real Player, that infernal piece of spyware.