This morning while reading blogs I read a post by Rosie who seems to have lost her muse. Her thoughts struck me as I've felt for the past few weeks that my silly, everyday posts were so hard to write but even after all the work they still lack inspiration. Right below Rosie's post, there was a post by Amy with this (stolen directly from her)
To that I would only add a poem by Yeates (it's his week I guess. Probably all of the rain we're getting in San Diego)
We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, 'To be born woman is to know --
Although they do not talk of it at school --
That we must labour to be beautiful.'...
Labor on dear friends. Labor on.