I cannot bear it

I finished The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte a few days ago. It is a wonderful book and I thoroughly enjoyed it. It is the sort of novel I want to write. The characters are real, and the story is interesting, yet believable. I love the language of this book, especially the expressive way the characters speak to each other.

I picked up a new pet phrase, "I cannot bear it". It sounds so much more dignified and dramatic than, "this sucks" or "I can't take it anymore". This phrase can be employed in all sorts of situations. ie. "I cannot bear it if on my daily visit to my humble lettuce patch I should discover another tender plant has been devoured by those ruinous slugs!"

I enjoyed this story so much I was sad to reach the end. That was the last unread Bronte sister book on my list. I spent a couple days looking for my next book. Nothing seemed right. After reading something so delightful I could not bear the thought of a silly, modern novel, or a serious instructional book. I decided to try something different. I selected a book of classic poetry. The experience has been wonderful.

It is a short collection of poems from some of the most well known poets of the romantic age. Keats, Wordsworth, Shelley, etc. Listening to it has been very enjoyable. The narrators voice really helps bring them to life. I have gone to the internet to look up and read with my eyes some of my favorites and to learn more about the lives of the poets. Fascinating.

TO MY SISTER

William Wordsworth

          IT is the first mild day of March:
      Each minute sweeter than before
      The redbreast sings from the tall larch
      That stands beside our door.

      There is a blessing in the air,
      Which seems a sense of joy to yield
      To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
      And grass in the green field.

      My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
      Now that our morning meal is done,                      
      Make haste, your morning task resign;
      Come forth and feel the sun.

      Edward will come with you;--and, pray,
      Put on with speed your woodland dress;
      And bring no book: for this one day
      We'll give to idleness.

      No joyless forms shall regulate
      Our living calendar:
      We from to-day, my Friend, will date
      The opening of the year.                                

      Love, now a universal birth,
      From heart to heart is stealing,
      From earth to man, from man to earth:
      --It is the hour of feeling.

      One moment now may give us more
      Than years of toiling reason:
      Our minds shall drink at every pore
      The spirit of the season.

      Some silent laws our hearts will make,
      Which they shall long obey:                             
      We for the year to come may take
      Our temper from to-day.

      And from the blessed power that rolls
      About, below, above,
      We'll frame the measure of our souls:
      They shall be tuned to love.

      Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
      With speed put on your woodland dress;
      And bring no book: for this one day
      We'll give to idleness.