The topic of dating and relationships came up and we started talking about my story. In my life it meant never having a crush on a guy, never allowing myself to “fall in love.” Basically, training myself to shut down a normal, healthy, functioning part of my human heart. I told her if she was to walk out of the room, leaving me and her husband in the same room, my first reaction would be one of panic.
Sometimes it’s actually comforting to me to be met with blank or incredulous stares from people I consider “normal,” good Christians. I’m 27 years old, and I’ve been married for almost 7 years. Shame because sometimes you can’t help but like one guy a little more than another. Pride because you are so much more spiritual than that poor girl over there who is crying because her boyfriend broke up with her. They made up laws that God never condoned, then patted themselves on the back for keeping them, while looking down on those who didn’t.
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children’s dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier’s doing! You’ll look at least on love’s remains, A grave’s one violet: Your look? Sir, ’twas not Her husband’s presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:” such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy.
HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEANOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish ‘mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand andgray;‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England? 1072 ROBERT BROWNINGWe ride and I see her bosom heave.
And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we w h o never have turn’d a rhyme? 666 PIPPA’S SONGTHE year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in His heaven—All’s right with the world! —and I can tarry Your love’s protracted growing: June rear’d that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April’s sowing. 1074 ROBERT BROWNING 668 My Last Duchess FERRARATHAT’S my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive.