Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch

Our sleepy heroine is up studying for a Crusades test.
Saladin? Baldwin IV ("The Leper King")? I know 'em.
Had an argument about true love with Tim earlier. I argued for. I wish I could say I won, but he's being awfully stubborn.
Was in the library for 2 hours tonight. What a lovely place, there against the window. It was dark enough so I couldn't be distracted by passing students or waving grass.
I'm also back on Facebook (gave it up for Lent, as I might not have mentioned).
Someone chatted me at about 1 a.m. and said some really nice, unexpected things.
It's always horrible when you only really get to know someone right before they leave.
I know this post is random, but it's almost 4 a.m. There's no way I'm taking the time to properly organize my thoughts and ideas at 4 a.m. 3:30, maybe. 4:00, definitely not.
In other Facebook news, I made a rash friend request today, and now I wish I hadn't made it. He's just someone that I seem to see in Food Service everyday. I don't know that I've ever talked to him, but tonight I decided to look him up (i.e. slightly stalk him), and his photos are really cool! He's been mountain climbing all over, and on all sorts of outdoor, campy adventures. So, I thought I'd just friend request. I like being friends with interesting people. I hope he says yes. Most of all, I hope he doesn't come up to me in Food Service and say, "Who the heck are you?!"
I suppose I should give you a poem.
To heck with what I said before; I love poetry, and if I want to post it on my blog, I certainly should!
This won't be original, though, just to warn you.

God's Grandeur (by Gerard Manley Hopkins)
THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Read this poem out loud. Seriously, just do it. I love the way words like "bleared," "smeared," "smudge," and "ooze" feel on the tongue.

Hope you enjoyed it.