There is a painting by Daniel Maclise (1868) entitled Madeline After Prayer. It's based on the poem by Keats, "The Eve of St. Agnes." Madeline is painted therein like a sad angel. I won't comment on the clarity of the presentation, for I don't particularly care for that too lengthy poem by our greatest poet since Shakespeare. However, the melding of melancholy and effortless beauty in that woman's face moves me to thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. I write this because I recall a certain young teacher, when I was in high school ... She had that ethereal beauty that makes sensitive souls turn like flowers to the sun. When she saw me carrying around a volume of Lord Tennyson, she began to show an interest in me that I interpreted as, well ... erotic. It wasn't. But the recollection of the fantasy has sustained me through many dark periods of a turbulent life. I am listening to Chopin right now, pretending to be stable and connected. When in fact, I'm drunk and ready to go start a fight. I promise to write more about Maclise. It's important, to me if to no one else. Peace to all. And if you ever stop loving life, read Shakespeare.