This Monday is filled with longing. Longing for that lost hour. Longing for another day to one's self. Longing for warmth, sun, waves crashing on the sand at your toes. While I go and indulge myself in thoughts of these things, I'll leave the word to my friend Pablo:

I consider William Shakespeare's sonnet number 50 to be one of the great ones. It's one of the more accessible, with little that reads as archaic now. It's a simple but powerful evocation of the sadness of separation from another who is one's "all-the-world" (as Sonnet 112 says).

It's also about the empathy that even our animals can have for our own moods. I've never ridden a horse, but I've had pets who can tell when I'm down.

More commentary on this sonnet.

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov'd not speed being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.