What A Mess!

I live in a ground floor suite - my landlord and his wife have the second and third floors. Well, yesterday, their hot water tank blew and it just happens to be above my storage room. The floor was awash, but luckily the water had only dripped on one side of the room and most of the stuff there was in plastic bags or Rubbermaid totes so it could be saved. But sitting on the floor in cardboard magazine holders I had ALL my Just Cross Stitch magazines, about 40 of them, and they got totally saturated. I could not rescue even one. So my entry way is full of all the stuff that was on the floor of the store room while the floor (only rough wood, thank goodness) dries, the rug that was on the floor is hanging over my entrance stair railing and I'm hoping it doesn't rain for at least 24 hours so it has a chance to dry, and almost every flat surface has something damp drying/airing on it. It was not the best way to spend a Saturday evening.

This poem by Thomas Hardy seems to fit the mood.

During Wind and Rain

They sing their dearest song--
He, she, all of them--yea,
Treble and tenor and bass,
And one to play;
With the candles mooning each face. . . .
Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

They clear the creeping moss--
Elders and juniors--aye,
Making the pathways neat
And the garden gay;
And they build a shady seat. . . .
Ah no; the years, the years;
See, the white storm-birds wing across!

They are blithely breakfasting all--
Men and maidens--yea,
Under the summer tree,
With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee. . . .
Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.

They change to a high new house,
He, she, all of them--aye,
Clocks and carpets and chairs
On the lawn all day,
And brightest things that are theirs. . . .
Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.