Working on Journal Template

This entry is about the technical side. I am posting it here because the issues affect the appearance, and possibly the readability, of this site.

I have been working on the template and style sheet I use for this journal, adjusting the layout of the page and individual entries. I think the changes are an improvement, but there is an issue that I still have to fix.

Sometimes, especially when viewing comments, the page layout breaks. This is because of the HTML inserted by the third-party code I am using to drive the comments. I am working on modifying the third-party code so that it inserts HTML which works better in my situation, but this work is not done yet. Please be patient.

If it happens while you are reading the journal you can hit the refresh button. This should clear up the problem.

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Aren't you glad to know that I am actually working on this again?

In Remembrance...

Earlier today I posted "In Flanders Fields" in honour of Remembrance Day. Later on I came across the following poem which was inspired by, and written in response to, "In Flanders Fields." I am posting it here in the hope that it touchs you as it touchs me. The last verse, and especially the last line, is what moves me the most in this poem.

The Fields of Flanders
by Edith Nesbit

Last year the fields were all glad and gay
With silver daisies and silver may;
There were kingcups gold by the river's edge
And primrose stars under every hedge.

This year the fields are trampled and brown,
The hedges are broken and beaten down,
And where the primroses used to grow
Are little black crosses set in a row.

And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of dreams,
The noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes,
The tree of life with its fruit and bud,
Are trampled down in the mud and the blood.

The changing seasons will bring again
The magic of Spring to our wood and plain;
Though the Spring be so green as never was seen
The crosses will still be black in the green.

The God of battles shall judge the foe
Who trampled our country and laid her low. . . .
God! hold our hands on the reckoning day,
Lest all we owe them we should repay.

Lest We Forget...

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.