Saturday
Sep242016
Saturday, September 24, 2016 at 11:44AM
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B u r n i n g D o w n
Town Square
McDonough, Georgia
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Glee -- The great storm is over --
Four -- have recovered the Land --
Forty -- gone down together --
Into the boiling Sand --
Ring -- for the Scant Salvation --
Toll -- for the bonnie Souls --
Neighbor -- and friend -- and Bridegroom --
Spinning upon the Shoals --
How they will tell the Story --
When Winter shake the Door --
Till the Children urge --
But the Forty --
Did they -- come back no more?
Then a softness -- suffuse the Story --
And a silence -- the Teller's eye --
And the Children -- no further question --
And only the Sea -- reply --
= Emily Dickinson =
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Happy Saturday
Friday
Sep232016
The beauty of the morning
Friday, September 23, 2016 at 04:44AM
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I L i f t M y L a m p
New York Harbor
New York, New York
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Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
= William Wordsworth =
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Happy Friday
Thursday
Sep222016
Till this I forget
Thursday, September 22, 2016 at 04:44AM
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P i r a t e s ' R ' U s
Times Square
New York, New York
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Early is the evening,
Reluctant the dawn;
Once there was summer;
Sudden it was gone.
It fell like a leaf,
Whirled downstream.
Was there ever summer,
Or only a dream?
Was ever a world
That was not November?
Once there was summer,
And this I remember
Cornflowers and daisies,
Buttercups and clover,
Black-eyed Susans and Queen-Anne's lace,
A wide green meadow,
And bees booming over,
And a little laughing girl with the wind in her face.
Strident are the voices
And hard lights shine;
Feral are the faces;
Is one of them mine?
Something is lost now,
Tarnished the gleam;
Was there ever nobleness,
Or only a dream?
Yes, and it lingers,
Lost not yet;
Something remains
Till this I forget
Cornflowers and clover,
Buttercups and daisies,
Black-eyed Susans under blue and white skies
And the grass waist high
Where the red cow grazes,
And a little laughing girl with faith in her eyes.
Reluctant the dawn;
Once there was summer;
Sudden it was gone.
It fell like a leaf,
Whirled downstream.
Was there ever summer,
Or only a dream?
Was ever a world
That was not November?
Once there was summer,
And this I remember
Cornflowers and daisies,
Buttercups and clover,
Black-eyed Susans and Queen-Anne's lace,
A wide green meadow,
And bees booming over,
And a little laughing girl with the wind in her face.
Strident are the voices
And hard lights shine;
Feral are the faces;
Is one of them mine?
Something is lost now,
Tarnished the gleam;
Was there ever nobleness,
Or only a dream?
Yes, and it lingers,
Lost not yet;
Something remains
Till this I forget
Cornflowers and clover,
Buttercups and daisies,
Black-eyed Susans under blue and white skies
And the grass waist high
Where the red cow grazes,
And a little laughing girl with faith in her eyes.
= Ogden Nash =
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Happy Thursday
Wednesday
Sep212016
The perfect loveliness
Wednesday, September 21, 2016 at 10:44AM
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W h a t L i e s B e y o n d
Old Sheldon Church Ruins
Yemassee, South Carolina
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I had no thought of violets of late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.
The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine.
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made, --
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.
And now -- unwittingly, you’ve made me dream
Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.
The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine.
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made, --
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.
And now -- unwittingly, you’ve made me dream
Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.
= Alice Dunbar Nelson =
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Happy Wednesday
Tuesday
Sep202016
How hard the heart tugs
Tuesday, September 20, 2016 at 04:44AM
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R i g h t B a c k A t Y o u
Niketown :: Fifty-Seventh Street
New York, New York
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How hard it is to take September
straight—not as a harbinger
of something harder.
Merely like suds in the air, cool scent
scrubbed clean of meaning -- or innocent
of the cold thing coldly meant.
How hard the heart tugs at the end
of summer, and longs to haul it in
when it flies out of hand
at the prompting of the first mild breeze.
It leaves us by degrees
only, but for one who sees
summer as an absolute,
Pure State of Light and Heat, the height
to which one cannot raise a doubt,
as soon as one leaf's off the tree
no day following can fall free
of the drift of melancholy.
straight—not as a harbinger
of something harder.
Merely like suds in the air, cool scent
scrubbed clean of meaning -- or innocent
of the cold thing coldly meant.
How hard the heart tugs at the end
of summer, and longs to haul it in
when it flies out of hand
at the prompting of the first mild breeze.
It leaves us by degrees
only, but for one who sees
summer as an absolute,
Pure State of Light and Heat, the height
to which one cannot raise a doubt,
as soon as one leaf's off the tree
no day following can fall free
of the drift of melancholy.
= Mary Jo Salter =
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Happy Tuesday