God gave us memories so that we might have roses in December. (James M. Barrie)

 My boy Vondracek:




And last December drear, with piteous low-drooped head. In a voice of desolation crying out, “The year is dead. And so, with changeful gear, with smile or frown or song, the months, in strange variation, are ever gliding along.     






































Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Love the trees until their leaves fall off, then encourage them to try again next year.

Image
 My boy Peppino: "I know the year is dying, Soon the summer will be dead. I can trace it in the flying Of the black crows overhead; I can hear it in the rustle Of the dead leaves as I pass, And the south wind's plaintive sighing Through the dry and withered grass. Ah, 'tis then I love to wander, Wander idly and alone, Listening to the solemn music Of sweet nature's undertone; Wrapt in thoughts I cannot utter, Dreams my tongue cannot express, Dreams that match the autumn's sadness In their longing tenderness." -  Mortimer Crane Brown, Autumn Dreams
Read more

What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach to the far horizon?

Image
 My girl  Carmen: "It is hard to hear the north wind again, And to watch the treetops, as they sway. They sway, deeply and loudly, in an effort, So much less than feeling, so much less than speech, Saying and saying, the way things say On the level of that which is not yet knowledge: A revelation not yet intended. It is like a critic of God, the world And human nature, pensively seated On the waste throne of his own wilderness. Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier, The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying." -   Wallace Stevens, The Region November
Read more