rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Final flowers droop on trumpet vine and oleander. One gardenia bud is barely opened, and one white blossom releases fragrance. The evening air is early cooled by the gathering clouds which lie across the western sky like a vast gray surf rolling in. Dry oak leaves skitter down the street when dusk brings a breeze. The impending gloom is irresistible. Even as the darting squirrels played about the trees this afternoon I was counting the hours until October would arrive. I envy every place which has already received that symbolic tick of the clock. Away, September!

Sunday Verse

To Sleep

by John Keats

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
  Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,
  Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! If so it please thee, close,
  In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the 'Amen', ere thy poppy throws
  Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passèd day will shine
Upon my pillow, bereeding many woes;
  Save me from curious conscience, that still hoards
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
  Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,
And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.


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