rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Here and Now

Herded by breezes, the spring clouds shift among the sky's fields, now scattering far, now flocking together, and all the time shadows cross fields and woods and town, making bright or dim the greened landscape. The day's cool air sings the rustling of fresh leaves and the alternate chatter and clatter of woodpeckers, and the caws of crows and, now and then, the swift, soft thunder of hummingbird wings. This is the nearest it comes to storm these flickering hours, the flutter of leaves recalling the sound of gentle rain. Colors, woken by the season, now array twig and branch, and all shapes are softened as the world dons its plush new cloak. The bees will make such honey of April!


Sunday Verse

Solitude


by Alexander Pope


Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield shade,
In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.





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