rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Wane

In a few days, two thirds of summer will be gone. About this time of year I begin to feel that I'll be able to endure what's left of the season— that I probably won't sweat myself away to a wraith, and that the risk of collapsing in a public heap in a parking lot from heat exhaustion when I'm out shopping has been reduced to the point that I no longer picture it each time I leave the house. I can think more kindly of summer now, and even begin to recall that, on winter's coldest days, I'll probably feel nostalgia for July and August.

About the only thing to spoil this improving mood is the noise of the cicadas. They are getting louder and louder each night, and it won't be long before the nerves in my ears are raw from their buzzing racket. So far, I can still hear the pleasant rhythms of the crickets, and the cicadas are an annoying background sound, but it won't be long before the crickets are all but drowned out. I'm just glad that the cicadas don't reach their peak earlier in the summer, but wait until the waning of the season has become noticeable. This way I have two things to look forward to— the end of summer and the silencing of the cicadas.




Sunday Verse



To Summer


by William Blake

O thou who passest thro' our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven: beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
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