It's very warm today, and smells very dry. Jays squawk, crows strut the street like models on a catwalk, and more of the mulberry leaves have turned pale yellow. A nap keeps trying to seduce me, even though I only woke up a short time ago. Ennui threatens. Woolgathering results.
Oh, hello Mr. M! Dropped in for a quick look?
Thursday-Like-a-Sunday Verse (Re-posted)
THE EMPTY HILLS
by Yvor Winters
The grandeur of deep afternoons,
The pomp of haze on marbled hills,
Where every white-walled villa swoons
Through violence that heat fulfills,
Pass tirelessly and more alone
Than kings that time has laid aside.
Safe on their massive sea of stone
The empty tufted gardens ride.
Here is no music, where the air
Drives slowly through the airy leaves.
Meaning is aimless motion where
The sinking hummingbird conceives.
No book nor picture has inlaid
This life with darkened gold, but here
Men passionless and dumb invade
A quiet that entrances fear.