Monday, June 27, 2011

Mr Frost

No, not the kind on my window pane.
Mr. Robert Frost.


Look at those kind eyes.

I traveled to Salt Lake City, Utah this weekend to see my mother and play with 
my daughter Miss Nene.
The landscape was breathtaking, 
and reminded me of some of the poems of one of my preferred poets.

Take a gander....
(I did not take these pictures.  They are from a google search)

MOWING



There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound--
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make. 






Blue-Butterfly Day

It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.

But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire
They lie closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.





Rose Pogonias



A saturated meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers, --
A temple of the heat.

There we bowed us in the burning,
As the sun's right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
That tinged the atmosphere.

We raised a simple prayer
Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored,
Obtain such grace of hours,
that none should mow the grass there
While so confused with flowers.









Want this book, although I have many on Idaho Wildflowers....







mmmmmmmmm.....such loveliness brings me joy.

Happy week to  all my little pretties,
(and I am NOT talking in a Wicked Witch of the West 'little pretties')
and handsome-ies.      ; )

Love to you!
xoxoxo d

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