Friends & Family

Winter In The Country

Winter In The Country

Sweet life! how lovely to be here

And feel the soft sea-laden breeze

Strike my flushed face, the spruce's fair

Free limbs to see, the lesser trees'

Bare hands to touch, the sparrow's cheep

To heed, and watch his nimble flight

Above the short brown grass asleep.

Love glorious in his friendly might,

Music that every heart could bless,

And thoughts of life serene, divine,

Beyond my power to express,

Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!

But oh! to leave this paradise

For the city's dirty basement room,

Where, beauty hidden from the eyes,

A table, bed, bureau, and broom

In corner set, two crippled chairs

All covered up with dust and grim

With hideousness and scars of years,

And gaslight burning weird and dim,

Will welcome me . . . And yet, and yet

This very wind, the winter birds

The glory of the soft sunset,

Come there to me in words.

~Claude McKay

"Throughought the afternoon I watched them there,
Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky,
Whirling fantastic in the misty air,
Contending fierce for space supremacy.
ANd they flew down a mightier force at night,
As though in heaven there was revold ant riot
And they, frail things had taken panic flight
Down to the calm earth seeking peace and quiet" ~ C. McKay

...If you can make a girl laugh - you can make her do anything...

[summer] is where the -girls- go |barefoot|
& their [hearts] are /just as free/ as their toes

I never forget a face...

...but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception.

“Those true eyes

Too pure and too honest in aught to disguise

The sweet soul shining through them”

To Escape From A Trunk

Autumn Rain

"My sorrow, when she's here with me,

Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be;

She loves the bare, the withered tree;

She walks the sodden pasture lane."

Robert Frost

My November Guest

Fall Days

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.

George Eliot