August 18, 2011
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorne blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.
… Who takes no private road, but looks through nature up to nature's God.—Pope.
July 26, 2011
FROST in the air, till every spray,
Stands diamond-set with rime,
That drops awhile at mid of day,
With tiny tinkling chime.
Beside the ice the ducks a-dose,
Dream of the pools to be;
The sheep for warmth lie huddled close,
Upon the naked lea.