It's friday, mid-morning. I don't know what it is about summer, but I love it because it opens the door for my thoughts for autumn. It's a little nostalgic for me, and magical too. It's something that happens to me every summer.
Today is a lazy day which I am thankful for. After this, I'll polish the girls toe nails and we will lounge, maybe do a craft and maybe fix the beds too!
So for this friday I thought I would do another fawned friday which I haven't done in awhile. I'll do it with photo favorites of mine from flickr (I love that site!) Just click on the photos for photo credit...
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 pitched'st here thy goldent 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 fam'd 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.
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy goldent 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 fam'd 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.
3 comments:
Dear Andrea,
Oh, I love the pictures and the poem! I'd never heard of that poem before, but it is so true to summer's rhythms, isn't it?
Thanks for your inspiration!
Love,
Marqueta
you chose wonderful photos. i like the little fabric moth especially.
i get a bit nostalgic for autumn during summer as well. though this has been the best summer weather-wise so far!
Wonderful post!
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