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Posted by Jean B. on February 8, 2010, 9:36 am
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Bill who putters wrote:
> garlic and sweet potatoes.
>
> Bill
>
> <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpcUxwpOQ_A>
>
>
> ..................
>
> Ode On The Spring
>
>
> Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
> Fair Venus' train appear,
> Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
> And wake the purple year!
> The Attic warbler pours her throat,
> Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
> The untaught harmony of spring:
> While whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
> Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
> Their gather'd fragrance fling.
>
> Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
> A broader, browner shade;
> Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
> O'er-canopies the glade,
> Beside some water's rushy brink
> With me the Muse shall sit, and think
> (At ease reclin'd in rustic state)
> How vain the ardour of the crowd,
> How low, how little are the proud,
> How indigent the great!
>
> Still is the toiling hand of Care:
> The panting herds repose:
> Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
> The busy murmur glows!
> The insect youth are on the wing,
> Eager to taste the honied spring,
> And float amid the liquid noon:
> Some lightly o'er the current skim,
> Some show their gaily-gilded trim
> Quick-glancing to the sun.
>
> To Contemplation's sober eye
> Such is the race of man:
> And they that creep, and they that fly,
> Shall end where they began.
> Alike the busy and the gay
> But flutter thro' life's little day,
> In fortune's varying colours drest:
> Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
> Or chill'd by age, their airy dance
> They leave, in dust to rest.
>
> Methinks I hear in accents low
> The sportive kind reply:
> Poor moralist! and what art thou?
> A solitary fly!
> Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,
> No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
> No painted plumage to display:
> On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
> Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone--
> We frolic, while 'tis May.
>
> Thomas Gray
>
Oh my! Sweet thoughts here in New England, where snow is forecast
for Wednesday.
--
Jean B.
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