The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review

Poem for Sunday and Huntley Meadows Wetlands

Farther In Summer Than the Birds
By Emily Dickinson

Farther in summer than the birds,
Pathetic from the grass,
A minor nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive mass.

No ordinance is seen,
So gradual the grace,
A pensive custom it becomes,
Enlarging loneliness.

Antiquest felt at noon
When August, burning low,
Calls forth this spectral canticle,
Repose to typify.

Remit as yet no grace,
No furrow on the glow,
Yet a druidic difference
Enhances nature now.


Saturday's weather was gorgeous. In the morning, Adam played tennis with my father while I worked on my Shutterfly project -- which is now finished pending approval by various relatives! Then we all had lunch and went to Huntley Meadows Park, which is quite wet this year but the water is in different places -- the part where the boardwalk starts has lots of water (and frogs, many snapping turtles, and at least one snakehead fish), while the part that used to be an open pond is now full of cattails. This may be the first time we've been there where we didn't see a single Canada goose, but we saw several great blue herons and an egret!


Adam had a date with Christine, with whom he went to CPK and hung out for the evening, so Paul made us vegetarian Coquilles St. Jacques made of konjac with pecan wild rice. We watched the first episode of Blunt Talk, which was sadly too much Seth McFarlane overwhelming the Patrick Stewart but I'll give it one more chance. Then we watched an episode of Inspector Lewis, which is always great -- at least, an improvement over watching both the Orioles and Ravens lose. But in really good news, the female giant panda at the National Zoo gave birth to twins (and unlike last time that happened, both seem to be healthy)!

  • Poem for Saturday and Crab Apple Color

    Crab Apple Trees By Larry Schug I’m tempted to say these trees belong to me, take credit for blossoms that gather sunrise like stained glass…

  • Poem for Friday and Locust Grove

    The Good-Morrow By John Donne I wonder by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? Were we not wean'd till then? But suck'd on country…

  • Poem for Thursday and Canal in Spring

    Happiness By Jane Kenyon There’s just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your…

  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded