Tell Me Not Here, It Needs Not Saying
By A.E. Housman
Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.
On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.
On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.
Possess, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.
For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger’s feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no.
We had beautiful, unseasonably warm weather on Monday to make up for the cold front that's coming tomorrow, but I did nothing exciting -- laundry, kitchen cleanup, getting a blister changing drawer pulls, walk in the park, Pokemon raid in a church parking lot. I didn't do anything Veterans Day-specific except talk to some veteran friends and raid with people off work for the government.
We watched the fourth episode of Watchmen, which is still dark but holding my interest, and His Dark Materials, which I find a little hard to get into, having never read the books and only seen the mediocre movie once. Then we watched the final episode of Catherine the Great, in which I loved Helen Mirren and Jason Clarke and the sets and costumes but not much else. From Huntley Meadows: