By Oscar Wilde
The lily's withered chalice falls
Around its rod of dusty gold,
And from the beech-trees on the wold
The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
The gaudy leonine sunflower
Hangs black and barren on its stalk,
And down the windy garden walk
The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour.
Pale privet-petals white as milk
Are blown into a snowy mass:
The roses lie upon the grass
Like little shreds of crimson silk.
Monday was delightfully cool for August, an open-door sort of day. We both had a lot of work to get done, though we did some of it while watching soccer and track at the Olympics. Then we took a walk and ate our leftover Ethiopian food from Sheba last week, which was still delicious.
I talked to my college roommate on the phone for a while, then we took a break from sports to watch The Republic of Sarah -- the blizzard episode, pretty formulaic but not bad -- then more Olympics. Here are some of the flowers in bloom at the McKee-Beshers Wildlife Management Area: