"Nature" is what we see— The Hill—the Afternoon— Squirrel—Eclipse— the Bumble bee— Nay—Nature is Heaven— Nature is what we hear— The Bobolink—the Sea— Thunder—the Cricket— Nay—Nature is Harmony— Nature is what we know— Yet have no art to say— So impotent Our Wisdom is To her Simplicity.
Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee. Only a Bee will miss it— Only a Butterfly, Hastening from far journey— On its breast to lie— Only a Bird will wonder— Only a Breeze will sigh— Ah Little Rose—how easy For such as thee to die!
The Azaleas live from year to year with only mother nature to nurture and care for them and they continue to thrive. The one word to describe how I feel when my yard is full of blooms is "happy."
Nature is What We See by Emily Dickinson
"Nature" is what we see--
The Hill--the Afternoon--
Squirrel--Eclipse--the Bumble bee--
Nay--Nature is Heaven--
Nature is what we hear--
The Bobolink--the Sea--
Nay--Nature is Harmony--
Nature is what we know--
Yet have no art to say--
So important Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.
I wanted to start off 2015 with my beautiful Hibiscus flowers that grew in my container garden last fall. I hope to see a rebirth this spring. I don't have a green thumb so they have to survive the crazy Florida weather from hot to cold and from thunderstorms to droughts. I enjoy these flowers in the mornings when they opened their blooms and at night when they went to sleep. They give me hope of a new day, a new beginning and peace in the evenings. Emily Dickinson says "Hope Is The Thing With Feathers." I say "Hope Is The Thing With Flower Petals."
Hope Is The Thing With Feathers
By Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)
"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without words
And never stops - at all
And sweetest - in the Gale- is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so any warm
I've heart it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Because I could not stop for Death-- He kindly stopped for me-- The Carriage held but just Ourselves-- And Immortality.
We slowly drove--He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility--
We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess--in the Ring-- We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain-- We passed the Setting Sun--
Or rather--He passed us-- The Dews drew quivering and chill-- For only Gossamer, my Gown-- My Tippet--only Tulle--
We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground-- The Roof was scarcely visible-- The Cornice--in the Ground--
Since then--'tis Centuries--and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity--
The Red Buggy:
The picture of the red buggy was taken outside of Wellsville, PA. Wellsville has changed very little visually during the twentieth century; the borough's appearance has remained that of a nineteenth-century community, complete with brick sidewalks and Gothic Revival and Greek Revival houses. Because of its unusually high quality of preservation, nearly all of the community was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1977 as the "Wellsville Historic District".