September 1, 2015

Welcome, September!  May you be a joyful month of fresh beginnings in school and lovely weather that eases us into autumn.  Today I am offering you a small sampler of Emily Dickinson, photos courtesy of the glory that is Door County, Wisconsin.  

The sun just touched the morning
The morning,  happy thing,
Supposed that he had come to dwell
And life would be all spring...

The robin is the one
That speechless from her nest
Submits that home and certainty
And sanctity are best

A spider sewed at night
Without a light
Upon an arc of white.
If ruff it was of dame
Or shroud of gnome,
Himself, himself inform.
of immortality
His strategy
Was physiognomy

The one that could repeat the summer day
Were greater than itself, though he
Minutest of mankind might be.
And who could reproduce the sun,
At period of going down--
The lingering and the stain, I mean--
When Orient has been outgrown
and Occident becomes unknown,
His name remain.

How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And does not care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.

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