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.