Travel

I should like to rise and go

Where the golden apples grow; -

Where below another sky

Parrot islands anchored lie,

And, watched by cockatoos and goats,

Lonely Crusoes building boats;-

Where in sunshine reaching out

Eastern cities, miles about,

Are with mosque and minaret

Among sandy gardens set,

And the rich goods from near and far

Hang for sale in the bazaar;-

Where the great wall round China goes,

And on one side the desert blows,

And with bell and voice and drum,

Cities on the other hum;-

Where are forests, hot as fire,

Wide as England, tall as spire,

Full of apes and cocoa-nuts;-

Where the knotty crocodile

Lies and blinks in the nile,

And the red flaming flamingo flies

Hunting fish before his eyes;-

Where in jungles, near and far,

Man-devouring tigers are,

Lying close and giving ear

Lest the hunt be drawing near,

Or a comer-by be seen

Swinging in a palanquin;-

Where among the desert sands

Some deserted city stands,

All its children, sweep and prince,

Grown to manhood ages since,

Not a foot in street or house,

Not a stir of child or mouse,

And when kindly falls the night,

In all the town no spark of light.

There I’ll go when I’m a man

With a camel caravan;

Light a fire in the gloom

Of some dusty dining room;

See the pictures on the walls,

Heroes, fights and festivals;

And in the corner find the toys

Of the olds Egyptian boys.

~Robert Louis Stevenson

Daffodil Gully

It was a very balmy trickle of air that was blowing faintly over the green-tinted fields, and a very cloudy sky that billowed out over the blue and green mountains in the distance. Some of it, the shawl of moisture hanging just above the peaks, was brushed a lovely, pale rose color, fading to light daffodil yellow around the edges. A yellow that really did match the clumped mounds of bright gold flowers decorating the area. Dusting the hills, clinging to the little glades between the oak trees, were butter-yellow lilies, and daffodils graced the lower gully by the wet, wet gurgle at Brook Monday's base. The girl, sitting near a clump of sunny blooms at the bottom of the hill, was a very close friend to Brook Monday. She often wandered along the little banks as she composed short verses of poetry or drew a small sketch, kneeling down occasionally to get a closer look at a sprightly flower-nymph or a budding leaf - there is a certain attitude of fresh uprightness in a new leaf that the girl found very difficult to capture (especially since she wan't much of an artist). But just then she was content to sit by the daffodils, draw one, stare down the road at the cherry tree simply over-flowing with lacy pink loveliness, and write about spring.

To Celebrate Easter

 

 Four little chicks have arrived...

  Our Easter eggs are painted...

My clematis is finally in bloom!

Happy Easter (one day early)!