Tag: sunday

Sunday Muse

Sheeps & Peeps2 Comments
Dixon and Long families at the Cliffs; Grandma 3rd from left, back row

“The men and women and children who live in Appalachia have no sourness about them and though they are shy toward outsiders, they will wave to you if you drive by in your car whether they know your face or not.  Most would probably rather not meet anyone new, but once they are used to you, you will find them bringing you bags of tomatoes from their gardens and sometimes a cherry cobbler.  Most of them are thinkers, because these mountains inspire that, but they could never find the words to tell you of these thoughts they have.  They talk to you of their corn or their cows instead and they keep the thoughts to themselves.”
— from ‘Appalachia – The Voices of Sleeping Birds’ by Cynthia Rylant

Sunday Muse

Sheeps & PeepsLeave a comment

Roses
You love the roses – so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!
George Eliot (1819 – 1880)

Sunday Muse

Sheeps & Peeps1 Comment

I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,
In the fragrant orchard close,
And around me floats the scented air,
With its wave-like tidal flows.
I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,
And call no king my peer;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?

I lie on a couch of downy grass,
With delicate blossoms strewn,
And I feel the throb of Nature’s heart
Responsive to my own.
Oh, the world is fair, and God is good,
That maketh life so dear;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?

I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,
The delicate blue of the sky,
And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints
That drift so lazily by.
And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,
And Heaven, it seemeth near;
Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?

By Horatio Alger (1832 – 1899)