so many grand things
It is so beautiful today. It's one of those days when I want to do nothing more than lay down like a cat lapping up the sun, feeling the warmth at my very center, falling asleep in a sunny spot until the darkness creeps in and cools off the earth. It is around 80 degrees (F) and all feels right; spring is doing its work, spreading daffodils and crocuses; wildlife is out and enjoying the heat and the bounty of fresh veggies: deer (usually a trio) graze in a (not yet used) cow pasture full of rye; porcupines totter along roads looking unperturbed by the flash of car lights; Canadian geese honk serenading no one; peepers call in a chorus, at times deafening; frogs play a real life game of Frogger after the rains; and the rains, seem to come and come and come, but at this time it's good--no tomatoes in the ground yet to ruin.
This week has been crazy...and it's only Tuesday. My boss is off again this week on vacation and I'm in charge and so tired and so ready for his return. *sigh* It feels like everyday is so chock full of stuff. Life! The coolest thing I've done this week is when I learned how to use the new lift in the (car) shop so I could do an oil change (definitely different than when I've used the pit). Tre cool! Otherwise, busy busy busy, and I need to go and start putting some seeds into the ground!! Agh! Where does the time go!? Anyway, while I ponder that, ponder this:
"Gods Grandeur"
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; Bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; Bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
-- Gerard Manly Hopkins
Comments