Books and Poems

Hi Everybody

I haven’t done a book post or even updated my 20 for 20 – which considering the altered world that we live in at the moment I think it will get abandoned.

However, I have finished reading a rather large tomb which is written in the style of the wonderful Jane Austen. Here is a picture

This was my bedtime read and I thoroughly enjoyed it. It has the same little twists that Jane puts in her book Pride and Prejudice and I think you will view Mary in a rather different light after reading this. May not be everyone’s cup of tea.

The other item that has occupied my time (when I haven’t got a needle and thread in it) is attempts at poetry. I have written several poems but I want to make them into a book if possible – there is a theme but it is a secret at the moment and things are in are in their infancy.

Instead I will leave you with a poem by John Keats called very appropriately

“To Autumn”

To Autumn

John Keats – 1795-1821

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
    To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
    For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
  Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
  Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
  Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
    Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
  Steady thy laden head across a brook;
  Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
    Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
  Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,–
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
  And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
  Among the river sallows, borne aloft
    Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
  Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
  The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

It is beautiful is it not?

Bye for now



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