Though not the 'in between' of today's poem, this newly-minted Autumn weather has taken on an in-between life of its own. Mornings begin with overcast skies and brisk winds, which seem to hint that rain could burst upon our sorry heads at any moment. As the hours wear on, however, the clouds pull away, and the warm, cornflower sun spreads its light over everything, drying the dew and sending a tingling warmth through bare arms and legs. It's a delightful time of year - perhaps my favorite time of all - and it makes me long to live in a place where the buildings are as old as the stones that brick their walls and the people speak not from economy, but from pleasure.
In Between
shall never number high enough
to proffer, for the beech,
a tidy bow upon the cuff,
and low as I can lay
shall never sink me so far down
in clover leaves, to play
an eye upon each idle gown,
as I am all to low
for heaven, all too high for earth;
my mid'ling self, just so,
to tender suffering and mirth.
5 comments:
Lovely poem! And there are such stone-dappled places in England as you have envisioned. It's a beautiful country at any time of year, but it's particularly nice to walk into the countryside there in Autumn.
Thanks, as always, Kindred. You're a very active commenter, and my obscure, little nook of a blog appreciates it. You know, as I was writing that, I was, indeed, thinking of England. I've never been, but it sounds like paradise.
I miss Autumn.
This is a love-ly poem, but I must say, I almost love the introduction more...
Haha, as do I...
I will not approve on it. I think nice post. Specially the title attracted me to review the unscathed story.
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