{"id":25401,"date":"2023-08-31T21:00:37","date_gmt":"2023-09-01T01:00:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/orionscoldfire.com\/?p=25401"},"modified":"2023-08-31T16:39:58","modified_gmt":"2023-08-31T20:39:58","slug":"quote-of-the-day-template","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/orionscoldfire.com\/index.php\/2023\/08\/31\/quote-of-the-day-template\/","title":{"rendered":"01SEP2023 \u2013 Quote of the Day"},"content":{"rendered":"

Warning:\u00a0 This is really long (1700 words)<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

An Indian-Summer Reverie<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

What visionary tints the year puts on,<\/p>\n

When failing leaves falter through motionless air<\/p>\n

Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone!<\/p>\n

How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare,<\/p>\n

As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills<\/p>\n

The bowl between me and those distant hills,<\/p>\n

And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

No more the landscape holds its wealth apart.<\/p>\n

Making me poorer in my poverty,<\/p>\n

But mingles with my senses and my heart;<\/p>\n

My own projected spirit seems to me<\/p>\n

In her own reverie the world to steep;<\/p>\n

‘Tis she that waves to sympathetic sleep,<\/p>\n

Moving, as she is moved, each field and hill, and tree.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

How fuse and mix, with what unfelt degrees,<\/p>\n

Clasped by the faint horizon’s languid arms,<\/p>\n

Each into each, the hazy distances!<\/p>\n

The softened season all the landscape charms;<\/p>\n

Those hills, my native village that embay,<\/p>\n

In waves of dreamier purple roll away,<\/p>\n

And floating in mirage seem all the glimmering farms.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee<\/p>\n

Close at my side; far distant sound the leaves;<\/p>\n

The fields seem fields of dream, where Memory<\/p>\n

Wanders like gleaning Ruth; and as the sheaves<\/p>\n

Of wheat and barley wavered in the eye<\/p>\n

Of Boaz as the maiden’s glow went by,<\/p>\n

So tremble and seem remote all things the sense receives.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The cock’s shrill trump that tells of scattered corn,<\/p>\n

Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates,<\/p>\n

Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne,<\/p>\n

Southward, perhaps to far Magellan’s Straits;<\/p>\n

Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails;<\/p>\n

Silently overhead the henhawk sails,<\/p>\n

With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The sobered robin, hunger-silent now,<\/p>\n

Leeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer;<\/p>\n

The squirrel on the shingly shagbark’s bough,<\/p>\n

Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear,<\/p>\n

Then drops his nut, and, with a chipping bound,<\/p>\n

Whisks to his winding fastness underground;<\/p>\n

The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

O’er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadows<\/p>\n

Drowse on the crisp, gray moss; the ploughman’s call<\/p>\n

Creeps, faint as smoke from black, fresh-furrowed meadows;<\/p>\n

The single crow a single caw lets fall<\/p>\n

And all around me every bush and tree<\/p>\n

Says Autumn’s here, and Winter soon will<\/p>\n

Who snows his soft, white sleep and silence over all.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The birch, most shy and lady-like of trees,<\/p>\n

Her poverty, as best she may, retrieves,<\/p>\n

And hints at her foregone gentilities<\/p>\n

With some saved relics of her wealth of leaves<\/p>\n

The swamp-oak, with his royal purple on,<\/p>\n

Glares red as blood across the sinking sun,<\/p>\n

As one who proudlier to a falling fortune cleaves<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He looks a sachem, in red blanket wrapt,<\/p>\n

Who, mid some council of the sad-garbed whites,<\/p>\n

Erect and stern, in his own memories lapt,<\/p>\n

With distant eye broods over other sights,<\/p>\n

Sees the hushed wood the city’s flare replace,<\/p>\n

The wounded turf heal o’er the railway’s trace,<\/p>\n

And roams the savage Past of his undwindled rights.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The red-oak, softer-grained, yields all for lost,<\/p>\n

And, with his crumpled foliage stiff and dry,<\/p>\n

After the first betrayal of the frost,<\/p>\n

Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky;<\/p>\n

The chestnuts, lavish of their long-hid gold,<\/p>\n

To the faint Summer, beggared now and old,<\/p>\n

Pour back the sunshine hoarded ‘neath her favoring eye.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The ash her purple drops forgivingly<\/p>\n

And sadly, breaking not the general hush;<\/p>\n

The maple-swamps glow like a sunset sea,<\/p>\n

Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush;<\/p>\n

All round the wood’s edge creeps the skirting blaze;<\/p>\n

Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days,<\/p>\n

Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

O’er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone,<\/p>\n

Where vines, and weeds, and scrub-oaks intertwine<\/p>\n

Safe from the plough, whose rough, discordant stone<\/p>\n

Is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine,<\/p>\n

The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weaves<\/p>\n

A prickly network of ensanguined leaves;<\/p>\n

Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black-alders shine.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Pillaring with flame this crumbling boundary,<\/p>\n

Whose loose blocks topple ‘neath the ploughboy’s foot,<\/p>\n

Who, with each sense shut fast except the eye,<\/p>\n

Creeps close and scares the jay he hoped to shoot,<\/p>\n

The woodbine up the elm’s straight stem aspires.<\/p>\n

Coiling it, harmless, with autumnal fires;<\/p>\n

In the ivy’s paler blaze the martyr oak stands mute.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Below, the Charles\u2014a stripe of nether sky,<\/p>\n

Now hid by rounded apple-trees between,<\/p>\n

Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by,<\/p>\n

Now flickering golden through a woodland screen,<\/p>\n

Then spreading out at his next turn beyond,<\/p>\n

A silver circle like an inland pond\u2014<\/p>\n

Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and green.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear marshes! vain to him the gift of sight<\/p>\n

Who cannot in their various incomes share,<\/p>\n

From every season drawn, of shade and light,<\/p>\n

Who sees in them but levels brown and bare;<\/p>\n

Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free<\/p>\n

On them its largesse of variety,<\/p>\n

For nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In Spring they lie one broad expanse of green,<\/p>\n

O’er which the light winds run with glimmering feet;<\/p>\n

Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen<\/p>\n

here, darker growths o’er hidden ditches meet;<\/p>\n

And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd,<\/p>\n

As if the silent shadow of a cloud<\/p>\n

Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All round, upon the river’s slippery edge,<\/p>\n

Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide,<\/p>\n

Whispers and leans the breeze-entangling sedge;<\/p>\n

Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide,<\/p>\n

Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun,<\/p>\n

And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run<\/p>\n

Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In Summer ’tis a blithesome sight to see,<\/p>\n

As step by step, with measured swing, they pass,<\/p>\n

The wide-ranked mowers evading to the knee,<\/p>\n

Their sharp scythes panting through the thick-set grass<\/p>\n

Then, stretched beneath a rick’s shade in a ring,<\/p>\n

Their nooning take, while one begins to sing<\/p>\n

A stave that droops and dies ‘neath the close sky of brass.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Meanwhile the devil-may-care, the bobolink,<\/p>\n

Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops<\/p>\n

Just ere he sweeps O’er rapture’s tremulous brink,<\/p>\n

And ‘twixt the winrows most demurely drops,<\/p>\n

A decorous bird of business, who provides<\/p>\n

For his brown mate and fledglings six besides,<\/p>\n

And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Another change subdues them in the Fall,<\/p>\n

But saddens not, they still show merrier tints,<\/p>\n

Though sober russet seems to cover all;<\/p>\n

When the first sunshine through their dew-drops glints,<\/p>\n

Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across,<\/p>\n

Redeems with rarer hues the season’s loss,<\/p>\n

As Dawn’s feet there had touched and left their rosy prints.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest,<\/p>\n

Lean o’er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill,<\/p>\n

While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west,<\/p>\n

Glow opposite; the marshes drink their fill<\/p>\n

And swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade<\/p>\n

Through pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade,<\/p>\n

Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond’s darkening hill.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts,<\/p>\n

Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates,<\/p>\n

And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts,<\/p>\n

While the firmer ice the eager boy awaits,<\/p>\n

Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire,<\/p>\n

And until bedtime- plays with his desire,<\/p>\n

Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates;\u2014<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Then, every morn, the river’s banks shine bright<\/p>\n

With smooth plate-armor, treacherous and frail,<\/p>\n

By the frost’s clinking hammers forged at night,<\/p>\n

“Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail,<\/p>\n

Giving a pretty emblem of the day<\/p>\n

When guitar arms in light shall melt away,<\/p>\n

And states shall move free limbed, loosed from war’s cramping<\/p>\n

mail.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And now those waterfalls the ebbing river<\/p>\n

Twice everyday creates on either side<\/p>\n

Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots they shiver<\/p>\n

In grass-arched channels to the sun denied;<\/p>\n

High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow,<\/p>\n

The silvered flats gleam frostily below,<\/p>\n

Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the glassy tide.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But, crowned in turn by vying seasons three,<\/p>\n

Their winter halo hath a fuller ring;<\/p>\n

This glory seems to rest immovably,\u2014<\/p>\n

The others were too fleet and vanishing;<\/p>\n

When the hid tide is at its highest flow,<\/p>\n

O’er marsh and stream one breathless trance of snow<\/p>\n

With brooding fulness awes and hushes everything.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind,<\/p>\n

As pale as formal candles lit by day;<\/p>\n

Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind;<\/p>\n

The brown ricks, snow-thatched by the storm in play,<\/p>\n

Show pearly breakers combing o’er their lee,<\/p>\n

White crests as of some just enchanted sea,<\/p>\n

Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised midway.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant,<\/p>\n

From mid-sea’s prairies green and rolling plains<\/p>\n

Drives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt,<\/p>\n

And the roused Charles remembers in his veins<\/p>\n

Old Ocean’s blood and snaps his gyves of frost,<\/p>\n

That tyrannous silence on the shores is tost<\/p>\n

In dreary wreck, and crumbling desolation reigns.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like device,<\/p>\n

With leaden pools between or gullies bare,<\/p>\n

The blocks lie strewn, a bleak Stonehenge of ice;<\/p>\n

No life, no sound, to break the grim despair,<\/p>\n

Save sullen plunge, as through the sedges stiff<\/p>\n

Down crackles riverward some thaw-sapped cliff,<\/p>\n

Or ashen the close-wedged fields of ice crunch here and there.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But let me turn from fancy-pictured scenes<\/p>\n

To that whose pastoral calm before me lies:<\/p>\n

Here nothing harsh or rugged intervenes;<\/p>\n

The early evening with her misty dyes<\/p>\n

Smooths off the ravelled edges of the nigh,<\/p>\n

Relieves the distant with her cooler sky,<\/p>\n

And tones the landscape down, and soothes the wearied eyes<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There gleams my native village, dear to me,<\/p>\n

Though higher change’s waves each day are seen,<\/p>\n

Whelming fields famed in boyhood’s history,<\/p>\n

Sanding with houses the diminished green;<\/p>\n

There, in red brick, which softening time defies,<\/p>\n

Stand square and stiff the Muses’ factories;<\/p>\n

How with my life knit up is every well-known scene!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Flow on, dear river! not alone you flow<\/p>\n

To outward sight, and through your marshes wind;<\/p>\n

Fed from the mystic springs of long-ago,<\/p>\n

Your twin flows silent through my world of mind<\/p>\n

Grow dim, dear marshes, in the evening’s gray!<\/p>\n

Before my inner sight ye stretch away,<\/p>\n

And will forever, though these fleshly eyes grow blind.<\/p>\n

James Russell Lowell<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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