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[RubyRed246]

Nice one, gg!

[gardengirl]

The Road Not Taken


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


 
Robert Frost

[gardengirl]

Seems to me we could use some positive thinking and hope these days...


The Power of One

One song can spark a moment,
One whisper can wake the dream.
One tree can start a forest,
One bird can herald spring.

One smile begins a friendship,
One moment can make one fall in luv.
One star can guide a ship at sea,
One word can frame the goal

One vote can change a nation,
One sunbeam lights a room
One candle wipes out darkness,
One laugh will conquer gloom.

One step must start each journey.
One word must start each prayer.
One hope will raise our spirits,
One touch can show you care.

One voice can speak with wisdom,
One heart can know what's true,
One life can make a difference,
You see, it's up to you!


Ashish Ram

[eburgbirdwtchr]

Great ones, gg!!  As per usual. 

[walton]

Thanks, gg! You know I love Robert Frost.

[gardengirl]

The ditches across Iowa are filled with dozens and dozens of butterflies flying from wildflower to wildflower.  Driving through the countryside yesterday I saw huge patches of Queen Annes Lace. There was a lot of it along the bike trail in Decorah as well as we pedaled at After the Fledge.  It brought to mind this lovely childhood poem.

Queen Anne's Lace


by Mary Leslie Newton

Queen Anne, Queen Anne, has washed her lace
(She chose a summer day)
And hung it in a grassy place
To whiten, if it may.

Queen Anne, Queen Anne, has left it there,
And slept the dewy night;
Then waked, to find the sunshine fair,
And all the meadows white.

Queen Anne, Queen Anne, is dead and gone
(She died a summer's day),
But left her lace to whiten on
Each weed-entangled way!



https://www.google.com/search?q=queen+anne%27s+lace&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=Z81fy24jURsGPM%253A%252C2UriPdc2TfmguM%252C%252Fm%252F01rx53&vet=1&usg=AI4_-kSvYAPvBzG5-fnNb7a3nsC-G-2-Gw&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiqrJbYpv7jAhUSZc0KHWkjBRwQ_B0wHHoECAkQAw#imgrc=Z81fy24jURsGPM:

[glogdog]

I love that poem, GG.  Thanks so much! 

[gardengirl]

Let Me Be a Gypsy

Let me be a gypsy
    On a bright October day,
When maple trees are burning
    And saffron poplars sway.
Let me be a rover
    When sweet gum is veiled with mauve,
When clouds puff up the mountain
    Like lazy parasols.
I want to feel the breath
    Of crisp autumn on my cheek
And catch the vibrant heartbeat
    Of earth beneath my feet.
One day in the woodland
    Is a treasure I can store---
Relive each golden moment
    When winter's wild winds roar.
Oh, to be a vagabond
    When forests flame with art;
October is my brother---
    We share a gypsy heart.


    ---Ollie James Robertson

[gardengirl]

October

Summer lingers though the woods
Are filled with winter's prophecy
In thinning leaves and russet tones
Of red and yellow tracery.

The morning boasts the songs of birds,
And night is routed gallantly.
But twilight hears the cricket's call
With rhythmic, shrill insistency.

Now from the woods new voices come:
The owl complaining to the moon,
And, echoing through the leafy vault,
The eerie laughter of the loon.

Thin frost upon the meadowland,
A trail of birds across the sky--
A keenness fills the vibrant air
That sends the dead leaves whirling by.


       written by Josephine Powell Beaty

[glogdog]

Gosh, GG...these are so good.  Thank you!  I picture them as I am reading.  Hearing them too.

[walton]

October

Summer lingers though the woods
Are filled with winter's prophecy
In thinning leaves and russet tones
Of red and yellow tracery.

The morning boasts the songs of birds,
And night is routed gallantly.
But twilight hears the cricket's call
With rhythmic, shrill insistency.

Now from the woods new voices come:
The owl complaining to the moon,
And, echoing through the leafy vault,
The eerie laughter of the loon.

Thin frost upon the meadowland,
A trail of birds across the sky--
A keenness fills the vibrant air
That sends the dead leaves whirling by.


       written by Josephine Powell Beaty

I love this one. What wonderful images it conjures up!

[gardengirl]

                                                                                Thanksgiving

For the hay and the corn and the wheat that is reaped;
For the labor well done and the barns that are heaped;
For the sun and the dew and the sweet honeycomb;
For the rose and the song and the harvest brought home;
For the trade and the skill and the wealth in our land;
For the talent and strength of the workingman's hand;
For the good that our artists and poets have taught;
For the friendship that trust and affection have brought;
For the homes that with purest devotion are blest;
For the season of plenty and well-deserved rest;
For our country extending from sea to sea;
For the land that is known as the Land of the Free!
Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving!




He who thanks but with his lips
Thanks but in part;
The full, the true thanksgiving
Comes from the heart.

--J.A. Shedd



                                                                      Thanksgiving Day

With steadfast and unwavering faith, with hard and patient toil,
The Pilgrims wring their harvest from a strange and sterile soil.
And when the leaves turned red and gold beneath the autumn sun,
They knelt beside the scanty sheaves their laboring hands had won.
And each grave elder, in his turn, with bowed and reverent head,
Gave thanks to bounteous Heaven for the miracle of bread.

And so was born Thanksgiving Day. That little dauntless band,
Beset by deadly perils in a wild and alien land,
With hearts that held no fear of death, with stern, unbending wills,
And faith as firmly founded as the grim New England hills,
Though pitiful the yield that sprang from that unfruitful sod,
Remembered in their harvest time the goodly grace of God.

God grant us grace to look on this, our glorious native land,
As but another princely gift from His almighty hand.
May we prove worthy of His trust and keep its every shore
Protected from the murderous hordes that bear the torch of war;
And be the future bright or dark , God grant we never may
Forget the reverent spirit of that first Thanksgiving Day.

--J.J. Montague


From the heart I wish each reader here a time of peace, contentment, love, family, friends and quiet reflection.  I pray you have everything you need.  I pray you can share this day of thanks with those you love.  If by chance you are alone today,  please know you are loved and this door is always open to you.  Come in, friend.  The fire is lit. The teapot is steeping.
There is soup in the kettle and homemade bread on the counter.  You can rest here as long as you like. You will find a good book beside the arm chair.  Enjoy the quiet.

If you are so inclined and want a little company,  may I remind you there will be a flyway chat on Wednesday and Friday of this week from 11-2 Central time. We would love to see you there.   

Until next time, be well and blessed, and  please be kind to one another and planet earth. 















 

[gardengirl]

Here are the lyrics to the beloved Christmas classic performed by St John's choir, Cambridge and directed by the legendary George Guest.
Listen here:   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPJBFYuUWvY

Text:

The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit and always green: (x2)
The trees of nature fruitless be
Compared with Christ the apple tree.

His beauty doth all things excel:
By faith I know, but ne'er can tell (x2)
The glory which I now can see
In Jesus Christ the apple tree.

For happiness I long have sought,
And pleasure dearly I have bought: (x2)
I missed of all; but now I see
'Tis found in Christ the apple tree.

I'm weary with my former toil,
Here I will sit and rest awhile: (x2)
Under the shadow I will be,
Of Jesus Christ the apple tree.

This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,
It keeps my dying faith alive; (x2)
Which makes my soul in haste to be
Jesus Christ the apple tree.



I had never heard this lovely Christmas song until moderator Glogdog shared it with me a number of years ago. It quickly became one of my favorites.

[glogdog]

                                                                                Thanksgiving

From the heart I wish each reader here a time of peace, contentment, love, family, friends and quiet reflection.  I pray you have everything you need.  I pray you can share this day of thanks with those you love.  If by chance you are alone today,  please know you are loved and this door is always open to you.  Come in, friend.  The fire is lit. The teapot is steeping.
There is soup in the kettle and homemade bread on the counter.  You can rest here as long as you like. You will find a good book beside the arm chair.  Enjoy the quiet.

If you are so inclined and want a little company,  may I remind you there will be a flyway chat on Wednesday and Friday of this week from 11-2 Central time. We would love to see you there.   

Until next time, be well and blessed, and  please be kind to one another and planet earth.

gardengirl - I think I can speak on behalf of all those who read your lovely thread and say, "Thank You" for giving us this beautiful, warm place to come to and sit a spell. 

[walton]

I was putting my 7-year-old grandson to bed and he wanted me to "say a poem." I recited this one and he liked it so much he wanted to hear it again the next night. He closes his eyes and tries to image the scene. I know it's been posted here before. It's one of my favorites.

                                                                           Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening


Whose woods these are, I think I know,
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

----Robert Frost