[JustAmy]

The Gardener
by Robert Louis Stevenson

The gardener does not love to talk,
He makes me keep the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away,
He locks the door and takes the key.

Away behind the currant row
Where no one else but cook may go,
Far in the plots, I see him dig,
Old and serious, brown and big.

He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,
Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
And never seems to want to play.

Silly gardener! summer goes,
And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.

Well now, and while the summer stays,
To profit by these garden days,
O how much wiser you would be
To play at Indian wars with me!

[deadhead]

To the Fringed Gentian

By William Cullen Bryant

THOU blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven’s own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night,

Thou comest not when violets lean
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com’st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frost and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

Have a great day all. It is a beautiful autumn day here in New York.

[Darksheare]

many times i wander
around the echo'd halls
and think of things remarkable
but yet not at all
i wonder why it is this way
i stumble and i fall
and watch the things remarkable
but yet none at all
and then sit down in my jar.

the collected.

[fish hawk]

  Quiet Gifts

Summer's heat lingers into Autumn's call
Yet the wind brings a distant smell of rain
Salmon gather seaward, patient for the fall
And seabirds sing their happy songs again

Change has come though silent as a ghost
As shaman knows and feels it in his blood
A fire burns upon the northwest coast
Before the snows, before the torrent flood

This is the time when creatures must abide
By natures call, a seasonal command
It draws the salmon from the salty tide
To journey far unto the hinterland

Just as they did ten thousand years and more
When other men along the river trod
And now it's I who wanders on this shore
surrounded by these quiet gifts of God.
                       By Sea Hawk