May come up with fiddle bows, May come up with blossom, May come up the same again, The same again but different. from Nuts in May by Louis MacNeice The blossom on our fruit trees this year has been the best since we planted them. We've had flowers for the first time on our pear, … Continue reading monday verse: nuts in may
A week to Christmas, cards of snow and holly, Gimcracks in the shops, Wishes and memories wrapped in tissue paper, Trinkets, gadgets and lollipops And as if through coloured glasses We remember our childhood’s thrill Waking in the morning to the rustling of paper, The eiderdown heaped in a hill Of dogs and bears … Continue reading monday verse: autumn journal
It is December now, the trees are naked As the three crosses on the hill; Through the white fog the face of the orange sun is cryptic Like a lawyer making the year’s will. The year has little to show, will leave a heavy overdraft to its heir. from Autumn Journal (XVIII) by Louis MacNeice
These days are misty, insulated, mute Like a faded tapestry and the soft pedal Is down and the yellow leaves are falling down. from Autumn Journal (XII) by Louis MacNeice The days, especially the mornings, are indeed misty at the moment, so this short passage seemed very appropriate.
September has come, it is hers Whose vitality leaps in the autumn, Whose nature prefers Trees without leaves and a fire in the fire-place; So I give her this month and the next Though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered already So many of its days intolerable or perplexed But … Continue reading monday verse: autumn journal
"Close and slow, summer is ending in Hampshire, Ebbing away down ramps of shaven lawn... And August going out to the tin trumpets of nasturtiums And the sunflowers' Salvation Army blare of brass" from Autumn Journal by Louis MacNeice These are the opening lines of Louis MacNeice's long poem Autumn Journal. Written throughout the closing months … Continue reading monday verse: autumn journal
After a beautiful autumn, most of the trees have now dropped their leaves, their branches cutting across a chilly December sky. The sight of bare branches always makes me think of these lines from Louis MacNeice's long poem Autumn Journal, written during the closing months of 1938, which perfectly sum up this time of year. "...the … Continue reading the trees’ girders