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The land was ours before we were the land's
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England's, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Facebook Governor Sarah Palin all but accuses her new neighbor of being a peeping Tom:
Wonder what kind of material he'll gather while overlooking Piper's bedroom, my little garden, and the family's swimming hole?
Welcome, Joe! It'll be a great summer - come borrow a cup of sugar if ever you need some sweetener. And you know what they say about "fences make for good neighbors"? Well, we'll get started on that tall fence tomorrow, and I'll try to keep Trig's squeals down to a quiet giggle so we don't disturb your peaceful summer. Enjoy!
Of course, it seems almost a requirement that if Palin quotes Frost, she do it in a way that shows a total lack of understanding.
But so long as that's how she really feels about fences, we might as well let the Poet finish off the description of her:
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods -- the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn't thought of them as Christmas Trees.
Odd having a bright sunrise, a grey-blue day of softly falling snow, then finally a pink crepuscule.
This is an Open Thread.
p.s. If you haven't yet, rec and check out DD's post on top NH progressives. Fascinating diary and comments
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him -- at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off; -- and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
"Where is your village? Very far from here?"
"There is no village--only scattered farms.
We were but sixty voters last election.
We can't in nature grow to many more:
That thing takes all the room!" He moved his goad.
The mountain stood there to be pointed at.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat--
A brook to none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the things we love for what they are.
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
So, have you stacked all your wood yet? Perennials (bought at half off now that the summer crowd is gone) in the ground yet? Leaves raked yet? Storm windows up yet? Chimneys swept yet? Hay stacked yet? Cider pressed yet?
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
