I'm not the biggest poetry fan in the world, but what I like, I like. Robert Burns, Lord Byron, John Keats, Percy Shelly, Lord Alfred Tennyson - do we see a pattern here? And then there's my love of two American poets, Robert Frost and Walt Whitman. Frost and Whitman write the most beautiful nature poetry. The kind of poetry that if I'm having a bad day, I just google their name and read till I feel better.
I honestly can't remember if I've posted these pictures before, but regardless the soft colors are what I'm feeling today. So again I'll leave you with this short poem from Walt Whitman.
by Walt Whitman
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the
ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
That's it for today lovelies, another post tomorrow hopefully to round out the week. Good night!