And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
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And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
continue reading …
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The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree. ~ Henry David Thoreau
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For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
Little Gidding, T.S. Eliot
[Photo credit: Creative Commons, Mike Dziedzic]
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After decades of living and painting in or near Paris, Renoir settled permanently in Cagnes-sur-Mer in 1907 at age 67 where he spent the last 11 years of his life. The mild Mediterranean climate, the colorful landscape and the luminous light inspired perhaps his greatest work.
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Once more the liberal year laughs out
O’er richer stores than gems or gold:
Once more with harvest song and shout
Is nature’s boldest triumph told.
~ John Greenleaf Whittier
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I am a kind word uttered and repeated
By the voice of Nature;
I am a star fallen from the
Blue tent upon the green carpet.
I am the daughter of the elements
With whom Winter conceived;
To whom Spring gave birth;
I was reared in the lap of Summer and I
Slept in the bed of Autumn.
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