The little old lady laughs like a little girl, going On with the tale of this and that happy day. Says the little old lady, “Oh, what times were they When I fell in love without Grandmother’s knowing!” The little old lady is a little rogue, showing A malicious twinkle in the depths of her eyes. How distinct the silver of her hair one descries Against the caramel-tinted skin glowing.
The little old lady forgets how dull or shady Life may be; and the wrinkles laugh over her face. Sweet tremors through her blessed old body race: And my dear looks at me and I look at my dear, And we laugh, and we laugh . . . all the while we hear The white history of the loves of the little old lady.
-Manuel Magallanes Moure (1878-1924) Chile Translated by Muna Lee
A few weeks ago when I ran across this poem, I scheduled it to publish this evening, when the moon is nearly full. But I didn’t know that I would be driving home from Vespers at 6:30 and along that road where it’s happened before that I found the moon rising huge and golden right in front of me; if only could lift off at a slight angle from the pavement, I could drive right up and park on it. But instead, I admired her perfect face for a few timeless moments…. and then I was home!
THE MOON
The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below. Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known. Her lips of amber never part; But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will! And what a privilege to be But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door. Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue.
The tusks that clashed in mighty brawls Of mastodons, are billiard balls.
The sword of Charlemagne the Just Is ferric oxide, known as rust.
The grizzly bear whose potent hug Was feared by all, is now a rug.
Great Caesar’s bust is on my shelf, And I don’t feel so well myself.
-Arthur Guiterman
This is a fun poem. The poet joined the theme by embarking on his own transformation to dust some time back. I also like these other lines he wrote, on changes he saw happening around him:
New motor roads are dustless, The latest steel is rustless, Our tennis courts are sodless, Our new religions—godless.
Guiterman in 1932
I’m sure that countless swords that have been swung through the ages are pretty rusty by now, but I happened to see this article about the Frankish king’s most famous sword, “Joyeuse” — and that one is not rust yet, because it has been preserved in the Louvre for many generations. Has any of you seen it?
I was thrilled when my newly planted peas came up within a few days. That was one benefit of the Hot Week, when it was over 100 degrees for many days in a row. The seeds were bedded in a temporarily partly shady place behind the zinnias and parsley, so the earth stayed moist.
They are petite and very cute, growing close together next to the tall trellis where I planned to train them upward… until after they were up I read online, and then confirmed it by checking the packet, that Sugar Ann snap peas are a Bush Type of plant, and typically grow only 1-2 feet tall. I have grown peas for more than half my life, so why would I have read the description and instructions?? The packet had been a kind gift a few months ago from Hearth and Field; my thought process on rediscovering them in my box of seeds went quickly from “Oh, goody!” to “Must plant these right away!” and I did that very efficiently.
Chartwell Sweet Peas
Efficiency is not one of the guiding principles of Hearth and Field, however, and I should have embarked on my pea project more in the spirit and manner of the vision expressed on the website of that journal:
Welcome to Hearth & Field!
We are the only journal you’ll find
that makes the internet move
at the pace and rhythm of real life.
Hearth and Field also quotes G.K. Chesterton at the top of that home page, saying,
“The simplification of anything is always sensational.”
I don’t have time to think more about how that second quote relates to my peas. [Update: I originally put something here about WinstonChurchill’s Chartwell peas, which I attributed to Chesterton, which is very embarrassing, and there is no way to fix it, so I removed it. Thank you to my blessed reader Amy who noticed.]
In Real Life, “Haste makes waste,” right? But that motto doesn’t convey quite everything about how I will need to spend an extra hour today that I was not planning on. I will transplant those little starts to the middle of the planter box, so as to free up the trellis for planting Green Beauty snow peas from Baker Creek, because it would be a waste of my beautiful trellis to do otherwise. This is how “the pace and rhythm of real life” works in real life!
Gladsome Lights 