Now the day is done, Now the shepherd sun Drives his white flocks from the sky; Now the flowers rest On their mother’s breast, Hushed by her low lullaby.
Now the glowworms glance, Now the fireflies dance, Under fern-boughs green and high; And the western breeze To the forest trees Chants a tuneful lullaby.
Now ‘mid shadows deep Falls blessed sleep, Like dew from the summer sky; And the whole earth dreams, In the moon’s soft beams, While night breathes a lullaby.
Now, birdlings, rest, In your wind-rocked nest, Unscared by the owl’s shrill cry; For with folded wings Little Brier swings, And singeth your lullaby.
In the U.K. they are coming to the end of Insect Week, sponsored by the Royal Entomological Society. (But in this post I am showing only my own photos of California insects.) I heard about Insect Week from Blogger Katie, whose butterfly embroideries I have admired for a while at ArtyMissK. Her photography is fantastic, too; by it she reveals here the glory of a “simple” black Dor beetle, and many other examples. Have a look at these “Little Things That Run the World”:
Sunday mornings I would reach high into his dark closet while standing on a chair and tiptoeing reach higher, touching, sometimes fumbling the soft crowns and imagine I was in a forest, wind hymning through pines, where the musky scent of rain clinging to damp earth was his scent I loved, lingering on bands, leather, and on the inner silk crowns where I would smell his hair and almost think I was being held, or climbing a tree, touching the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent was that of a clove in the godsome air, as now, thinking of his fabulous sleep, I stand on this canyon floor and watch light slowly close on water I’m not sure is there.
I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such a dramatic springtime as here in Wisconsin, the sort of place where winter covers everything with snow, and the plants have to do their thing fast once the warm winds begin to blow.
These small flowering trees seem to have calculated how many buds and flower petals can possibly be squeezed out of their sap — then they produce a few hundred more for good measure.
A day or two later, the leaves are pushing the blossoms aside, saying, “Our turn! Gotta hurry!”
DECIDUOUS SPRING
Now, now the world All gabbles joy like geese, for An idiot glory the sky bangs. Look! All leaves are new, are Now, are Bangles dangling and Spangling, in sudden air Wangling, then Hanging quiet, bright.
The world comes back, and again Is gabbling, and yes, Remarkably worse, for The world is a whirl of Green mirrors gone wild with Deceit, and the world Whirls green on a string, then The leaves go quiet, wink From their own shade, secretly.
Keep still, just a moment, leaves.
There is something I am trying to remember.
~ Robert Penn Warren
Each morning the goslings by the lake appear to have doubled in size. Clouds race across the deep blue sky, darken and thicken, and pour down rain. The anemone buds droop, the sun blazes out, and the white flowers open gladly to take in the rays.
Snowdrop anemones in Pearl’s garden.
Pearl and I took the dogs to the dog park where they had a fine romp, and I admired more trees and flowers.
Virginia Bluebells
Earlier this week we drove to Sheboygan for dinner, and all along the road I got to see lots of handsome farms with beautiful silos, surrounded by bright green fields. On the way home I was quite taken with some stripey clouds.
Gladsome Lights 