The ground is white this morning...a year ago I posted this poem at the first snowfall.
The wind has gleaned its harvest
And every tree is bare
Save for the golden birch leaf
A-drift on stringent air
The hour-glass of autumn
Has almost run its course
The gale, a moaning phantom
Upon a restless horse
And every tree is bare
Save for the golden birch leaf
A-drift on stringent air
The hour-glass of autumn
Has almost run its course
The gale, a moaning phantom
Upon a restless horse
The stillness of November
The silence of the soil
Breathes cold and moody splendor
On earth, stripped of its spoil
While orchard, field and vineyard
Like ghost-towns of the west
Are quiet now and empty
As laborers seek their rest
Departure and arrival
Converge in soundless flight
As autumn becomes winter
In nature’s surge of white
An aching fills our bosoms
In humble thankful prayer
We lift our hearts to heaven
And thank him for His care
Janet Martin
The silence of the soil
Breathes cold and moody splendor
On earth, stripped of its spoil
While orchard, field and vineyard
Like ghost-towns of the west
Are quiet now and empty
As laborers seek their rest
Departure and arrival
Converge in soundless flight
As autumn becomes winter
In nature’s surge of white
An aching fills our bosoms
In humble thankful prayer
We lift our hearts to heaven
And thank him for His care
Janet Martin
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I hope you enjoyed your pause on this porch and thank-you for your visit!