Overheard On A Saltmarsh

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  Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them? Give them me. No. Give them me. Give them me. No. Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them. Goblin, why do you love them so? They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring. Hush, I stole them out of the moon. Give me your beads, I want them. No. I will howl in the deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them. No. - Harold Monro (1879 - 1932)

Welcome, July

 “. . . Rosy Summer next advancing,

Rush'd into her sire's embrace—

Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep

For ever nearest to his smiles,

On Calpe's olive-shaded steep

Or India's citron-cover'd isles.

More remote and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;

A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,

A ripe sheaf bound her zone. . . “


From “Ode To Winter” by Thomas Campbell (July 27, 1777 - June 15, 1844)



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