By William Blake
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
"The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
"The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees."
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
Denise and I have decided that we need to eat at La Madeleine. The last time I was there was for breakfast the morning of...September 11, 2001. I feel just a teeny bit weird about going there now. And then I have to pick up my sons and drive to a doctor's appointment on the other side of the Beltway, and then come home and work...
I was sort of hoping to be Athena or Diana but this really isn't bad, all things considered; I make a terrible virgin.