Poem for Monday

By the Potomac
By Thomas Bailey Aldrich

The soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves
By the Potomac; and the crisp ground-flower
Tilts its blue cup to catch the passing shower;
The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves
Its tangled gonfalons above our braves.
Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower! --
The Southern nightingale that hour by hour
In its melodious summer madness raves.
Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand,
With what sweet voice of bird and rivulet
And drowsy murmur of the rustling leaf
Would Nature soothe us, bidding us forget
The awful crime of this distracted land
And all our heavy heritage of grief.

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A photo for the poem, sort of, since I have none of Arlington National Cemetery where the river is visible:


Fort Washington and the Potomac, April Light

Have little to report after spamming the hell out of this journal yesterday, but I did need to mention 's discovery of Dom-Land Caribou, or, what if the Fellowship were a hockey team? Lavishly illustrated and screamingly funny even if you're like me and barely follow the sport!