Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
In Maine, where winter has arrived and isn't leaving anytime soon.
We were propelled through the streets of Portland last night by a
biting wind,on our way to dinner at Fore Street. Excellent arctic
char, black sea bass, sardines, and hake. A most welcome break on
the long road to Stockton Springs.
Surprise, surprise - Jeff and Wendy are here, all the way from
Gresham, Oregon! What a thrill to see them in the lobby of the hotel
this morning. That makes 19 of us here, in Dad and Jean's house,
hailing from Florida, Vermont, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Maine,
and Oregon. As predicted, much talk and laughter. Zig, Abe, and I
Books in Searsport to pick up several books we'd ordered.
Knitting: 15% of Nightfall Sock #2 is done, PLUS a tiny bit of
progress on the Malthese Flowers shawl.
Exercise: Nope, other than violent shivering in the brutally cold
streets of Portland last night.
Diet/Water: No desserts, a very light lunch. Need more water,