What to do, what to do? Astronomy? Divination? No thanks. Astrology? Planets, stars, asteroids, comets, the flaming ball of gas we call the sun... so many things to consider. To avoid my brain exploding, I'm going to share a few more of my favorite poems with you this month.
Let's begin with something from the ever so delightful Emily Dickinson.
Of bronze and blaze
The north, to-night!
So adequate its forms,
So preconcerted with itself,
So distant to alarms, -
An unconcern so sovereign
To universe, or me,
It paints my simple spirit
With tints of majesty,
Till I take vaster attitudes,
And strut upon my stem,
Disdaining men and oxygen,
For arrogance of them.
My splendors are menagerie;
But their competeless show
Will entertain the centuries
When I am, long ago,
An island in dishonored grass,
Whom none but daisies know.
Or how about another of Ms. Dickinson's poems about the lack of secret-keeping that the skies can do.
The skies can't keep their secret!
They tell it to the hills -
The hills just tell the orchards -
And they the daffodils!
A bird, by chance, that goes that way
Soft overheard the whole.
If I should bribe the little bird,
Who knows but she would tell?
I think I won't, however,
It's finer not to know;
If summer were an axiom,
What sorcery had snow?
So keep your secret, Father!
I would not, if I could,
Know what the sapphire fellows do,
In your new-fashioned world!
Oh! Or how about one regarding the stars that shine so brightly? Here we have one written by William Wordsworth in the late 18th century.
The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand,
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest
Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest;
Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand,
A habitation marvellously planned,
For life to occupy in love and rest;
All that we see--is dome, or vault, or nest,
Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage command.
Glad thought for every season! but the Spring
Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart,
'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring;
And while the youthful year's prolific art--
Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower--was fashioning
Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part.
I hope that you have enjoyed these poems as much as I do. I'd also love it if you would share some of your favorites over in our SOUP thread in the Slytherin Common Room. Come on over and join us!