Rain

Woke up to the thunder and rain this morning. Lay in bed listening to it and feeling inexpressible joy. This was a rather rough summer, what with one thing and another, and today, with the mist settling over the valley, it looks like a painting by John Constable, and feels like a sign that troubles are suspended for the moment and we've got through the rough patch.

The fruit is heavy on the trees, the mists have risen and are hanging like wraiths over the hills, the loud tourists have mostly gone home and the sheep are wandering the Marcite in peace.


The rain has brought my garden back to life, and we're having what I have called Italy's Second Spring, the September Spring, when the rain washes away all of late summer's dust and heat and pains, and the wildflowers burst back into a farewell bloom before they settle down for their winter sleep.





I had a funny thought as I was swimming to the surface this morning, "What if everyone were a gardener? What would the world look like then?"

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Keats


Today's musical selection, therefore, is the Pastoral Symphony.



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