![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4bDGlbtYzEgyE467_v0jL1ozmoQfSfdgrzKucRp3TO_EWv95q8L6LZnmrdlsn2q4obMzzaKj2tiEsDTK8FM2RgrGjAKtsWZSUPKVqNfh_siu088vAIFdW3t45aoFiInmWtQg3R-HFQuE/s400/2815_188944350299_784430299_6649473_6631221_n.jpg)
The delectable names of harsh places:
Cilicia Aspera, Estremadura.
In that smooth wave of cello-sound, Mojave,
We hear no ill of brittle parch and glare.
.
So late October's pasture-fringe,
With aster-blur and ferns of toasted gold,
Invites to barrens where the crop to come
Is stone prized upward by the deepening freeze.
.
Speechless and cold the stars arise
On the small garden where we have dominion.
Yet in three tongues we speak of Taurus' name
And of Aldebaran and the Hyades,
.
Recalling what at best we know,
That there is beauty bleak and far from ours,
Great reaches where the Lord's delighting mind,
Though not inhuman, ponders other things.
No comments:
Post a Comment