Fri, 01 Feb 2008 11:20:11 GMT

Today at dawn, the sun in Little Aristasia rose over my dippy cousin, my half-baked sister, and I.

What in the world did I do, you may ask, to end up practically buried in bouncy little blonde clotheshorses like those two? ... I suppose I'm just lucky.

The Garden by Moonlight, by Amy Lowell

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 13:47:27 GMT

A black cat among roses,
Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon,
The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock.
The garden is very still,
It is dazed with moonlight,
Contented with perfume,
Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies.
Firefly lights open and vanish
High as the tip buds of the golden glow
Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet.
Moon-shimmer on leaves and trellises,
Moon-spikes shafting through the snowball bush.
Only the little faces of the ladies' delight are alert and staring,
Only the cat, padding between the roses,
Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern
As water is broken by the falling of a leaf.
Then you come,
And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.
Ah, beloved, do you see those orange lilies?
They knew my mother,
But who belonging to me will they know
When I am gone?

Miss Calista Elytis

The Garden by Moonlight, by Amy Lowell