"This is a fruit of every season which carries the scent of its travels..."
My grandfather often repeated this little phrase to me when he was talking about his clouds. He has the best collection
...
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One brisk, yet warm November day
I paused, set down my rake,
And took a moment to look upon
The quiet, sleeping lake.
Its face was still and smooth as glass
As far as I could see,
And not a soul was there to watch,
Not one, apart from me.
I stood there silent, calm, at peace
Until the moment passed,
Then stooped to take back up my rake
And turn back to my task.
I know not long I lingered there,
Upon that rocky shore,
But oh, how I wish I could return
And linger there some more.
I paused, set down my rake,
And took a moment to look upon
The quiet, sleeping lake.
Its face was still and smooth as glass
As far as I could see,
And not a soul was there to watch,
Not one, apart from me.
I stood there silent, calm, at peace
Until the moment passed,
Then stooped to take back up my rake
And turn back to my task.
I know not long I lingered there,
Upon that rocky shore,
But oh, how I wish I could return
And linger there some more.