June 1st

"What is so rare as a day in June?" asks poet James Russell Lowell in his 1848 poem, "The Vision of Sir Launfal." June 2012 began as a gray day with spits of light rain. Severe weather was predicted for the afternoon by both weather forecasters and the ants. I noticed this morning that the anthills were unusually high, so I figured the forecasters might be right. 

We had heavy rain in the afternoon, followed by a few more gully washers in the evening in which heaven did indeed try the earth. Here are some pictures of the last storm:

Clouds rolled in from the south.

The heavy clouds headed for Smith Mountain.

But two hours after the storm, a rainbow appeared at the end of my driveway. It's rare here to see a rainbow this bright.

I took a lot of pictures of the rainbow. It was actually a double one.

After the rainbow came a spectacular sunset.

I wonder if the rest of the June days are going to be a spectacular as this one?

I read first read Lowell's poem when I was a ninth grader. His imagery, like today's weather, is pretty spectacular. Here's the June part of it:

What is So Rare As a Day in June

by James Russell Lowell

AND what is so rare as a day in June?
      Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
     And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
     An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
     Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
     Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
     The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
     To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
     Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
     With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,
     And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
     Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
     The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
     That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For our couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,
     And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,
     Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
     Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,
     'Tis for the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
     In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
     The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
     And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
     Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.


~

Certain Slants of Light

After a night and a day of much-needed rain, the sun came out this evening. The sky was golden beyond Jack's Mountain.


The sunset below the clouds reminded me of Emily Dickinson' s poem, "A Certain Slant of Light."

There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.

None may teach it anything,
'Tis the seal, despair,-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 't is like the distance
On the look of death.

The above view is Smith Mountain, northeast of my house. The shaft of light from the setting sun made part of the mountain almost glow.

The eastern sky behind my pin oak looked like a sunrise. Looks can be deceiving.

Internal difference—where the meanings are.

~

Walking in a Winter Wooded Land

Woods in Winter
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.

Yesterday, we walked the woods. (OK, my "solemn feet" limped the woods. Again, my aches predicted today's weather.) We didn't encounter icicles or winds; unlike the day Longfellow describes in his poem, our day was mild.

Maggie ran flat out, pausing only to soak in the creek. For Christmas, a neighbor had given Maggie a new toy which she absolutely loved—sort of a squeaky toy squirrel on a rope. Maggie could chase it, pounce on it, play tug-of-war with it, throw it, etc. A perfect border collie toy! Maggie really wanted to take it on her walk—er, run—but I persuaded her to leave it in the truck while we walked the woods.

There is a beauty to winter woods: a wonderful starkness, an enchanted look. Longfellow's description does it more justice than my words can. This picture, taken yesterday, looks like a scene from fantasy, science fiction, or speculative fiction or poetry:

(This is for you, 'Nita! You know exactly where this shot was taken.)

From behind the vine, Maggie's eyes glow—an enchanted dog in an enchanted winter wood.

Longfellow's poem was written in the 1800's. To read James Thomson's 1726 poem about winter, click here. Warning, it's lengthy—but I love the last line: Pure flowing Joy, and Happiness sincere.

That's yesterday's walk in the winter woods.

Dawning Poetic

Yesterday's morning sky provided some spectacular images.

Yesterday's dawn brings to mind a poem by G. F. Scott.

"Dawn"

THE immortal spirit hath no bars
To circumscribe its dwelling place;
My soul hath pastured with the stars
Upon the meadow-lands of space.

My mind and ear at times have caught,
From realms beyond our mortal reach,
The utterance of Eternal Thought
Of which all nature is the speech.

And high above the seas and lands,
On peaks just tipped with morning light,
My dauntless spirit mutely stands
With eagle wings outspread for flight.
—Frederick George Scott (1861 - 1944)

Moments later, the sun rose:

From “Sunrise”

. . . . . . . . . . . .
So tell me, rising Sun, I pray,
What are you bringing me to-day?

What shall this busy brain have thought,
What shall these hands and feet have wrought,
What sorrows shall the hours have brought,

Before thy brilliant course is run,
Before this new-born day is done,
Before you set, O rising Sun?
—Frederick George Scott (1861 - 1944)

Later, for a few minutes in the morning, the clouds looked like this:

These clouds aren't "mean," but they're low and unusual.
Emily Dickinson's poem sort of fits.

"The Sky is low -- the Clouds are mean"

The Sky is low -- the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go --

A Narrow Wind complains all Day
How some one treated him
Nature, like Us is sometimes caught
Without her Diadem.
—Emily Dickinson

~