A Summer Of Love… Part 1

So… here we are, it is 2007, and it is a Summer Of Love. Not in San Francisco this time, but here in Portland. Surrounded by friends, family and our communities, physical and virtual. It all is the same thing isn’t it?
Love is the lubricant that keeps the world turning, the universe changing, and life renewing. Love is the secret ingredient to every mystery, joy, and moment.
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
On The Menu:

Young Eildon Visits Caer Llwydd/ & a bit of Wordsworth

Rowan & Syzygy

Keats Poetry…

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Young Eildon
I am in love with my Adopted-Grandson, Eildon. He is the light of many an eye! He is the son of Catherine, my Nephew Andrew’s partner. Andrew stepped up to the plate, and became Eildon’s Adopted Dad. He is a Love our Andrew is…
Here is a nice shot of Catherine and Eildon, on their visit to us last weekend…

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing Boy,

But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,

He sees it in his joy;

The Youth, who daily farther from the east

Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the Man perceives it die away,

And fade into the light of common day.

(Wordsworth – INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD)

Eildon and Gwyllm. Looked into a babies eyes lately? I recommend it. Stars, Space, Clouds of Glory…

Another one!

And another! Eildon suspects that mustaches are actually caterpillars…

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Our son Rowan and Syzygy…

Rowan and Syzygy have been together for a month.

They are new at the whole relationship thing, but they seem to be a very good match.
She is very much into Science, and well Rowan is a poet by nature…
See? Love is Blooming Everywhere! 8o)

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A Bit Of Keats….

The Human Seasons….
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;

There are four seasons in the mind of man:

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously

Spring’s honied cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high

Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings

He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists in idleness–to let fair things

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,

Or else he would forego his mortal nature.


To Hope
When by my solitary hearth I sit,

And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;

When no fair dreams before my “mind’s eye” flit,

And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;

Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!
Whene’er I wander, at the fall of night,

Where woven boughs shut out the moon’s bright ray,

Should sad Despondency my musings fright,

And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,

Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,

And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!
Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,

Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;

When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,

Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:

Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,

And fright him as the morning frightens night!
Whene’er the fate of those I hold most dear

Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,

O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer;

Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:

Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!
Should e’er unhappy love my bosom pain,

From cruel parents, or relentless fair;

O let me think it is not quite in vain

To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!

Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!
In the long vista of the years to roll,

Let me not see our country’s honour fade:

O let me see our land retain her soul,

Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom’s shade.

From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed

Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!
Let me not see the patriot’s high bequest,

Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!

With the base purple of a court oppress’d,

Bowing her head, and ready to expire:

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings

That fill the skies with silver glitterings!
And as, in sparkling majesty, a star

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;

Brightening the half veil’d face of heaven afar:

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,

Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,

Waving thy silver pinions o’er my head!


On The Grasshopper And Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

That is the Grasshopper’s–he takes the lead

In summer luxury,–he has never done

With his delights; for when tired out with fun

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

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