On Sep 29, 6:58 am, "Christina Websell"
 wrote:
> "Ishvara"  wrote in message
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> news:h9kkap$nu9$1@aioe.org...
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> > Harvest
>
> > So there's my year, the twelvemonth duly told
> > Since last I climbed this brow and gloated round
> > Upon the lands heaped with their wheaten gold,
> > And now again they spread with wealth imbrowned -
> > And thriftless I meanwhile,
> > What honeycombs have I to take, what sheaves to pile?
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> > I see some shrivelled fruits upon my tree,
> > And gladly would self-kindness feign them sweet;
> > The bloom smelled heavenly, can these stragglers be
> > The fruit of that bright birth and this wry wheat,
> > Can this be from those spires
> > Which I, or fancy, saw leap to the spring sun's fires?
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> > I peer, I count, but anxious is not rich,
> > My harvest is not come, the weeds run high;
> > Even poison-berries, ramping from the ditch
> > Have stormed the undefended ridges by;
> > What Michaelmas is mine!
> > The fields I sought to serve, for sturdier tillage pine.
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> > But hush - Earth's valleys sweet in leisure lie;
> > And I among them wandering up and down
> > Will taste their berries, like the bird or fly,
> > And of their gleanings make both feast and crown.
> > The Sun's eye laughing looks.
> > And Earth accuses none that goes among her stooks.
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> > (Edmund Blunden)
>
> Damn.  I hoped you'd written it yourself.
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> Lovely.- Hide quoted text -
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> - Show quoted text -

Fickle woman. You used to call me Lovely.