#ruby archer

Inspiration

How the composer thrills, when softly glides Across the waiting soul's attuned lyre An unthought melody, and there abides; Or when some lovely form, a dream half hides, Reveals itself, how glows the sculptor's heart of fire!

The rambling old downy birch tree, like most of the other trees in the area, had suffered badly in storm Floris at the beginning of August, and all its beautiful green leaves had turned dry and brown long before the end of their natural life.

Algy was especially sorry about the birch, because in previous years he had often enjoyed the glowing autumn colours of this particular tree well into October, but this year there was sadly very little left to glow.

However, on a quintessential September day, in which a rapid succession of sudden showers from fast-moving, ominous clouds was interspersed with very much brighter intervals, there were some brief but glorious moments when the rain and sun decided to confront each other, resulting in a beautiful if ephemeral show of dramatic light and colour, despite the woeful lack of leaves.

So, in one such moment, Algy hopped up into the branches of the venerable birch tree and faced the sun, which by then was sinking low in the west, while another torrential shower swept in from across the ocean. The experience was decidedly drenching, but also delightful, and as his fluffy feathers began to drip, drip, drip, Algy thought:

Come and marvel at the sunset! Lo—a storm is brooding near,— All the thirsty world imploring, In a mood akin to fear. Like a beaker in her fingers Holds the world the valley high, Mountain-lipped and cañon-hearted, To the largess of the sky. But the sky, capricious ever, Hides the storm unbroken still; And the pallid, sun-born nectar Doth the beaker brimming fill. See the weirdly golden essence Lurk along, the shades between, 'Till it drowns and rolls above them In triumphant glare of sheen.

Like a beaker in her fingers Holds the world the valley high, Mountain-lipped and cañon-hearted, To the largess of the sky.

But the sky, capricious ever, Hides the storm unbroken still; And the pallid, sun-born nectar Doth the beaker brimming fill.

See the weirdly golden essence Lurk along, the shades between, 'Till it drowns and rolls above them In triumphant glare of sheen.

Two Dials

You came, and it was morning; You went, and it was night. A dial measured in my heart One little day's delight.

Two Dials

You came, and it was morning; You went, and it was night. A dial measured in my heart One little day's delight.

The Rose