ForumGarden

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thou express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

BUGGER!!!

No lofty Grecian Urn - go down much lower

I'm being monstered by a durned leaf blower



Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter. Therefore when from sleep I rise

Blasted right off my pillow! Oh my word

And what's the sorry sight that meets my eyes

Fair youth beneath the trees I'd like to shove

Thy noise right up thine ass - that would be fair

Bold gardener never more then willst thou blow

Thy leaves at me a thousand decibel

Or more are just too much I'll have thee know

The reason thou shallst rot away in hell

In fact I think I never hurder

Better reason for a murder

:wah:

Thy cloven manhood of desire

bereft of charm and grace

with clutter and disorder swirl amongst this long since fallen place

The eddy of the crisp and sodden, rotting debris roils

and quietly it lands, stomped flat against the green,

the gardener must up and rake and gather all the autumn spoils

No decibel can haste the work that nature takes her time

When muscled guns would shoot and gust and waken sleeping leaves

Leave lie the work of previous Oak and Mighty Elm and Lime

Whispish silence carries Fall to enter drawing nights

No need to steal what lies to fade and mingle with the earth

White blankets hide the curled and yellowed drop to feed the springtime sights

Methinks, sometimes,

Thou must only dance.