Longfellow's October From The Poet's Calendar

I had shared a poem by Wadsworth in June, July, August, and September, and most of them really enjoyed reading of this beautiful poem of the month. These poems are from The Poet's Calendar by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Poet's Calendar is a compilation of Longfellow's set of twelve beautiful poems, each song describing and narrating the essence of each of the twelve months of the calendar year. So, here you have Longfellow's October:

My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves, 

Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed; 

I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves, 

O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside. 

Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, 

The dreamy air is full, and overflows 

With tender memories of the summer-tide, 

And mingled voices of the doves and crows.

October is a month of transition- with tender memories of the summer tide. And, soon we would see the onset of winter, and the beauty that it brings. If you want to read all the set of twelve songs, you can read it here: https://bit.ly/2YrS66R

Have a happy October!

A Jump In Joy

A jump, maybe a skip, 

slowly set in the motion.

But careful, don't you trip,

we don't want any commotion.

A sway and some slide,

and a big, carefree whirl.

But, beware as you glide-

the floor's slippery where you twirl.

But, what brings you such joy?

End of chores for the day?

Or a feeling that we enjoy

on a day without dismay?

No matter what, hold on to that song, 

and the jump, and the whirl-

for it, some days, you'll long

then you'll have some saved, my girl!

Through that careful, clever way

there'll be enough bundles of joy,

to be dancing through dismay,

the troughs, and all who annoy!

Kidnap Poem by Nikki Giovanni

Authors, poets, artists- they have their own way of seeing the world. They can bring out the most mundane observations of daily chores to vibrant life, or can transport you to new, unknown worlds that bring you joy beyond measure- all through the sway of their words. They can get your feet back on the ground, or send you shooting into the stars. They can send you to the mountains or the sea, or sometimes both. They can make you laugh in delight, or weep in distress. They can make you fall utterly in love with the world they create for you. And, have you wondered how it would be when you get kidnapped by a poet? Read this beautiful 'Kidnap Poem' by Nikki Giovanni, to know how it is to be kidnapped by one!

ever been kidnapped

by a poet

if i were a poet

i’d kidnap you

put you in my phrases and meter

you to jones beach

or maybe coney island

or maybe just to my house

lyric you in lilacs

dash you in the rain

blend into the beach

to complement my see

play the lyre for you

ode you with my love song

anything to win you

wrap you in red Black green

show you off to mama

yeah if i were a poet 

i’d kidnap you

I loved this one since I read it a couple of days ago! Every story, every novel, every poem we read actually does send us to a whole new world, and that is the best part about reading books and poems! Hope you enjoyed it, too! Let me know in the comments!

Candy Man by Roald Dahl

My brother and I love Roald Dahl. We have read all of his books ranging from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda, The BGF, James and the Giant Peach to The Twits, Esio Trot, and many more! 

One phrase- we love Dahl. He is one of the best children's author, and I till today love and enjoy his books. Another thing I loved is the illustrations by Quentin Blake. But, what I love more is the poems by Dahl. I have already shared a poem 'Television' by him. Here's another fun one on the Candy-Man Willy Wonka from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew

Cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two

The candy man, the candy man can

The candy man can 'cause he mixes it with love

And makes the world taste good

Who can take a rainbow, wrap it in a sigh

Soak it in the sun and make a strawberry–lemon pie

The candy man?

The candy man, the candy man can

The candy man can 'cause he mixes it with love

And makes the world taste good

Willy Wonka makes everything he bakes

Satisfying and delicious

Talk about your childhood wishes

You can even eat the dishes

Who can take tomorrow, dip it in a dream

Separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream

The candy man, Willy Wonka can, the candy man can

The candy man can 'cause he mixes it with love

And makes the world taste good

And the world tastes good'

Cause the candy man thinks it should!

Hope you enjoyed it! Which is your favourite book of Roald Dahl? Share it in the comments!

Longfellow's September From The Poet's Calendar

Delyea Art from Pinterest

I had shared a poem by Wadsworth in June, July, and August, and most of them really enjoyed reading of this beautiful poem of the month. These poems are from The Poet's Calendar by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Poet's Calendar is a compilation of Longfellow's set of twelve beautiful poems, each song describing and narrating the essence of each of the twelve months of the calendar year. So, here you have Longfellow's September:

I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise   

The night and day; and when unto my lips 

I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise   

Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships; 

The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips;   

Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing their flight; 

The hedges are all red with haws and hips,   

The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night.

A windy, pleasant month is what is September- where daytime equals nighttime, bringing a balance on the months on either side of it, a counter to the extremes. And yet again, like every month, September drowns us in its undeniable charm! 

If you want to read all the set of twelve songs, you can read it here: https://bit.ly/2YrS66R

Have a happy September!

'I Sit And Think' by Tolkien

There is no more need to establish what a huge, sincere fan of Tolkien I am. Tolkien has always been one of my most favourite authors since the time I picked up to read The Hobbit. A brilliant storyteller, Tolkien has a charm and style that is very unique to him. There's hardly a writer who can weave a fantasy the way he does. 

My top favourite poem of Tolkien has always been, and will always be, The Road Goes Ever On and On of which 'All that is gold does not glitter' is a part of! Here is the my second most favourite poem of this wonder author: 'I sit and think' - a poem where an old narrator contemplates on the past, present, and future, and sits and thinks. 

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall never see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.

Hope you enjoyed! If you're a fellow Tolkien fan, let me know your favourite poem in the comments!

A Natural

On tip top toe,
she smoothly slid-
on warm-black, wooden
floors, for figuring
a devilish dance
move.

A momentary
sway- unstable,
catastrophic to the eye,
showed her way
down.

Flat on the ground.
Leg twisted.
Back aching.
She got back up,
back to smoothly
sliding.

Up and down,
up and down,
over and again,
a repeated course,
until the body
sore.

Till- on warm-black, wooden
floors, figuring the
devilish dance move,
whirling pirouettes,
so graceful, so very
perfect.

On tip top toe,
she smoothly slid-
across the stage,
to a perfect click.
And, in the audience,
one said to another,
"Isn't she a natural?"
How right they were,
the audience can always place
one who doesn't
give up. A natural
fighter.

Tanmay: A Poetic Feature

Studying in the University has many perks, one of them being meeting interesting people with an abundance of talent. It is also the time all of us tend to work on ourselves, and explore what we have always wanted to do. Today, I have the pleasure of featuring a very talented poet, and a dear friend since the past three years from law school- Tanmay Raj Anand. 

It all started out as an interest in literature, with his mom introducing him to fiction since a young age, and the joy of fiction undoubtedly made a lasting impact. He wrote his first poem in the April of 2016, when the woes of figuring out a career post-schooldays were finally put to rest, and he found time to write. His first ever poem was one titled Trinkets on a Shelf, and that opened an array of windows for this young teen who found that there seemed to be the right words and ways in poetry to express the 'barrage' of emotions and experiences of a rebellious teenager. Tanmay says,

"The poems that I wrote then were not good, they were terrible actually. But I knew I could improve."

Well, I say, everything starts that way! Even this blog is a testament to that- you can see my growth as a writer, blogger, reader, thinker- all from scratch! And, today what I can say about Tanmay is that I truly believe his poetry will be a pleasant and nourishing discovery for all who read. 

Tanmay writes poetry for the sheer charm he feels by writing about his own experiences in lucid words. To him, poetry is a form of expression that can both heal troubled experiences and also help you grow. Everyone has their own mode of expressing and processing their emotions and thoughts. To me, it is writing. To Iah, it is music. And, to Tanmay, it is the evergreen art of poetry. 

"There’s also immense beauty and skill involved in making the banal things of daily life sound exciting, and I appreciate writers such as Henry Miller and Haruki Murakami for adding meaning in newer manners to routine stuff. Writing poetry thus becomes a form of meditation, it gives me a high, and the process of writing poems is so lucid, intoxicating, fleeting and limited- and, I let it possess me for that short amount of time just so that I can feel the satisfaction of a poem well written."

It is the thought and perspective of this budding poet that his poems mirror his own growth, and I couldn't agree with them more. Tanmay's command over the language and the ability to string words that are poetically admirable are absolutely impressive, to the say the least. 

The young poet is an ardent admirer of Charles Bukowski, and is quick to dole out his name to others when asked to suggest a poet who can incite the love for poetry in someone who isn't at all much exposed to poetry. What he most loves about Bukowski is the poet's realistic and unapologetic style of writing. 

"I’d tell anyone to read Bukowski as he really changed the game."

He also suggests Freedom of Love by André Breton, You by Tom Clark, Blocks by Frank O’Hara, and The Liberator by Emily Holmes Coleman, and poems of Sylvia Plath.

Although Tanmay doesn't have a particular 'goal' or contribution in mind for his poetry, what he does wish is for other people to read and remember him for his poems. Words are truly immortal, and there is no better way to remember a person than for what they do passionately! And, I think Tanmay's poetry are sure to strike an impressive chord in terms of languages and exploration of themes! 

Talking of themes, my dear friend has been on a full-on experience writing surrealist poetry. His favourite poem amongst what he has written happens to be one titled Automated #1 that was written using a very popular technique of surrealist writing called “psychic automation”. It involves writing down your thoughts quickly without necessarily editing them immediately, and moving on to the next thought as fast as possible. 

"Automated #1 turned out to beg much better than i had expected from the technique. It was replete with images and had layers of deeper meaning and a logical flow to it which came about naturally rather than through editing."

Tanmay has been featured in Bitter Fruit Review’s Summer Edition 2020, and also on Fitoor Open Mic. He has also recently started his blog 'minutes of my heart', as a sincere attempt to write more regularly. It features his thoughts on random things that cross his mind including philosophical musings, music, experiences, and sometimes poetry- all written in a short, sweet, and fun-to-read way.

Apart from poetry, our friend here is an avid reader, who likes to also sketch, and is now trying to foray back into exploring music again, having acquired a pair of bongos recently! Do check him out on Instagram @tanmayay where he regularly puts up his poetry. I can assure you they are a pleasure to read!

Tanmay is very dear friend, and I'm proud and happy that I can introduce his talent to a wider audience!

Longfellow's August From The Poet's Calendar

I had shared a poem by Wadsworth in June and July, and many enjoyed the well-time reading of his beautiful poetry. These poems are from The Poet's Calendar by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Poet's Calendar is a compilation of Longfellow's set of twelve beautiful poems, each song describing and narrating the essence of each of the twelve months of the calendar year. So, here you have Longfellow's August:

The Emperor Octavian, called the August,   

I being his favorite, bestowed his name 

Upon me, and I hold it still in trust,   

In memory of him and of his fame. 

I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame   

Burns less intensely than the Lion's rage; 

Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim   

The golden Harvests as my heritage.

August leaves the temper and rage of the fiery lion that July presents, and has fairly transitioned into a less intense, vestal flame. The sheaves really do make the most wondrous garland after the golden harvests. And yet again, like every month, August has it's own Octavian charm. If you want to read all the set of twelve songs, you can read it here: https://bit.ly/2YrS66R

Have a happy August!

Clothesline by Charlotte Druitt Cole

Washing clothes is a necessary part of all our lives, and so is hanging them to dry on the clothesline. They are a thing of daily observation to many of us. Here is a poem by Charlotte Druitt Cole- a sweet one that brings us a well-known picture of the clothesline from a cheery angle. 

We had this poem in school as a part of English classes, and we had to recite it without looking for our internals. I still remember every word of it, and tried to write it from memory (verified it later, though). Poems like these- simple, in observation and in rhyme- stay with us forever.

Hand in hand they dance in a row,
Hither and thither, and to and fro,
Flip! Flap! Flop! and away they go—
Flutt’ring creatures as white as snow,
Like restive horses they caper and prance;
Like fairy-tale witches they wildly dance;
Rounded in front, but hollow behind,
They shiver and skip in the merry March wind.
One I saw dancing excitedly,
Struggling so wildly till she was free,
Then, leaving pegs and clothes-line behind her,
She flew like a bird, and no one can find her.
I saw her gleam, like a sail, in the sun,
Flipping and flapping and flopping for fun.
Nobody knows where she now can be,
Hid in a ditch, or drowned in the sea.
She was my handkerchief not long ago,
But she’ll never come back to my pocket, I know.

I also remember that this was the first time we were introduced to alliterations as a figure of speech, for the phrase 'flipping and flapping and flopping for fun'. Alliterations were an instant hit with students, and we constantly tried to make alliterations in posters and other projects to make them sound more catchy. I think that is why grammar was always introduced to us through poetry or a story. Long after it is gone, we still remember what we learnt and why. 

Hope you liked the poem! Do you distinctly remember anything you learnt in school that you can still reproduce? Share your story in the comments!

Coelho In Alchemist, And Tagore In His Poetry: On Where The Treasure Is

Time and again, through books and poems, and old tales that people narrate to others, there is one constant theme- finding your treasure of happiness. People seek things, and where do they end up finding what they seek for? Many philosophers, authors, poets, thinkers have shared profound tales of their experiences spun in a creative lesson for us all, hidden in their stories and poems. 

Alchemist by Paulo Coelho follows Santiago, a sixteen year old boy, looking for his treasure. The novel takes you through his highs and lows, and his desperate search as he travels far and wide, only leading him to the truth that the treasure he sought had always been with him- back at home, with himself. It captures a journey of self-realization, and drops the truth that what you seek is always with you, in your home. And, that is where true happiness lies. 

When Satyajit Ray, the Oscar winning Bengali filmmaker and one of the greatest we have seen, was a young boy, he approached Rabindranath Tagore with a piece of paper to get the legendary poet's autograph. What Ray got along with the autograph was a small, yet significant poem with a hidden message for life itself. Here is a translated version of that poem:

I have travelled miles, for many a year,

I have spent a lot in lands afar,

I've gone to see the mountains,

and the oceans I've been to view.

But, I haven't seen with these eyes,

just two steps from my home lies,

on a sheaf of paddy grain,

a glistening drop of dew. 

Every inspiration, every treasure, and all the happiness we seek is always with us- as these timeless books and poems tell us. But, it seems like we have to go around to other places before we realize that and find it, justifying the well-quoted phrase: "experience is the only source of knowledge"!

Elizabeth Gilbert: in The Universe in Verse

Today, I was going through a few poetry recitals of the 2020 Universe in Verse. One of the recitals that I listened to was by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of several books including Eat, Pray, Love (that was also made into a popular film later starring Julia Roberts), and she read Ursa Major by James Kirkup. I really enjoyed her recital of this poem. 

We all wonder at the cosmic miracles, and the endless awe it brings us. Not long ago I felt myself reminiscing on these wondrous diamonds in the sky. Fresh from such nostalgic memories, listening to Ursa Major as Kirkup explores it's beauty and significance through his bewitching poem, I wanted to share this lovely discovery with you all. Here's the poem for your reading:

Slung between the homely poplars at the end

of the familiar avenue, the Great

Bear in its lighted hammock swings,

like a neglected gate that neither bars admission nor invites,

hangs on the sagging pole its seven-pointed shape.

Drawn with the precision of an unknown problem

solved n the topmost classroom of the empty sky,

it demonstrates upon the inky blackboard of the night’s

immeasurable finity the focal point of light.

For though the pointers seem to indicate the pole,

each star looks through us into outer space

from where the sun that burns behind and past us

animates immediately each barren, crystal face

with ravaged brilliance, that our eyes

must lean out into time to catch, and die in seeing.

Since an embed was available for the same on Brainpickings, you can listen to Elizabeth Gilbert's lovely reading here:

If you want to read more about this, do check out the post on this on Brainpickings. It's a beautiful blog, and one that will stay my favourite, do subscribe to it if you are interested across topics like science, art, literature, poetry, philosophy, and would like to discover treasures- both contemporary and old ones. Happy reading!

Longfellow's July From The Poet's Calendar

I had shared a poem by Wadsworth on June last month, and many friends reached out and told me it was a nice post, and they enjoyed it. These poems are from The Poet's Calendar by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Poet's Calendar is a compilation of Longfellow's set of twelve beautiful poems, each song describing and narrating the essence of each of the twelve months of the calendar year. Since many seemed to have enjoyed, I wanted to put up the excerpt of the relevant poems for all the rest of the months this year! So, here you have Longfellow's July:

My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe   

The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the land; 

My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe,   

And bent before me the pale harvests stand. 

The lakes and rivers shrink at my command,   

And there is thirst and fever in the air; 

The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand;   

I am the Emperor whose name I bear.

July is definitely a month of transition, and not as fair as the lovely June. Yet, every month has it's own beauty. If you want to read all the set of twelve songs, you can read it here: https://bit.ly/2YrS66R

Have a happy July!

Silence

Silence. 

Defined to be 

a complete absence 

of sound. 

And yet, 

silence can speak a thousand words, 

silence can be deafening. 

Silence can be voluntary,
silence can be forced. 

Silence- sometimes appreciated, 

and at some other times, condemned. 

Silence is sometimes a necessity, 

while in some other you are expected not to be. 

Silence sometimes has a rhythm, 

and yet sometimes is a chaotic disaster. 

Silence can make you calm, 

and yet drive you mad.
Silence is sometimes peace,
and sometimes the very opposite.

Silence can be a noiseless place,

and sometimes be the midst of noise.

Can one experience have so many facets to it?

Silence.

One of the most intriguing- 

of all the sounds we hear. 

Yet there is never complete silence, 

there is always your breath and mine.

Longfellow on 'Old Age'

Old age is something inevitable for all of us. Today, I read this piece by Wadsworth on Old Age from my collection- The Complete Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Since I liked it very much, I wanted to share this beautiful piece with you all. So, here you go:

The course of my long life hath reached at last,
In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea,
The common harbor, where must rendered be
Account of all the actions of the past.
The impassioned phantasy, that, vague and vast,
Made art an idol and a king to me,
Was an illusion, and but vanity
Were the desires that lured me and harassed.
The dreams of love, that were so sweet of yore,
What are they now, when two deaths may be mine,—
One sure, and one forecasting its alarms?
Painting and sculpture satisfy no more
The soul now turning to the Love Divine,
That oped, to embrace us, on the cross its arms.

Hope you enjoyed it!

Fancy Places

Enter a restaurant, and you find a seat-
a happy corner, candlelight retreat.
A bowing waiter hands over a sheet,
of numerous cuisines of dishes and treat.
One hasty glance and confusion you meet-
as your eyes skim the letters, styled in Greek,
of dishes unknown- neither heard, nor seen.
And lo, the waiter is back- with a smile so keen
to take your order from the menu umpteen.
Another skim, hasty and incomplete,
you search what to have, your mind in a reel.
Page after page you take an off-handed peek,
as you look for something familiar to eat.
And finally you say Gnocchi- your voice all meek,
in a demure of under-confidence, making it weak.
Sure ma'am, says the waiter, his smile ever sweet,
the way he was trained to meet and greet,
as he retires in grace with the order sheet.
Why fancy this place? - you think of a need
that makes you go to restaurants well heeled,
when you have your kitchen- hot food, in peace.
Is it the pride on the fancy prestige?
You tell yourself: don't bother, please!

Longfellow's June From The Poet's Calendar

Well into two weeks of June, and we are barely two weeks away from crossing half way mark through yet another year! So, to lighten up our June: here's an excerpt from The Poet's Calendar by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Poet's Calendar is a compilation of Longfellow's set of twelve beautiful poems, each song describing and narrating the essence of each of the twelve months of the calendar year.

Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine  The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights 

And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine,   

The foliage of the valleys and the heights. 

Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights;   

The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; 

I am the mother of all dear delights;   

I am the fairest daughter of the year.

It is indeed the month of the longest days and the loveliest nights! If you want to read all the set of twelve songs, you can read it here: https://bit.ly/2YrS66R

Have a happy June! 

Frayed, Yet Fond

Frayed, unkempt, seeming like a debris,

beaten and worn out from usage umpteen.

Tensed strands clenching on to save the free-

flying offcut; an unending attempt to keep.

Farther down my piece, another hole-

visible nibbles of yet another moth. 

Save me, before it eats me whole 

and I get thrown out without a thought.

Cool comfort you sought, and give- I did,

Now I need your thought and wit.

Without a thought? Parting hurts, 

such a loyal t-shirt I was! 

Save me, before situation asserts 

that I be thrown away to rot
-your closest since seventh class.
Remember, I may be frayed- but I was
fondest among the fond!

"I beg you- please, play me fair!"

My close friend, from school, and I were not really people who tensed up before an exam. In fact, we had a chilled out policy- if you studied there's nothing to worry about, if you didn't there's definitely nothing to worry about! So, we always took the exam in a very relaxed manner, and mostly never discussed the paper after the exam, because why trouble yourself realizing your mistakes! And, we had a standard reply at home. 

How did the Maths test go? It went great.

How did the Science test go? It went great.

How did the Social test go? It went great. 

And, English?  Great, of course. 

My brother was worse. If my mom asked him how he wrote his paper, he'd reply 'using my pen/hand'. So, there was never a debate about anything until the scores came, and then it was a one-hour talk till the report card went back to the teacher (hehehe).

During our Class XII was the first ever time we felt a little that we must be pretty serious about studying, and that too for around three months from January of the Board year, because if we didn't get through a competitive exam then the score would matter. But, once again, when I entered the University, I went back to the 'chill-policy'. I make a point to plan and study (like I talked about in my post on 5 things that help me in college), but I never get tensed. 

On this note, here's a fun poem by my close friend, Priyanka, that she wrote during our high school!

Every day we inch closer,

Thinking 'bout you 

makes my heart beat faster,

Just your name makes me jittery all over,

O Lord! Make the evening go slower!

You- I badly wanna forget,

But only stronger and stronger

in my thoughts you get, 

I beg you- please, play me fair,

Annuals, you are giving me a scare!

And, for a lot of people, exams do give a scare. It's nature to some people to get worried, but it can be consciously toned down by practice and an aware decision to try to stay cool whatever happens. However, this in no way means that you can fool yourself to think the scores will be fine, because they can't be fine unless you worked enough to deserve them. But there is only so much you can do on the day of the exam or one day before, and that is to stay calm and cool. Wrap up your books, have your meal, drink water, chill and write to the best of what you know. If not the results, at least your mind and experience through your exam will be much better!

Also, check out this cute fan-poem we wrote as we resided in the world of Harry Potter around Class VII: If you go to Hogwarts... School and school friends bring way too many happy memories for me!

The Bald Cavalier

Today, I rediscovered a wonderful, wonderful, poem that we were taught in Class V from my treasure trove of chaotic notes. A simple one, yet one that makes you smile! I had to share it! The author of the poem is unknown, but the poem was titled 'The Bald Cavalier' in our poetry textbook. Happy reading!

When periwigs came first in wear,

Their use was to supply

And cover the bald pate with hair,

To keep it warm and dry.

For this good end, our Cavalier

Determined one to buy,

Which did so natural appear

That it deceived the eye.

But riding out one windy day,

Behold! a sudden squall

Soon blew his feathered hat away,

And periwig and all.

He joined the laugh with noddle bare,

And sang in concert tone,

"How should I save another's hair,

Who could not keep my own?"

To take upon oneself a joke,

Good humour shows and wit,

Which may a second laugh provoke,

And leave the biter bit.

The moral is such an important one, and it is necessary in life 'to leave the biter bit'. I remember how much I loved it when I was taught this, and reading this today made me smile doubly wide- thanks to the lovely poem and the memories it brings!

I hope you enjoyed the poem!