All Hallow's Eve.
John Evelyn born 1620.
Christopher Anstey born 1724.
Ere, in the northern gale
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.
The mountains that unfold,
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.
Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed
Forever in thy colored shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft southwest
To rove and dream for aye;
And leave the vain low strife
That makes men mad; the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.
--William Cullen Bryant.
Let the field exult, and all that is therein; Then shall all the
trees of the wood sing for joy.
--Psalm 96. 12.
My Father, may I have an appreciation of the wonderful creations of
the earth. Give me a discriminating eye, that I may know the precious
things that thou art growing; and throughout my life may I love the
beautiful, and choose that which will make my life worthy of growth.
Amen.