Nevermore

In memory of Edgar Allan Poe

An American In The UK

If you’ve ever needed or wanted a detailed breakdown of the key cultural differences between us Brits and our American cousins (over and above a Cheeky Nando’s), look no further.

Sixty-six-year-old Scott Waters visited our green and pleasant land – well, Redruth, Cornwall, mainly – this summer, and on his return, he helpfully listed all the cultural differences he encountered in a hilariously random Facebook post.

The post – which admittedly goes on a bit, but then he does have to translate for his American audience – has now been liked almost 80,000 times and shared over 50,000.

( Scott Walters' Observation )

Original Link HERE

National Poetry Day - Anna Barbauld: Autumn

A FRAGMENT

Farewell the softer hours, Spring's opening blush
And Summer's deeper glow, the shepherd's pipe
Tuned to the murmurs of a weeping spring,
And song of birds, and gay enameled fields,—
Farewell! 'T is now the sickness of the year,
Not to be medicined by the skillful hand.
Pale suns arise that like weak kings behold
Their predecessor's empire moulder from them;
While swift-increasing spreads the black domain
Of melancholy Night;—no more content
With equal sway, her stretching shadows gain
On the bright morn, and cloud the evening sky.
Farewell the careless lingering walk at eve,
Sweet with the breath of kine and new-spread hay;
And slumber on a bank, where the lulled youth,
His head on flowers, delicious languor feels
Creep in the blood. A different season now
Invites a different song. The naked trees
Admit the tempest; rent is Nature's robe;
Fast, fast, the blush of Summer fades away
From her wan cheek, and scarce a flower remains
To deck her bosom; Winter follows close,
Pressing impatient on, and with rude breath
Fans her discoloured tresses. Yet not all
Of grace and beauty from the falling year
Is torn ungenial. Still the taper fir
Lifts its green spire, and the dark holly edged
With gold, and many a strong perennial plant,
Yet cheer the waste: nor does yon knot of oaks
Resign its honours to the infant blast.
This is the time, and these the solemn walks,
When inspiration rushes o'er the soul
Sudden, as through the grove the rustling breeze.