[JustAmy]

The Pumpkin Seed

It seems like such a tiny place, how could we all fit in?
Who knows? Let’s all just climb aboard, and take it for a spin.
This isn’t just a cottage. It’s a magic place indeed.
Who would have thought that pumpkin could have been inside a seed?

When you enter Amy’s Place, it’s bigger in than out,
So step inside but don’t forget to give your friends a shout.
The more we have attending here, the bigger it will get,
So just keep right on piling in, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . . . . . . . May 3, 2004
© 2004 - 2011

It is great seeing new faces at Amy's Place. Your graphics have been wonderful.

I want to welcome you to our little place.
Whether you share graphics, poetry, comments, prayers, jokes, or
memories, we love having you here.

Wishing everyone a delightful day.

[JustAmy]

Dear Dubya, you have been in my thought and prayers.

I'm looking forward to your return.
I miss the smiles and insight you share with us.

Prayers being offered for complete healing.

God Bless you!!

[DeoVindiceSicSemperTyrannis]

"To Autumn"
By John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

[DeoVindiceSicSemperTyrannis]

More fall pics: The Smokey Mountains