* A couple of things

A quiet day today.  Did a couple of things I would like to share.  Completed a banner.  Really the first one I have done, except for my little bird cage experiment.  Don't have it strung together and not sure how I'm going to do that - however, here it is without it's hangers.

 

Also did a double page spread in my journal which is expanding nicely.

 

That's about it for today everyone.  Do hope you are having a nice weekend.  Thanks for stopping by to have a lookie-loo.  (I love saying that!)  xxoo Donna

I want to share excerpts about autumn by two of my favorite poets, Keats and Shelley.  As different as they were, they were part of a era, they were friends.  In London, I used to hang out at a very old pub on Hampstead Health called "The Spaniards Inn".  Keats, Shelley and Byron were among the group of poets who frequented the pub in days gone by.  I used to sink into  the layers of time in that place, and imagine them and their peers spending evenings perhaps in the same place we were sitting, or who knows, if time is only an illusion, perhaps they were sitting next to me.  :o) You know me ... always the romantic.

O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill;
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
Percy Bysshe Shelley

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-eves 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.
John Keats
Ode to Autumn.