Eery Weather

It was an eery morning here in DC. Windy, sunny, cloudy, patches of rain. And then, for ten seconds, it sleated. Or was that snow? Now the sun is coming out, shining and sparkling through the office buildings, and the temperature is rising. What time of year is it again?

Last night it was warm, around 50 degrees. We even turned on the air conditioner.

But, I wanted it to be cold, bitter cold. I wanted to curl up by a fire, sip hot chocolate, and read a book. I wanted it to snow and for us to be stranded inside. My sister called from Massachusetts the other morning, school had been cancelled due to a massive snow storm. No snow here, just warm weather in the middle of January!

This weather is somewhat unnerving. Too hot for stews and soups, but not warm enough for salads and fruit. Tim and I are not sure if we are to clean off our porch furniture, or hunker down for a big snowstorm. As Longfellow suggests, it is a restless feeling at the end of the day, not a fervent summer's eve or a tranquil winter's night.

The Day Is Done
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.