Monday, December 31, 2012


It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

By artist Grant Wood.

Text source.


Goneferalinidaho said...

Merry New Year to you and yours! It is only 7:42PM here and I doubt I'll make it to midnight.

Rot said...

We didn't make it to midnight.
Then some clown lit off fireworks in the neighborhood. Huge ones.

You know you're getting old when you mumble "I hope one of them hits his house."

Happy New Year!

Anonymous said...

That poem described the feeling of last night. I was up till about 2:00am, and it was an eeriely quiet night.

Felt good.

Ragged Grin said...

Your neighbors relative was setting them off in my neighborhood that night, my jaded children looked lazily toward the windows, shook their heads and them the youngest one suggested we turn off Seacrest and throw in Trick r Treat, it was a good night. So proud.