Sweet dreams

A Thing of Beauty
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; 
but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. 
Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rillsT
hat for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
John Keats


Phew - almost a scorcher! The sun shone, the socks came off and most of the day was spent in the garden. Beds have been dug, creeping buttercup and bog grass jettisoned and little pathways revealed.

I'm impressed how many different daffs have popped up with year, mostly now finishing but still things of beauty and delight. This pix features four different species.

I'm worried about the foxes though. Fergal has a sore eye and Fineen's rump looks ghastly inspite of me sneaking her arnica in some food, and anointing her with mite medicine.  I don't think it's mange, more like wounds. The stress!

And it's still light - 8pm.