Tales of a British expat transplanted into the lush Tennessee countryside.
Lover of old, time-worn, and antique.
Tea-drinker, flower-grower, animal-lover.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
And when the winds moan wildly, When the woods are bare and brown And when the swallow’s clay-built nest From the rafter crumbles down; When all the untrod garden-paths Are heaped with frozen leaves, And icicles, like silver spikes, Are set along the eaves;
Verse from: The Old Homestead by Alice Cary, From Friends’ Intelligencer, Volume XXV, Philadelphia, 1869