End of harvest

So I will build my altars in the field,
And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields,
Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,
Thee only God!

– To Nature by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

litterthoughts/farmdreams

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Little Fears

Tales of whimsy, humor and courgettes

unbolt me

the literary asylum

The Bipolar Writer

James Edgar Skye

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