Old Friend, Longfellow

This is a poem "Woods in Winter" written by Henry W. Longfellow.

I have this weakness for little old books. Many little old books are of poems. If it's old, beautiful and cheap, I'm a happy camper. This book is bound in the softest leather with "Longfellow's Poems" printed in gold. It precludes when publishing houses printed dates. Anyway - to the story:

Longfellow's poem is full of the sadness of winter. As I read the lines, I almost feel as if I'm trudging along in the snow, the sky a deep gray, I'm very cold and I'm pretty darn sick of winter. There's a reason Longfellow spoke to the masses.

I doubt there's many of us, even if we are sitting in the warmth of our homes, that aren't sick of winter when it moves to the end of February. I'm just sure the only reason chocolates are sold for valentine's day is most of us can't get through the month without something sweet to boost mood.

For me, reading is perhaps the best antidote for winter blues or grays. I've got a stack of flower/garden catalogs that can keep me happy for hours. In addition, I'm rather into historical gardens right now.

Historical gardens are often so very over the top in size, design and budget that I simply enjoy the beauty and perhaps adapt a few things for my own use. I plan how someday I might visit and tour these gardens.

There's something mystic about a garden that had someone, long ago, walking along the same path as me. The thought process, the station in life, the availability of plants and labor at the time, and the fashion and fads. It's a tie, the silent but present hand of another who loved this garden and the land.

Longfellow takes your hand and guides you with his words to a winter garden. He points to the trees and the woods. Grab a book - whether of poems or pictures - and pass the last refrains of winter with me.