Learn From Our Lemons

This is so great.  The newspaper article on this video was called making lemonade out of lemons.

Comment

I felt like going to a friend's blog and commenting.

Then I didn't see any recent posts that I had a comment opinion about so I came to my blog to comment here.
Well, I challenge all of you to comment on this comment.  And to make an interesting post out of this comment instead of sitting there, in your chair, keeping your opinion selfishly to yourself.

I wonder who reads the comments anyway?

Do You?

Some Not So Nice Poetry

A Dream Deferred

by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--and then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

Some Very Nice Poetry

TO AUTUMN. (John Keats)
                                            1.
    SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
        Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
    Conspiring with him how to load and bless
        With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
    To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
        And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
            To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
        And still more, later flowers for the bees,
        Until they think warm days will never cease,
            For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
                                            2.
    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
        Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
        Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
    Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
        Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
            Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
        Steady thy laden head across a brook;
        Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
            Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
                                            3.
    Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
        Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
    While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
        And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
    Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
        Among the river sallows, borne aloft
            Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
        Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
        The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
           And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.