When the heat like a mist veil floats, And poppies flame in the rye,
And the silver note in the streamlet’s throat
Has softened almost to a sigh.
It is July.
Has softened almost to a sigh.
It is July.
~Susan Hartley Swett
Miss Mae came to visit this afternnon, in the gently worn Martha Pullen jumper that Issa has outgrown. Tan arms and bare feet. I don't mind the heat one bit, I love July.
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