Welcome to my website's seasonal page where I can just get creative and have fun. Changes each month. Bookmark and enjoy! |
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Thanks for visiting Sketch Notes, the
seasonal and creative page of my
personal Website:
http://www.leannmarshall.com
I enjoy reading and writing (check out
my two fiction novels, The Starfish
People and The Rendering.)
I created Sketch Notes as a fun way to
express myself poetically, but I love to
feature other writers' work with a
link back to their own Websites.
Links to Sketch Notes archives are at
right.
My philosophy as quoted by Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe:
"One ought, every day at least, to hear a
little song, read a good poem, see a fine
picture, and, if it were possible, to speak
a few reasonable words.”
Don't forget to bookmark Sketch
Notes, tell your friends, and visit
often!
If you have written something you
would like to see in a future edition of
Sketch Notes, email me.
seasonal and creative page of my
personal Website:
http://www.leannmarshall.com
I enjoy reading and writing (check out
my two fiction novels, The Starfish
People and The Rendering.)
I created Sketch Notes as a fun way to
express myself poetically, but I love to
feature other writers' work with a
link back to their own Websites.
Links to Sketch Notes archives are at
right.
My philosophy as quoted by Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe:
"One ought, every day at least, to hear a
little song, read a good poem, see a fine
picture, and, if it were possible, to speak
a few reasonable words.”
Don't forget to bookmark Sketch
Notes, tell your friends, and visit
often!
If you have written something you
would like to see in a future edition of
Sketch Notes, email me.
THE WIND.
By Emily Dickinson
Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
There's not a charge to me
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody
The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.
When winds go round and round in bands,
And thrum upon the door,
And birds take places overhead,
To bear them orchestra,
I crave him grace, of summer boughs,
If such an outcast be,
He never heard that fleshless chant
Rise solemn in the tree,
As if some caravan of sound
On deserts, in the sky,
Had broken rank,
Then knit, and passed
In seamless company.
By Emily Dickinson
Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
There's not a charge to me
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody
The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.
When winds go round and round in bands,
And thrum upon the door,
And birds take places overhead,
To bear them orchestra,
I crave him grace, of summer boughs,
If such an outcast be,
He never heard that fleshless chant
Rise solemn in the tree,
As if some caravan of sound
On deserts, in the sky,
Had broken rank,
Then knit, and passed
In seamless company.
