Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.
Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.
And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,
Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men's believing.
-Ezra Pound
Thanksgiving harvest. Tim and the kids brought in our small but satisfying garden produce. Not overwhelming, so at least we won't have the guilt of veggies decomposing in the cold room.
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