The gate from the garden into the orchard
It’s a bit of a tradition to post this poem each year.
The Goose Girl
Spring rides no horses down the hill,
But comes on foot, a goose-girl still.
And all the loveliest things there be
Come simply, so, it seems to me.
If ever I said, in grief or pride,
I tired of honest things, I lied:
And should be cursed forevermore
With Love in laces, like a whore,
And neighbours cold, and friends unsteady,
And Spring on horseback, like a lady!
— Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892-1950
A neighbor gave me the eggs