Hay Season Quotes

The human life cycle no less than evolves around the box; from the open-topped box called a bassinet, to the pine box we call a coffin, the box is our past and, just as assuredly, our future. It should not surprise us then that the lowly box plays such a significant role in the first Christmas story. For Christmas began in a humble, hay-filled box of splintered wood. The Magi, wise men who had traveled far to see the infant king, laid treasure-filled boxes at the feet of that holy child. And in the end, when He had ransomed our sins with His blood, the Lord of Christmas was laid down in a box of stone. How fitting that each Christmas season brightly wrapped boxes skirt the pine boughs of Christmas trees around the world.

When the nettle is young, the leaves make excellent greens; when it grows old it has filaments and fibers like hemp and flax. Cloth made from the nettle is as good as that made from hemp. Chopped up, the nettle is good for poultry; pounded, it is good for horned cattle. The seed of the nettle mixed with the fodder of animals gives a luster to their skin; the root, mixed with salt, produces a beautiful yellow dye. It makes, however, excellent hay, as it can be cut twice in a season. And what does the nettle need? very little soil, no care, no culture; except that the seeds fall as fast as they ripen, and it is difficult to gather them; that is all. If we would take a little pains, the nettle would be useful; we neglect it, and it becomes harmful. Then we kill it. How much men are like the nettle! My friends, remember this, that there are no weeds, and no worthless men, there are only bad farmers.

It is not for you to know times or seasons which the Father has put in His own authority.” (Acts 1:7)

We come to the New Testament, where again a host of imperative verbs is mustered in support of that miserable bondage of free-choice, and the aid of carnal Reason with her inferences and similes is called in, just as in a picture or a dream you might see the King of the flies with his lances of straw and shields of hay arrayed against a real and regular army of seasoned human troops. That is how the human dreams of Diatribe go to war with the battalions of divine words.

The process begins during the off-season program, when players spend countless hours together and become heavily invested in the season before it even starts. It continues during these weekly meetings, when players stand and deliver heartfelt testimonials. You can't play for Ladouceur unless you're willing to stand in front of your teammates and bare your soul. You can't play unless you're willing to cry.

I saw to the south a man walking. He was breaking ground in perfect silence. He wore a harness and pulled a plow. His feet trod his figure's blue shadow, and the plow cut a long blue shadow in the field. He turned back as if to check the furrow, or as if he heard a call. Again I saw another man on the plain to the north. This man walked slowly with a spade, and turned the green ground under. Then before me in the near distance I saw the earth itself walking, the earth walking dark and aerated as it always does in every season, peeling the light back: The earth was plowing the men under, and the space, and the plow. No one sees us go under. No one sees generations churn, or civilizations. The green fields grow up forgetting. Ours is a planet sown in beings. Our generations overlap like shingles. We don't fall in rows like hay, but we fall. Once we get here, we spend forever on the globe, most of it tucked under. While we breathe, we open time like a path in the grass. We open time as a boat's stem slits the crest of the present.

Summer is the season of motion, winter is the season of form. In summer everything moves save the fixed and inert. Down the hill flows the west wind, making wavelets in the shorter grass and great billows in the standing hay; the tree in full leaf sways its heavy boughs below and tosses its leaves above; the weed by the gate bends and turns when the wind blows down the road. It is the shadow of moving things that we usually see, and the shadows are themselves in motion. The shadow of a branch, speckled through with light, wavers across the lawn, the sprawling shadow of the weed moves and sways across the dust.

I USED TO LOVE this season. The wood stacked by the door, the tang of its sap still speaking of forest. The hay made, all golden in the low afternoon light. The rumble of the apples tumbling into the cellar bins. Smells and sights and sounds that said this year it would be all right: there’d be food and warmth for the babies by the time the snows came.

And there, next to me, as the east wind blows in early fall, a season open to great migrations, are those lives, threading the air and waters of the sea, that come out of an incomparable darkness, which is also my own.

Stop scratching,' Rhys said without looking at him as they strode through a blooming apple orchard. No wings to be seen today. Cassian lowered his hands from his chest. 'I can't help it if this place makes my skin crawl.' Rhys snorted, gesturing to one of the blooming trees above them, petals falling thick as snow. 'The feared general, felled by seasonal allergies. Cassian gave an unnecessarily loud sniffle, earning a full chuckle from Rhys.

Experience is more than just the summation of events catalogued into our life; it is the seasoning that flavors personalities, giving them depth and complexity where otherwise absent. The big events we experience can define how we see ourselves.

We mark the days by chores that need to be done, the way farm families have always done. Al feeds the hens and horses and pigs, splits wood in the fall, slaughters a pig when the weather turns cold, cuts ice in the winter. I collect eggs from the laying hens and Al drives me into town to sell them. He times the planting so that by the Fourth of July we'll have new peas and by September there's a whole field of corn. Gulls lunge for a feast, ravaging the crop, so Al kills a few and hangs them from poles as warning. During haying season in midsummer, I see him from the dining room window in his visored cap, scything the hay by hand with six hired men walking abreast, forking the newly mown hay onto the hayrack. They haul the hay to the barn, where a block-and-tackle hoist lifts it into the mow.

Loose coon dogs and bear dogs, half wild already, had started forming packs as soon as their owners scattered, leaving them to discover their own manners without interference from human opinion. V saw them hanging at the edges of dark pinewoods as her gang of fugitives rolled slowly down the roads south -- bunches of dogs, yellow and brown and mottled, with their ribs showing and almost countable even from a distance, pink tongues hanging from desperate grins. Only a little more time --three seasons, V speculated--until all sense of man's dominion over them would fade and and they'd start taking down stray children and elder folks. Two or three generations after that, they'd go wholly wolf. Civilization balances always on a keen and precarious point, a showman spinning a fine Spode dinner plate on a long dowel slender as hay.

THE MEETING" "Scant rain had fallen and the summer sun Had scorched with waves of heat the ripening corn, That August nightfall, as I crossed the down Work-weary, half in dream. Beside a fence Skirting a penning’s edge, an old man waited Motionless in the mist, with downcast head And clothing weather-worn. I asked his name And why he lingered at so lonely a place. “I was a shepherd here. Two hundred seasons I roamed these windswept downlands with my flock. No fences barred our progress and we’d travel Wherever the bite grew deep. In summer drought I’d climb from flower-banked combe to barrow’d hill-top To find a missing straggler or set snares By wood or turmon-patch. In gales of March I’d crouch nightlong tending my suckling lambs. “I was a ploughman, too. Year upon year I trudged half-doubled, hands clenched to my shafts, Guiding my turning furrow. Overhead, Cloud-patterns built and faded, many a song Of lark and pewit melodied my toil. I durst not pause to heed them, rising at dawn To groom and dress my team: by daylight’s end My boots hung heavy, clodded with chalk and flint. “And then I was a carter. With my skill I built the reeded dew-pond, sliced out hay From the dense-matted rick. At harvest time, My wain piled high with sheaves, I urged the horses Back to the master’s barn with shouts and curses Before the scurrying storm. Through sunlit days On this same slope where you now stand, my friend, I stood till dusk scything the poppied fields. “My cob-built home has crumbled. Hereabouts Few folk remember me: and though you stare Till time’s conclusion you’ll not glimpse me striding The broad, bare down with flock or toiling team. Yet in this landscape still my spirit lingers: Down the long bottom where the tractors rumble, On the steep hanging where wild grasses murmur, In the sparse covert where the dog-fox patters.” My comrade turned aside. From the damp sward Drifted a scent of melilot and thyme; From far across the down a barn owl shouted, Circling the silence of that summer evening: But in an instant, as I stepped towards him Striving to view his face, his contour altered. Before me, in the vaporous gloaming, stood Nothing of flesh, only a post of wood.

Hair" There is great mystery, Simone, In the forest of your hair. It smells of hay, and of the stone Cattle have been lying on; Of timber, and of new-baked bread Brought to be one’s breakfast fare; And of the flowers that have grown Along a wall abandonèd; Of leather and of winnowed grain; Of briers and ivy washed by rain; You smell of rushes and of ferns Reaped when day to evening turns; You smell of withering grasses red Whose seed is under hedges shed; You smell of nettles and of broom; Of milk, and fields in clover-bloom; You smell of nuts, and fruits that one Gathers in the ripe season; And of the willow and the lime Covered in their flowering time; You smell of honey, of desire, You smell of air the noon makes shiver: You smell of earth and of the river; You smell of love, you smell of fire. There is great mystery, Simone, In the forest of your hair. Contemporary French Poetry, edited by Jethro Bithell (Wentworth Press March 4th 2019) reply | edit | delete | flag *

Harvest Do not let a woman with a sexy rump deceive you with wheedling and coaxing words; she is after your barn. -Hesiod Shall we gather the sunset pluck what is ripe harness the cicada's song? Even if this isn't the season of new love let us remember the buds and reap what we can. No crop is too small. No harvest too lean. The grain will yield. So scatter and slash call in the cows and let us milk them all dry. Plow as you will. Bulldoze away. Why not make every season our season each day our day to till and tease to clear and seed to plant and replant as we please. Come my sweet smell of hay do not be deceived by Hesiod. He says that I am after your barn. I want the whole fucking farm!

Can’t you wait for bed?” “I could, but the house is full of people. Why’d you insist my mother had to stay with us in the house? She was perfectly willing to take a cabin.” “First of all, there’s only one cabin empty and it’s hunting season, and second, I’m not going to have your mother stay under a different roof when we have two perfectly good upstairs bedrooms. That would be rude. Besides, we’re married—we’re allowed to have sex in our own house, in our own bed.” He grabbed her perfect behind in two large hands and pulled her against him. “You’re noisy when you come.” Then he swooped down on her mouth and kissed her like a starving man. When his lips were somewhat satisfied he broke away slightly and said, “And before and after.” “No, I’m not,” she argued. “Uh-huh. Then you snore and talk in your sleep.” “Do not.” “And you missed a period.” “You noticed that? It’s just a little late.” “Did you pee on a stick yet?” he asked her. Shelby shook her head. “I think it’s too soon and I don’t want to be disappointed. Besides, it might be coming—I feel weepy and my breasts are a little sore.” “You’re pregnant,” he said. “And I want to do you in the hay. You can scream until the horses stampede.” He grinned at her. “Maybe I can get you more pregnant.” “Luke…I don’t want to go home with hay in my hair…” “I can take care of that problem,” he said.

Wind in a Box" —after Lorca I want to always sleep beneath a bright red blanket of leaves. I want to never wear a coat of ice. I want to learn to walk without blinking. I want to outlive the turtle and the turtle’s father, the stone. I want a mouth full of permissions and a pink glistening bud. If the wildflower and ant hill can return after sleeping each season, I want to walk out of this house wearing nothing but wind. I want to greet you, I want to wait for the bus with you weighing less than a chill. I want to fight off the bolts of gray lighting the alcoves and winding paths of your hair. I want to fight off the damp nudgings of snow. I want to fight off the wind. I want to be the wind and I want to fight off the wind with its sagging banner of isolation, its swinging screen doors, its gilded boxes, and neatly folded pamphlets of noise. I want to fight off the dull straight lines of two by fours and endings, your disapprovals, your doubts and regulations, your carbon copies. If the locust can abandon its suit, I want a brand new name. I want the pepper’s fury and the salt’s tenderness. I want the virtue of the evening rain, but not its gossip. I want the moon’s intuition, but not its questions. I want the malice of nothing on earth. I want to enter every room in a strange electrified city and find you there. I want your lips around the bell of flesh at the bottom of my ear. I want to be the mirror, but not the nightstand. I do not want to be the light switch. I do not want to be the yellow photograph or book of poems. When I leave this body, Woman, I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song. Terrance Hayes, Wind in a Box (Penguin, 2006) When I leave this body, Woman, I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song

He hadn't developed into the accomplished running quarterback many had predicted he would become over the course of the season. But he had come to personify this team. He was raw and untested when the season began, but he played his two best games in the two biggest games on the schedule. He wasn't the player anybody expected him to be, but he got the job done-at times spectacularly.

He cocked his head to one side. "Callie, this is a ranch. If I remember right, you joined the Army because you hated every damn thing there was about ranchin'. Are you sure you want to live here?" "Guess I've found out there's worse things in the world than the cows, hay haulin', and calvin' season," she said. I'm not askin' for a handout here, Finn. I'm willing to work. I'll work outside. I'll work inside cleaning and cooking or both if you'll give me and Martin room and board.

When we discuss the successful dietary programs of the various groups from the standpoint of their ability to control tooth decay and prevent deformity we find that for the people in the high and isolated Alpine valleys their nutrition is dependent largely on entire rye bread and dairy products with meat about once a week and various vegetables, fresh in the summer season and stored for the winter season. An analysis in my laboratory of the dairy products obtained from the Loetschental Valley in Switzerland through a series of years has shown the vitamin content to be much higher than the average throughout the world for similar foods during the same seasons. The milk in these high valleys is produced from green pasturage and stored green hay of exceptionally high chlorophyll content. The milk and the rye bread provided minerals abundantly

outdoors in winter in most parts of the country, as long as they have adequate shelter from wind, rain, and snow. A shed open on one side is an ideal shelter for all seasons. Horses grow a long winter coat and store a layer of fat beneath their skin, both of which provide excellent insulation. However, when a horse is kept in a heated stable, he does not adapt and is more likely to suffer from chilling and pneumonia when taken outside. Horse blankets can be used to prevent chilling. For a horse in winter with a dry coat, or one who is used to being inside, the blanket is beneficial when the wind-chill temperature drops below 20°F (-6.6°C). For a horse in summer with a wet coat, wind-chill discomfort becomes a factor at temperatures below 60°F (15.5°C). Use common sense. If your horse has adapted to outside conditions, he probably does not need a blanket. However, for old horses, who are unable to regulate their body temperature well, or show horses without their natural haircoat, a blanket is a thing of comfort. Digestible energy is the principal dietary concern in cold weather. Protein, vitamin, and mineral needs increase slightly. In winter, it is important to feed a ration that helps the horse create internal heat. High-quality hay is best for this, and is a better choice than grain. This is because roughage is digested by bacterial fermentation in the cecum and colon, which produces a great deal of heat.

Our great daystar floods the Earth with fire in this season of summer. The heart of the sun prays at forty million degrees; grant me a heart of such fierce fire as I now begin this new day in an act of devotion and adoration. Wrap me in the silence of your Spirit and lead me into quiet prayer.

Truman made a statement that stunned those reporters, for even these seasoned Washington journalists had never heard a politician speak with such frankness. “I don’t know if any of you fellows ever had a load of hay or a bull fall on you. Last night the whole weight of the moon and stars fell on me.” He paused. “If newspapermen ever pray, pray for me.

Tonight she'll be with Jeremy, her lieutenant, but she wants to be with Roger. Except that, really, she doesn't. Does she? She can't remember being so confused. When she is with Roger it's all love, but at any distance- any at all, Jack- she finds that he depresses and even frightens her. Why? On top of him in the wild nights riding up and down his cock her axis, trying herself to stay rigid enough not to turn to cream taper-wax and fall away melting to the coverlet coming there's only room for Roger, Roger, oh love to the end of breath. But out of bed, walking talking, his bitterness, his darkness, run deeper than the War, the winter: he hates England so, hates "the System," gripes endlessly, says he'll emigrate when the War's over, stays inside his paper cynic's cave hating himself... and does she want to bring him out, really? Isn't it safer with Jeremy? She tried not to allow this question to often, but it's there. Three years with Jeremy. They might as well be married. Three years ought to count for something. Daily, small stitches and easings. She's worn old Beaver's bathrobes, brewed his tea and coffee, sought his eye across lorry-parks, day rooms and rainy mud fields when all the day's mean, dismal losses could be rescued in the one look- familiar, full of trust, in a season where the word is invoked for quaintness or a minor laugh. And to rip it all out? three years? for this erratic, self-centered- boy, really. Weepers, he supposed to be pas thirty, he's years older than she. He ought to've learned something, surely? A man of experience? /// If the rockets don't get her there's still her lieutenant. Damned Beaver/Jeremy IS the War, he is every assertion the fucking War has ever made- that we are meant work and government, for austerity: and these shall take priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the sense and the second-class trivia that are found among the idle and mindless hours of the day... Damn them, they are wrong. They are insane. Jeremy will take her like the Angel itself, in his joyless weasel-worded come-along, and Roger will be forgotten, an amusing maniac, but with no place in the rationalized power-ritual that will be the coming peace. She will take her husband's orders, she will become a domestic bureaucrat, a junior partner, and remember Roger, if at all, as a mistake thank God she did not make... Oh, he feels a raving fit coming on- how the bloody hell can he survive without her? She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest innocence in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were given a separate name to warn they might not come true, and his lithe Parisian daughter of joy, beneath the eternal mirror, forswearing perfumes, capeskins to the armpits, all that is too easy, for his impoverishment and more worthy love. /// Jessica steps away from Roger to blow her nose. The sound is as familiar to him as a bird's song, ip-ip-ip-ip NGUNNGG as the hankerchief comes away..."Oh sooper dooper," she says, "think I'm catching a cold." You're catching the War. It's infecting you and I don't know how to keep it away. Oh, Jess. Jessica. Don't leave me,,,,

Tonight she'll be with Jeremy, her lieutenant, but she wants to be with Roger. Except that, really, she doesn't. Does she? She can't remember being so confused. When she is with Roger it's all love, but at any distance- any at all, Jack- she finds that he depresses and even frightens her. Why? On top of him in the wild nights riding up and down his cock her axis, trying herself to stay rigid enough not to turn to cream taper-wax and fall away melting to the coverlet coming there's only room for Roger, Roger, oh love to the end of breath. But out of bed, walking talking, his bitterness, his darkness, run deeper than the War, the winter: he hates England so, hates "the System," gripes endlessly, says he'll emigrate when the War's over, stays inside his paper cynic's cave hating himself... and does she want to bring him out, really? Isn't it safer with Jeremy? She tried not to allow this question to often, but it's there. Three years with Jeremy. They might as well be married. Three years ought to count for something. Daily, small stitches and easings. She's worn old Beaver's bathrobes, brewed his tea and coffee, sought his eye across lorry-parks, day rooms and rainy mud fields when all the day's mean, dismal losses could be rescued in the one look- familiar, full of trust, in a season where the word is invoked for quaintness or a minor laugh. And to rip it all out? three years? for this erratic, self-centered- boy, really. Weepers, he supposed to be past thirty, he's years older than she. He ought to've learned something, surely? A man of experience? /// If the rockets don't get her there's still her lieutenant. Damned Beaver/Jeremy IS the War, he is every assertion the fucking War has ever made- that we are meant work and government, for austerity: and these shall take priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the senses and the second-class trivia that are found among the idle and mindless hours of the day... Damn them, they are wrong. They are insane. Jeremy will take her like the Angel itself, in his joyless weasel-worded come-along, and Roger will be forgotten, an amusing maniac, but with no place in the rationalized power-ritual that will be the coming peace. She will take her husband's orders, she will become a domestic bureaucrat, a junior partner, and remember Roger, if at all, as a mistake thank God she did not make... Oh, he feels a raving fit coming on- how the bloody hell can he survive without her? She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest innocence in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were given a separate name to warn they might not come true, and his lithe Parisian daughter of joy, beneath the eternal mirror, forswearing perfumes, capeskins to the armpits, all that is too easy, for his impoverishment and more worthy love. /// Jessica steps away from Roger to blow her nose. The sound is as familiar to him as a bird's song, ip-ip-ip-ip NGUNNGG as the hankerchief comes away..."Oh sooper dooper," she says, "think I'm catching a cold." You're catching the War. It's infecting you and I don't know how to keep it away. Oh, Jess. Jessica. Don't leave me....

Since the loss of Julia and the opening of the prosecution against him, he had forced himself to make this walk daily. Or if the mood took him and the weather was favorable he would go out in the new dinghy and sail as far as St. Ann’s. Such activity didn’t lift the cloud from his mind, but it helped to set it in proportion for the rest of the day’s tasks. His daughter was dead, his cousin had betrayed him, his much-labored-over smelting scheme was in ashes, he faced charges in the criminal court for which he might well be sentenced to death or life transportation, and if by some chance he survived that, it would be only a matter of months before bankruptcy and imprisonment for debt followed. But, in the meantime, fields had to be sown and reaped, copper had to be raised and marketed, Demelza had to be clothed and fed and cherished—so far as it was in his scope to cherish anyone at this stage. It was Julia’s death that still hit him hardest. Demelza had grieved no less than he, but hers was a more pliant nature, responding involuntarily to stimuli that meant little to him. A celandine flowering out of season, a litter of kittens found unexpectedly in a loft, warm sunshine after a cold spell, the smell of the first swathe of hay: these were always temporary reliefs for her, and so sorrow had less power to injure her. Although he didn’t realize it, much of the cherishing this year had been on her side.

Happy Holidays (The Sonnet) Spirit of Christmas doesn't grow on a fir tree, Christmas blooms wherever the heart is hatefree. Ramadan isn't fulfilled by feasting on some tasty beef, The greatest of feast is haram if others go hungry. Hanukkah's miracle isn't about the oil lasting 8 days, Rather it's about the resilience of light amidst darkness. Fireworks may be diwali for those still in kindergarten, Everyday is diwali for an existence rooted in kindness. The will to love and the will to lift are the backbone, Of all human celebration, tradition and communion. Take that fundamental will out of the equation, All you have left are rituals without meaning and mission. Fasting, feasting and decorating are step two of any festival. First and foremost, at our altar within, we gotta light a candle.

Anton Hayes.” West holds out his hand. “I’ve heard your name a lot lately.” I hesitate before shaking it. “Well, I have the most points scored in the league this season, so I’m not surprised.” The guy beside him groans. “Oh no, there are two of them.

Eso es lo que dicen las mujeres del pueblo: que no hay tesoro ahí dentro, que no hay oro ni plata ni diamantes ni nada más que un dolor punzante que se niega a disolverse.

Some things are worth fighting for. Part of being a Christian is being brave enough to address the issues that hurt people, the issues that cause people to not have hope.

He showed me how each wheel was stamped with the month and year, and then he cracked the first one open to reveal its pale cream-colored interior. He chipped off a hefty shard and handed it to me. I took a bite, and my mouth filled with the hopeful taste of fresh green grass and young field flowers welcoming the sun. "That's the spring cheese." Sal was cracking the next wheel, which was stamped with an autumn date; he chipped off a little piece. The color was deeper, almost golden, the texture heavier and nubbier. When I put the cheese in my mouth it was richer, and if I let it linger on my tongue I could taste the lush fields of late summer, just as the light begins to die. Sal sliced off a slab of winter cheese and put that into my mouth. It felt different on my tongue, smoother somehow, the flavor sharper. "It's like a different cheese." I was savoring it. I tasted again; there was a familiar flavor. "It tastes like hay!" "Yes!" Sal was openly delighted. "I knew you were going to be able to taste how different this cheese is! Most Americans don't even notice, but that cheese is so different that, back in the old days, it was sold under a different name. The Parmesan made from December to March, when the cows were in the barn, was called 'invernengo'- winter cheese- because the flavor is so distinct.

Ecclesiastes 3 A Time for Everything 1 For everything there is a season,    a time for every activity under heaven. Eclesiastés 3 Todo a su debido tiempo 1 Hay una temporada para todo,    un tiempo para cada actividad bajo el cielo. 2 A time to be born and a time to die.    A time to plant and a time to harvest. 2 Un tiempo para nacer y un tiempo para morir.    Un tiempo para sembrar y un tiempo para cosechar. 3 A time to kill and a time to heal.    A time to tear down and a time to build up. 3 Un tiempo para matar y un tiempo para sanar.    Un tiempo para derribar y un tiempo para construir. 4 A time to cry and a time to laugh.    A time to grieve and a time to dance. 4 Un tiempo para llorar y un tiempo para reír.    Un tiempo para entristecerse y un tiempo para bailar.

I know exactly how Henry Thoreau felt when running home after the rain. 'Grow wild according to your nature, like these brakes and sedges which will never become English hay, let the thunder rumble.