It feels more like October than August these past few days, which is actually kind of nice. A hint of hurricane is in the air, although the weatherman calls it a nor’easter, a term I loathe. Why can’t they just say northeaster? I don’t remember anyone talking without the “th” in the word until the last few years. Is it really the way people in Maine say it? Or is it midwesterners trying to go native?

Sorry. That’s just a pet peeve.

In any case, the ocean was sublime yesterday. I had walked there when the rain eased into a drizzle. I always feel so lucky  when I take time out to go to the sea, and I start digging into my memory for the words to John Masefield’s wonderful poem, “I must go down to the sea again.” Actually, that’s a bit of a misquote, I discovered. I knew it by heart when required to in grade school, and I always think if I just dig down deep enough it will all come back. It doesn’t. So, I went to Google and found it.

Sea Fever

By John Masefield

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking.

…

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

…

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

……………………………………………………………………….

Wonderful, isn’t it?

But, my theme this month was supposed to be summer, so here’s another summer poem, too.

Back Yard

by Carl Sandburg (1916)

Shine on, O moon of summer.

Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,

All silver under your rain to-night.

…

An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.

A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month;

to-night they are throwing you kisses.

…

An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a

cherry tree in his back yard.

…

The clocks say I must go—I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking

white thoughts you rain down.

…

Shine on, O moon,

Shake out more and more silver changes.

—————————————–

So, although I love the rain, here’s hoping the moon light will soon be all that rains, as Sandburg says, through the tent of night.