I’ve decided to do a writing challenge this month. What is it about April that gets so many people interested in taking on 30 day challenges be they dietary, fitness, writing, picture or whatever challenges they may be? Is it the advent of Spring and a sudden new energy and vigor to do something? Is it the nearing end of the school year making people feel like they have to accomplish something before the kids are let out. Or is it all preparation for summer? Whatever it is, there are many 30 day challenges that were taken on today and I’m jumping on the bandwagon.
I did a 30 day challenge last summer and discovered very early into it that I don’t like being told what to blog about, so my challenge is simple – 30 blog posts in the month of April. Yes folks, you will be hearing from me every day of this month! I have no idea what I will write about, so this should be interesting. There will probably be some nostalgia as I begin to say goodbye to the town I’ve lived in for the last 5 years. There will be a sudden burst of patriotism around the 18th of April. And, as always, I will talk about how much I miss home. This is going to be fun!
Since this is National Poetry Month, and I’m a little short on words today, I’m going to start with one of my favorite poems that makes me happy on any day.
The Solitary Reaper
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?–
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;–
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.