This Dear and Fine Country; Ray Guy's winter is over ...
Anglican priest Sandra Tilley read from You May Know Them as Sea Urchins, Ma'am — Ray Guy's 1976 selection of writings —during a Celebration and Thanksgiving of his life Saturday in St. John's. Guy, a celebrated writer/journalist, died May 14th.
This Dear and Fine Country
Well, we made it once again, boys!
Winter is over.
Oh, but there is still snow on the ground.
So what? It hasn't got a chance. It is living in jeopardy from day to day. We should pity it because it will soon be ready for the funeral parlor.
It is only a matter of another few weeks and we shall see it disappear into brown and foaming brooks; we shall see the meadows burning green and spangled with little piss-a-beds like tiny yellow suns.
Winter is over.
Oh, but there is still ice on the water.
So what? the globe is turning and nothing can stop it, not even Ottawa. We are revolving into light.
The fisherman tars his boat on the beach and is heated by two suns, one in the sky and another reflected from the water, and the ice on the cliff behind him drops away to a poor skeleton.
It is only a matter of a few more paltry weeks and we shall see the steam rising from the ponds and from the damp ground behind the plow; we shall see the grandmothers sitting out by the doorstep for a few minutes watching the cat; we shall see the small boats a bustle, piled high with lobster pots in the bow and the days melting further and further into the night.
Winter is over now.
Praise God and all honor to our forefathers through generations who did never forsake this dear and fine country.
This Dear and Fine Country
Well, we made it once again, boys!
Winter is over.
Oh, but there is still snow on the ground.
So what? It hasn't got a chance. It is living in jeopardy from day to day. We should pity it because it will soon be ready for the funeral parlor.
It is only a matter of another few weeks and we shall see it disappear into brown and foaming brooks; we shall see the meadows burning green and spangled with little piss-a-beds like tiny yellow suns.
Winter is over.
Oh, but there is still ice on the water.
So what? the globe is turning and nothing can stop it, not even Ottawa. We are revolving into light.
The fisherman tars his boat on the beach and is heated by two suns, one in the sky and another reflected from the water, and the ice on the cliff behind him drops away to a poor skeleton.
It is only a matter of a few more paltry weeks and we shall see the steam rising from the ponds and from the damp ground behind the plow; we shall see the grandmothers sitting out by the doorstep for a few minutes watching the cat; we shall see the small boats a bustle, piled high with lobster pots in the bow and the days melting further and further into the night.
Winter is over now.
Praise God and all honor to our forefathers through generations who did never forsake this dear and fine country.
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