Poetry by Phoebe

Hello, November!

Dear Diary,

Today has brought with it a brand new day, along with its graying skies and chilled dew. As I sit here, the beginnings of a particular Shakespearean sonnet come to mind…

“That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang…”

Take care everyone.

 

Love,
Phoebe and Samantha


Phoebe and samantha


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