"Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant."
Robert Louis Stevenson

Saturday, February 19, 2011

I Wield the Flail of the Lashing Hail...

The day started out with heavy rains and now hail is coming down. We usually have a day or two with hail in February and March, I am hoping it will just be this one shower because my plants will all be dotted with bruises that will end with damage to the leaves. Last year even the small leaves of the jades were damaged.

This is the East wall that had the mud slide late last year. 

The front succulent beds are flooded. I may need to move these plants if we continue to get rains like we have been this winter. They will not be able take this much water. Too bad, because they were thriving here last summer. Can you see the hail?

Hail on the back patio, even the Monk's offering cup had hail in it.

I love this poem by Shelley and even though the hails have come, I am grateful for the clouds.

The Cloud
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aery nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,--
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
- Percy Bysshe Shelley (1822)


  1. Hello Carla. Hail! What a way it has with our gardens. We are helpless, for all we can do is just stand by the window and watch it do its dirty work. Ours will come in June along with tornados warnings. Fortunately your garden will recover. We still have the possibility of more snow to deal with. Hope you have seen the last of Hail. cheers. ann

  2. It has been many years since I last read Shelley - thank you for rekindling his words...I have a book of his poetry somewhere.
    Hail is not good - we also receive it during summer months usually when my big hostas are at their showiest. Mother Nature certainly has her own agenda!

  3. I scour the discount stores for cheap umbrellas and when it hails my gardens are quickly covered especially my prized roses.


Thank you for taking time to visit my blog, I love hearing from you, stay as long as you like, Carla