
DAILY PHOTO: A Green & Stony Hill, Mussoorie
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Jacarandas bloom:
thousands of miles from home,
but no less purple.

gusting Spring winds:
can the hunkered crow
take to flight?
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

lifelike bird sculpture
doesn’t fool the insect
that lands on its beak.

two wading birds
face each other so that
their reflections can chat.