And can I ever bid these joys farewell?

As I was shoveling snow today (as I have been doing with some regularity since November 12th), a line from Keats sprang to mind: "And can I ever bid these joys farewell?" Young Mr. K, of course, was writing of the joys of pastoral poetry (chasing nymphs, drinking Italian wine, falling asleep in a magic glade while being fanned by a bevy of beautiful females), which would have to be abandoned before becoming a serious writer. The line came back to me as I noticed the sun sparkling on the several inches of snow covering the front yard and causing interesting shadows from the shrubs and yard art.

 Tired of shoveling as I was, I had to admit that the grasses did look fine in their winter coats,

 although snow-smushed muhly does look vaguely spiderish.

In the back yard, the feeder scene was lively and colorful,

 

even amusing,

 and knowing that one is providing a useful service is gratifying.

 

But I could quite happily bid farewell to the joys of winter. It has gone on quite long enough this year.