Summertime by E.B White Plusbished in the New Yorker in 1944

Summertime this year is a ripe girl who finds herself forsaken by the boys, the ordinarily attentive and desirous boys. They are no where to be found; they have disappeared, the way males do seized by some sudden mechanical flirtation, some new interest of a passing sort.
Summertime is a girl who knows they will be back and is conscious that she herself is irresistible over the long term, that her beauty and her accommodating ways have lost no fraction of their power. We had summertime practically to ourself the other afternoon, and in our guilt we lay with her in the name of all who were temporarily denied that privilege, admiring her incredible poise. The scent of her clothes was unmistakable; her sea, her sand, her sky wore the same look as ever; the insects which are her private minstrels sang the same seductive measure. We have never seen a discarded female more sure of where she stood than summertime.


.................

I love this little piece. It makes me envious of summertime. As if it were a real entity. It's hard to even want to type a word after having retyped that. No one can compare to White. You are all thinking is that... E.B. White... who wrote Charlotte's Web? It sure is. The story is a bit more than a children's tale about a spider and a pig.

::sigh::

makes me want to go out and lounge about with summertime. While shes still here.

maybe I will be back later with something of my own. I'm a little dumb founded after reading his work though...