I who was almost bold

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P a t i e n c e   i s   a   V i r t u e

Kensico Cemetery

Valhalla, New York

>>>>++<<<<

How happy I was if I could forget

To remember how sad I am

Would be an easy adversity

But the recollecting of Bloom

Keeps making November difficult

Till I who was almost bold

Lose my way like a little Child

And perish in the cold.

> Emily Dickinson <

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Happy Saturday

All things are symbols

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F a l l i n g   A g a i n

West Cemetery

Amherst, Massachusetts

>>>>++<<<<

And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

> Henry Wadsworth Longfellow <

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Happy Friday

The leaves were brown

>>>>++<<<<

R i c h   P i c k i n g s

Grove Street Cemetery

New Haven, Connecticut

>>>>++<<<<

When we came home across the hill
No leaves were fallen from the trees;
The gentle fingers of the breeze
Had torn no quivering cobweb down.

The hedgerow bloomed with flowers still,
No withered petals lay beneath;
But the wild roses in your wreath
Were faded, and the leaves were brown.

> T. S. Eliot <

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Happy Thursday

Like a letter put away

>>>>++<<<<

L i q u i d   A s s e t s

Green-Wood Cemetery

Brooklyn, New York

>>>>++<<<<

All winter
the blue heron
slept among the horses.
I do not know
the custom of herons,
do not know
if the solitary habit
is their way,
or if he listened for
some missing one --
not knowing even
that was what he did --
in the blowing
sounds in the dark.
I know that
hope is the hardest
love we carry.
He slept
with his long neck
folded, like a letter
put away.

> Jane Hirshfield <

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Happy Wednesday

Native with the warmth

>>>>++<<<<

I   F e e l   A   C h i l l

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery

Sleepy Hollow, New York

>>>>++<<<<

WHAT THE THRUSH SAID

O Thou whose face hath felt the Winter’s wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops ’mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phœbus was away,
To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At the thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.

> John Keats <

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Happy Tuesday

Some of the oaken voices

>>>>++<<<<

L e a v i n g   I t   A l l   U p   T o   Y o u

Green-Wood Cemetery

Brooklyn, New York

>>>>++<<<<

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.

Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.

Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.

Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.

The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.

By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

> Dylan Thomas <

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Happy Monday

Now intercedes for me

>>>>++<<<<

U p o n   t h e   T r e e

Mount Olivet Cemetery

Nashville, Tennessee

>>>>++<<<<

There’s a river flowing deep and wide

Coming from the Savior’s side

From His hands, His feet, His brow

Underneath this river I’ll abide.

 

Through the ages it has never dried

Though the spring it came from died

For the spring, reborn, now intercedes for me

And the crimson river sets me free.

 

Crimson river cover me

And this blood-bought one will be

Purer than the breath of spring

Cleaner than a sparkling stream.

 

Then eternity will be

But a starting place for me

To praise the Lamb, and all because

The crimson river covers all.

 

To praise The Lamb, and all because

The crimson river covers all

The crimson river covers all.

> Mack Taunton <

>>>>++<<<<

To the praise of the glory of his grace,

wherein he hath made us accepted in the beloved.

 In whom we have redemption through his blood,

the forgiveness of sins,

according to the riches of his grace.

Ephesians 1:6-7

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Happy Sunday

Spill the scarlet rain

>>>>++<<<<

A u t u m n

Elmwood Cemetery

Charlotte, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

The name -- of it -- is "Autumn" --

The hue -- of it -- is Blood --

An Artery -- upon the Hill --

A Vein -- along the Road --

Great Globules -- in the Alleys --

And Oh, the Shower of Stain --

When Winds -- upset the Basin --

And spill the Scarlet Rain --

It sprinkles Bonnets -- far below --

It gathers Ruddy pools --

Then -- eddies like a Rose -- away --

Upon Vermilion Wheels --

> Emily Dickinson <

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Happy Saturday

With us every day

>>>>++<<<<

C o n t e m p l a t e

Mount Olivet Cemetery

Nashville, Tennessee

>>>>++<<<<

Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas!
You really are beautiful! Pearls,
harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins! all
the stuff they’ve always talked about

still makes a poem a surprise!
These things are with us every day
even on beachheads and biers. They
do have meaning. They’re strong as rocks.

> Frank O'Hara <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Friday

Nameless here for evermore

>>>>++<<<<

M i n d   H o w   Y o u   G o

Crown Hill Cemetery

Indianapolis, Indiana

>>>>++<<<<

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore --

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door --

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore --

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore --

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door --

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; --

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you” -- here I opened wide the door; --

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” --

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; --

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore --

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before --

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore --

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never -- nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite -- respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! --

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --

On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --

Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore --

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore --

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting --

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted -- nevermore!

> Edgar Allan Poe <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Thursday