Something is lost now

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M e m o r i e s   R   U s

Times Square 2011

New York, New York

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Early is the evening,
Reluctant the dawn;
Once there was summer;
Sudden it was gone.
It fell like a leaf,
Whirled downstream.
Was there ever summer,
Or only a dream?
Was ever a world
That was not November?
Once there was summer,
And this I remember

Cornflowers and daisies,
Buttercups and clover,
Black-eyed Susans and Queen-Anne's lace,
A wide green meadow,
And bees booming over,
And a little laughing girl with the wind in her face.

Strident are the voices
And hard lights shine;
Feral are the faces;
Is one of them mine?
Something is lost now,
Tarnished the gleam;
Was there ever nobleness,
Or only a dream?
Yes, and it lingers,
Lost not yet;
Something remains
Till this I forget

Cornflowers and clover,
Buttercups and daisies,
Black-eyed Susans under blue and white skies
And the grass waist high
Where the red cow grazes,
And a little laughing girl with faith in her eyes.

> Ogden Nash <

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Happy Wednesday

With the deluge of summer

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W a i t   F o r   I t

Mount Olivet Cemetery

Nashville, Tennessee

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And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For our couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,
And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,
'Tis for the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

> James Russell Lowell <

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Happy Tuesday

A longing after something lost

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W a t c h i n g

Elmwood Cemetery

Columbia, South Carolina

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The pure, the bright, the beautiful that stirred our hearts in youth

The whisper of a wordless prayer, the streams of love and truth

A longing after something lost, the spirit's yearning cry

Striving after better hopes: These things can never die.

There will always be a shining sun

There will always be the rising of the sea

There will always be an angel watching over me

There will always be an angel watching over me.

A timid hand stretched forth to aid a brother in his need

A kindly word in grief's dark hour, that proves a friend indeed

So shall a light that cannot fade, beam on thee from on high

And angel voices say to thee: These things can never die.

There will always be a shining sun

There will always be the rising of the sea

There will always be an angel watching over me.

There will always be a shining sun

There will always be the ocean's rise and fall

There will always be an angel watching over all.

> John Frederick Lenz <

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Happy Monday :: Happy Week

In silent shadows and in dreams

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H i g h e r

Elmwood Cemetery

Memphis, Tennessee

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What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch,
These are the measures destined for her soul.

> Wallace Stevens <

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Happy Thursday

How could I do without Thee

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T h e   T i e s   T h a t   B i n d

Elmwood Cemetery

Columbia, South Carolina

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I could not do without Thee
O Savior of the lost
Whose precious blood redeemed me
At such tremendous cost
Thy righteousness, thy pardon
Thy precious blood, must be
My only hope and comfort
My glory and my plea.

I could not do without Thee
I cannot stand alone
I have no strength or goodness
No wisdom of my own
But Thou, beloved Savior
Art all in all to me
And weakness will be power
If leaning hard on Thee.

I could not do without Thee
For oh, the way is long
And I am often weary
And sigh replaces song
How could I do without Thee
I do not know the way
Thou knowest and Thou leadest
And wilt not let me stray.

I could not do without Thee
O Jesus, Savior dear
E’en when my eyes are holden
I know that Thou art near
How dreary and how lonely
This changeful life would be
Without the sweet communion
The secret rest with Thee.

I could not do without Thee
No other friend can read
The spirit’s strange deep longings
Interpreting its need
No human heart could enter
Each dim recess of mine
And soothe and hush and calm it
O blessèd Lord, but Thine.

I could not do without Thee
For years are fleeting fast
And soon in solemn oneness
The river must be passed
But Thou wilt never leave me
And though the waves roll high
I know Thou wilt be near me
And whisper “It is I.”

> Frances Ridley Havergal <

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Let your conversation be without covetousness;

and be content with such things as ye have:

for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.

 > Hebrews 13:5 <

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Happy Sunday

At last the grace in sight

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W a l l   G r e e n s

Trinity Street

Abbeville, South Carolina

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I cross till I am weary

A Mountain -- in my mind --

More Mountains -- then a Sea --

More Seas -- And then

A Desert -- find --

And My Horizon blocks

With steady -- drifting -- Grains

Of unconjectured quantity --

As Asiatic Rains --

Nor this -- defeat my Pace --

It hinder from the West

But as an Enemy's Salute

One hurrying to Rest --

What merit had the Goal --

Except there intervene

Faint Doubt -- and far Competitor --

To jeopardize the Gain?

At last -- the Grace in sight --

I shout unto my feet --

I offer them the Whole of Heaven

The instant that we meet --

They strive -- and yet delay --

They perish -- Do we die --

Or is this Death's Experiment --

Reversed -- in Victory?

> Emily Dickinson <

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Happy Saturday

An eye for such mysteries

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T h e   U p w a r d   L o o k

Boyce Street Alleyway

Newberry, South Carolina

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When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
"He was a man who used to notice such things"?

If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,
The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
"To him this must have been a familiar sight."

If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,
When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,
One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,
But he could do little for them; and now he is gone."

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,
Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"?

And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,
And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,
Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom,
"He hears it not now, but used to notice such things"?

> Thomas Hardy <

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Happy Friday

Though much is taken, much abides

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I n   A   R o u n d a b o u t   W a y

Entryway :: Knoxville Circles Series

Knoxville, Tennessee

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There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me,
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads -- you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

> Alfred, Lord Tennyson <

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Happy Thursday

I struggle not to stray

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S c a r s   A n d   A l l

Blanding Street

Columbia, South Carolina

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I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

> Stanley Kunitz <

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Happy Wednesday

A later era will differ

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O n e   F o u r   E i g h t   T h r e e

Olivette

Asheville, North Carolina

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Hidden, oh hidden
in the high fog
the house we live in,
beneath the magnetic rock,
rain-, rainbow-ridden,
where blood-black
bromelias, lichens,
owls, and the lint
of the waterfalls cling,
familiar, unbidden.

In a dim age
of water
the brook sings loud
from a rib cage
of giant fern; vapor
climbs up the thick growth
effortlessly, turns back,
holding them both,
house and rock,
in a private cloud.

At night, on the roof,
blind drops crawl
and the ordinary brown
owl gives us proof
he can count:
five times -- always five --
he stamps and takes off
after the fat frogs that,
shrilling for love,
clamber and mount.

House, open house
to the white dew
and the milk-white sunrise
kind to the eyes,
to membership
of silver fish, mouse,
bookworms,
big moths; with a wall
for the mildew’s
ignorant map;

darkened and tarnished
by the warm touch
of the warm breath,
maculate, cherished;
rejoice! For a later
era will differ.
(O difference that kills
or intimidates, much
of all our small shadowy
life!) Without water

the great rock will stare
unmagnetized, bare,
no longer wearing
rainbows or rain,
the forgiving air
and the high fog gone;
the owls will move on
and the several
waterfalls shrivel
in the steady sun.

> Elizabeth Bishop <

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Happy Tuesday