Rush to the raging fire

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F l a m e   a n d   F o r t u n e

Elmwood Cemetery

Charlotte, North Carolina

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Nay, every race on earth of men, and beasts,
And ocean-folk, and flocks, and painted birds,
Rush to the raging fire: love sways them all.
Never than then more fiercely o'er the plain
Prowls heedless of her whelps the lioness:
Nor monstrous bears such wide-spread havoc-doom
Deal through the forests; then the boar is fierce,
Most deadly then the tigress: then, alack!
Ill roaming is it on Libya's lonely plains.
Mark you what shivering thrills the horse's frame,
If but a waft the well-known gust conveys?
Nor curb can check them then, nor lash severe,
Nor rocks and caverned crags, nor barrier-floods,
That rend and whirl and wash the hills away.
Then speeds amain the great Sabellian boar,
His tushes whets, with forefoot tears the ground,
Rubs 'gainst a tree his flanks, and to and fro
Hardens each wallowing shoulder to the wound.
What of the youth, when love's relentless might
Stirs the fierce fire within his veins? Behold!
In blindest midnight how he swims the gulf
Convulsed with bursting storm-clouds! Over him
Heaven's huge gate thunders; the rock-shattered main
Utters a warning cry; nor parents' tears
Can backward call him, nor the maid he loves,
Too soon to die on his untimely pyre.
What of the spotted ounce to Bacchus dear,
Or warlike wolf-kin or the breed of dogs?
Why tell how timorous stags the battle join?
O'er all conspicuous is the rage of mares,
By Venus' self inspired of old, what time
The Potnian four with rending jaws devoured
The limbs of Glaucus. Love-constrained they roam
Past Gargarus, past the loud Ascanian flood;
They climb the mountains, and the torrents swim;
And when their eager marrow first conceives
The fire, in Spring-tide chiefly, for with Spring
Warmth doth their frames revisit, then they stand
All facing westward on the rocky heights,
And of the gentle breezes take their fill;
And oft unmated, marvellous to tell,
But of the wind impregnate.

= Virgil =

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Happy Monday

A beautiful home of the soul

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A l m o s t   T h e r e

Old Brick Church Cemetery

Jenkinsville, South Carolina

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I have heard of a land on the faraway strand

'Tis a beautiful home of the soul;

Built by Jesus on high, where we never shall die,

'Tis a land where we never grow old.

In that beautiful home where we'll nevermore roam

We shall be in the sweet by and by;

Happy praise to the King thro' eternity sing,

'Tis a land where we never shall die.

When our work here is done and the life-crown is won

And our troubles and trials are o'er;

All our sorrows will end, and our voices will blend,

With the loved ones who've gone on before.

Never grow old, never grow old

In a land where we'll never grow old.

Never grow old, never grow old

In a land where we'll never grow old.

= James C. Moore =

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And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes;

and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow,

nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain:

for the former things are passed away.

= Revelation 21:4 =

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Happy Sunday

A grant of the divine

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I n   O r   O u t

Old Brick Church Cemetery

Jenkinsville, South Carolina

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Did Our Best Moment last --

'Twould supersede the Heaven --

A few -- and they by Risk -- procure --

So this Sort -- are not given --

Except as stimulants -- in

Cases of Despair --

Or Stupor -- The Reserve --

These Heavenly Moments are --

A Grant of the Divine --

That Certain as it Comes --

Withdraws -- and leaves the dazzled Soul

In her unfurnished Rooms

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday

Whir of wings in the drowsy air

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W a k e   M e   W h e n   I t ' s   B e g u n

Magnolia Cemetery

Augusta, Georgia

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Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,
Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands,
Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September
Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.
Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey
Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian bunters asserted
Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.
Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,
Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.
Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,
Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest
Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.

= Henry Wadsworth Longfellow =

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Happy Friday

Year be falling

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L i f e   O n   T h e   O u t s i d e

Magnolia Cemetery

Augusta, Georgia

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In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.

In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rooks went up with a raucous trill.
I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.

Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There's much that's fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
'Tis not love's going hurt my days.
But that it went in little ways.

= Edna St. Vincent Millay =

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Happy Thursday