Love's purest joys restored

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C r o s s i n g   O v e r

Grove Street Cemetery

New Haven, Connecticut

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Be still my soul; the Lord is on thy side

Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain

Leave to they God to order and provide

In every change He faithful will remain

Be still my soul; thy best, thy heavenly Friend

Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still my soul; thy God doth undertake

To guide the future as He has the past

Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake

All now mysterious shall be bright at last

Be still my soul; the waves and winds still know

His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still my soul; though dearest friends depart

And all is darkened in the vale of tears

Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart

Who comes to soothe thy sorrows and thy fears

Be still my soul; thy Jesus can repay

From his own fulness all He takes away.

Be still my soul; the hour is hastening on

When we shall be forever with the Lord

When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone

Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored

Be still my soul; when change and tears are past

All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

= Catharina von Schlegel =

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And the work of righteousness shall be peace;

and the effect of righteousness

quietness and assurance for ever.

Isaiah 32:17

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Happy Sunday

The eye turns inward

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W e e p i n g   E n d u r e s   f o r   a   N i g h t

Kensico Cemetery

Valhalla, New York

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Nothing is lost! the white
shellwhite
glassy, linenwhite, crystalwhite
crocuses with orange centers
the purple crocus with
an orange center, the yellow
crocus with a yellow center --

That which was large but
seemed spent of
power to fill the world with
its wave of splendor is
overflowing again into every
corner --

Though the eye
turns inward, the mind
has spread its embrace -- in
a wind that
roughs the stiff petals --
More! the particular flower is
blossoming ...

= William Carlos Williams =

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Happy Saturday

Let the war be won

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G o   W i t h   t h e   F l o w

Olivette

Asheville, North Carolina

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let there be new flowering
in the fields let the fields
turn mellow for the men
let the men keep tender
through the time let the time
be wrested from the war
let the war be won
let love be
at the end

= Lucille Clifton =

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Happy Friday

Not the wind in the orchard

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C a r   F e t c h e d

South Shore Line

Chicago, Illinois

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You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and -- somehow -- the wine.

= Billy Collins =

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Happy Thursday

Where all the waters meet

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G o i n g   U n d e r

Wrightsville Beach

Wilmington, North Carolina

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What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog
What images return
O my daughter.

Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Death
Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death

Are become insubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place

What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger --
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.

Bowsprit cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.

What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter.

= T.S. Eliot =

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Happy Wednesday