Riding to meet the Earl

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T h e   R e s t   O f   M y   R e s t

Elmwood Cemetery

Columbia, South Carolina

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Dropped into the Ether Acre --

Wearing the Sod Gown --

Bonnet of Everlasting Laces --

Brooch -- frozen on --

Horses of Blonde -- and Coach of Silver --

Baggage a strapped Pearl --

Journey of Down -- and Whip of Diamond --

Riding to meet the Earl --

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday

Love's not Time's fool

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W h i t e   P r i v i l e g e

Back Fence

Columbia, South Carolina

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Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error, and upon me prov'd,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

= William Shakespeare =

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in memory of my father

Blanchard Guy McManus

October 16, 1930 - September 13, 1968

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Happy Friday

Builders for eternity

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D a y   I s   D o n e

Off the Square

McDonough, Georgia

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Isn't it strange

That princes and kings,

And clowns that caper

In sawdust rings,

And common people

Like you and me

Are builders for eternity?

Each is given a bag of tools,

A shapeless mass,

A book of rules;

And each must make --

Ere life is flown --

A stumbling block

Or a steppingstone.

= R.L. Sharpe =

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Happy Thursday

Great days long dead

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K o e n i g   : :   T h e   S p h e r e

Battery Park

New York, New York

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I am a shell. From me you shall not hear

The splendid tramplings of insistent drums,

The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes,

Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear.

Yet, if you hold me close against the ear,

A dim, far whisper rises clamorously,

The thunderous beat and passion of the sea,

The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere.

Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings,

Making even Love in music audible,

And earth one glory. I am but a shell

That moves, not of itself, and moving sings;

Leaving a fragrance, faint as wine new-shed,

A tremulous murmur from great days long dead.

= Stephen Vincent Benét =

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Never Forget

Almost too much love

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S t e p - D o w n   U n i t

Riverside Cemetery

Asheville, North Carolina

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Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of -- was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Downhill at dusk?

I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they’re gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.

I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.

Now no joy but lacks salt,
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.

When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,

The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

= Robert Frost =

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Happy Tuesday