GENTLE SPRING

GENTLE SPRING ! ~ in sunshine clad.
     Well dost thou thy power display !
For Winter maketh the light heart sad,
     And thou, ~ thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain,
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
     When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
     Their beards of icicles and snow ;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
     We must cower over the embers low ;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
     When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
     Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ;
But, Heaven he praised, they step is nigh ;
     Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly.
Who has toiled for nouht both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
     When thy merry step draws near.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Feb. 27, 1807 - Mar. 24, 1882) American poet.

The Spirit of Poetry

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows ;
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought.
When the fast-ushering star of Morning comes
O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf ;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace !  That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade ;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind.  And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift.  Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle ~
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, ~
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Feb. 27, 1807 - Mar 24, 1882)  American poet.
The Poetical Works of Longfellow. Frederick Warne & Co.

WIND AND WINDOW FLOWER

Lovers, forget your love,
  And list to the love of these.
She a window flower,
  And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil
  Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
  Hung over her in tune,

He marked her through the pane
  He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
  To come again at dark.

He was a winter wind,
  Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
  And little of love could know.

But he sighed upon the sill,
  He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
  Who lay that night awake.

Perchance he half prevailed
  To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
  And warm stove-window light.

But the flower leaned aside
  And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
  A hundred miles away.

~ Robert Frost

Woods in Winter

When Winter winds are piercing chill,
   And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill
   That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away
   Through the long reach of dessert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
   And gladden these deep solitudes.

When, twisted round the barren oak,
   The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
   The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
   Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
   And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas !  how changed from the fair scene,
   When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
   And the song ceased not with the day.

 But still wild music is abroad,
   Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
   Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds !  my ear
   Has grown familiar with your song ;
I hear it in the opening year, ~
   I listen, and it cheers me long.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Feb. 27, 1807 - Mar. 24, 1882) American poet

The Secret of The Sea

AH!  what pleasant visions haunt me
     As I gaze upon the sea !
All the old romantic legends,
     All my dreams, come back to me.

Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,
     Such as gleam in ancient lore;
And the singing of the sailers,
     And the answer from the shore !

Most of all, the Spanish ballad
     Haunts me oft, and tarries long,
Of the noble Count Arnaldos
     And the sailor's mystic song.

Like the long waves on a sea-beach,
     Where the sand as silver shines,
With a soft monotonous cadence,
     Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ;-

Telling how the Count Arnaldos,
     With his hawk upon his hand,
Saw a fair and stately galley,
     Steering onward to the land ;-

How he heard the ancient helmsman
     Cant a song so wild and clear,
That the sailing sea-bird slowly
     Poised upon the mast to hear,

Till his soul was full of longing,
     And he cried with impulse strong, --
     "Helmsman ! for the love of heaven,
     Teach me, too, that wondrous song !"

"Wouldst thou," so the helmsman answered,
     "Learn the secrets of the sea?
Only those who brave its dangers
     Comprehend its mystery !"

In each sail that skims the horizon,
     In each landward-blowing breeze,
I behold that stately galley,
     Hear those mournful melodies ;

Till my soul is full of longing
     For the secret of the sea,
And the heart of the great ocean
     Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Feb. 27, 1807 - Mar. 24, 1882) American Poet,
THE POETICAL WORKS OF LONGFELLOW, Frederick Warne & Co.


[Secret of this sea is a photo of Lake Erie.]

THE TABLES TURNED

Up!  up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double;
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening luster mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books!  'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music!  on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark!  how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher;
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless ~
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things ~
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

~ William Wordsworth, English poet (1770 - 1850) Selected Poems, 1993 Gramercy Books

The Piece Bag

A square of chintz ~ what memories it brings
Of golden dawns; of pleasant country things;
A moonlit scented garden after rain,
And glimpse of beechwoods through a latticed pane.


Serge and grey flannel, eloquent of boys,
Recall past days of jollity and noise;
Of chestnuts roasting in the fire's red glow,
And thrilling stories told when lights were low.

Organdie, muslin, dainty ends of lace
And silk, bridge for my eager mind time's space,
And waken sliver echoes, silent long,
Of girlish voices gay with mirth and song.

O remnants treasured here for future need,
You've been to loneliness a boon indeed;
For in my odd-piece bag, 'twixt smiles and tears,
I read the happy story of the years.

~ Ellen Elliott  [Yellowed clipping from THE GLOBE, TORONTO, FRIDAY OCTOBER 12 - year unknown.]

Weather

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
                   And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
                   And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at "The Traveller's Rest",
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
                    And so do I.

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
                    And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
                    And thresh, and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on thoe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate-bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
                    And so do I.

~ Thomas Hardy (June 1848 - Jan. 11, 1928)  English novelist, poet.


"It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs." ~ Thomas Hardy

https://www.womensmarch.com/event-details/  On Jan. 21, 2017 women marched on Washington.

The Old Railway Bridge at Cayuga *

TRAVEL

The railroad track is miles away,
        And the day is loud with voices speaking.
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day
        But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by,
        Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
        And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,
        And better friends I'll not be knowing,
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
         No matter where it's going.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay  [Feb 22, 1892 - Oct. 19, 1950]  First woman to receive a Pulitzer Prize for poetry.

* The old Cayuga railway bridge is scheduled to become a walking trail. Photo lbw

THOUGHTS

I love the Autumn,
And yet I cannot say
All the thoughts and things
That make me feel this way.

I love walking on the angry shore,
To watch the angry sea;
Where summer people were before,
But now there's only me.

I love wood fires at night
That have a ruddy glow.
I stare at the flames
And think of long ago.

I love the feeling down inside me
That says to run away
To come and be a gypsy
And laugh the gypsy way.

The tangy taste of apples,
The snowy mist at morn,
The wanderlust inside you
When you hear the huntsman's horn.

Nostalgia---that's the Autumn,
Dreaming through September
Just a million lovely things
I always will remember.

~ Jacqueline Bouvier
A Family of Poems/  My Favorite Poetry For Children, Caroline Kennedy, HYPERION/HYPERION BOOKS FOR CHILDREN, 2005
[Please click on photo for larger image]

Blank Board Covering Word CLOSED

Scheduled to Align New Bridge W/Hwy 3 Saturday, August 27

Soon will the high midsummer
         pomps come on.
Soon will the musk carnations
        break and swell.
Soon will we have gold-dusted
        snapdragon
Sweet William with its homely
         cottage smell,
And stocks in fragrant blow,
Roses that down the alleys
         shine afar
And open jasmine-muffled
         lattices
And groups under the
         dreaming garden trees
And the full moon and the
         white evening star.

~ Matthew Arnold (1822 - 1888
     from "Thyrsis"

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET

The poetry of earth is never dead :
     When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
     And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead  ;
That is the Grasshopper's ~ he takes the lead
     In summer luxury, ~ he has never done
     With his delights ; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never :
     On a lone winter evening, when the frost
          Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
     And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
          The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

~ John Keats (1795 - 1821) English Romantic Poet.  The Poetical Works of John Keats edited with an Introduction and Textual Notes by H. Buxton Forman, C.B. , 1908 Reprinted...1940.

Third Thursday, May 19 ~ "Small is Great" A critical appreciation of selected very-short poetry & prose.  Dr. Alan Bishop will be presenting the topic.  Minimalist lit is generally undervalued, if not totally ignored, by critics.  Is that justifiable?  We will consider some examples of short poetry & prose; evaluating their qualities, questioning the general critical bias and considering relevant issues such as which criteria are appropriate in appreciating such writings.

The Red Wheelbarrow

 

so much depends

upon

- a red wheel

barrow

-glazed with rain

water

-beside the white

chickens

T. S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)

 



THE TREE

I stood still and was a tree amid the wood,
Knowing the truth of things unseen before;
Of Daphne and the laurel bow
And that god-feasting couple old
That grew elm-oak amid the wold.
'Twas not until the gods had been
Kindly entreated, and been brought within
Unto the hearth of their heart's home
That they might do this wonder thing:
Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood
And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before.

~ Ezra Pound ( b.1885 - 1972) American poet, author, critic.

The Flowers

ALL the names I know from nurse;
Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,
Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock.

Fairy places, fairy things,
Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,
Tiny trees for tiny dames ~
These must all be fairy names!

Tiny woods below whose boughs
Shady fairies weave a house;
Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,
Where the braver fairies climb!

Fair are grown-up people's trees,
But the fairest woods are these;
Where if I were not so tall,
I should live for good and all.

by Robert Louis Stevenson

 

 

The year's at the spring

And day's at the morn'

Morning's at seven'

The hill-side's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing'

The snail's on the thorn:

God's in his heaven ~

All's right with the world!

 

~ Robert Browning (1812 - 1889) English poet, playwright.

 

[Photos:  Ruthven, June 2011 lbw]

 

 

When the sun shines upon the crust of March
In the bare wood, how blue the shadows lie
Along the snow between the gray tree-boles!
And where the muffled stream runs, bluer still
Between its snowy banks edged with frail ice,
The silvery oaks and sugar maples stand
Like a faint tracing on a lacquer tray,
Or a worn pattern on old Sheffield plate.
The strong sun melts the snow in open places;
A calling crow flies over, trailing north
His silent shadow down the wooded slope;
And then to bring the winter scene to life,
Etched on the memory like a haunting smile
A bluebird flashes to an apple bough.

~  Bliss Carmen, "A Bluebird in March" ~ Sanctuary, Sunshine House Sonnets,
McClelland & Stewart, 1929.

Along the Grand

[Photos:  Cayuga-on-the-Grand, Feb., 2016 lbw]

SANCTUARY by Bliss Carman

Out of the turmoil whither shall I go?
How cure the fever of a mind distraught,
The crazed futility of haste assuage,
And dear serenity's lost poise restore?
Is there no respite for the racing pulse,
No haven from the day's demoniac din
And the relentless frenzy of the night?
Were may the haunting peace of God be found?
No cabined luxury contents the soul,
Homesick for solace of its native air.
For healing of the wind among the pines,
The stilling beauty of the clear new moon,
The strength of hills, the joy of singing streams,
Take any road at hand, to Out-of-doors.

~ ESCAPE by Bliss Carman (1861 - 1929) Canadian Poet Laureate

 

 

SANCTUARY SUNSHINE HOUSE SONNETS by Bliss Carman, Illustrations by Whitman Bailey.

McClelland & Stewart, 1929.

 

 

 

 

TOPIC:  Henri J.M. Nouwen (1932 - 1996) Dutch theologian, writer.

"I do love nothing in the world so well as you;  is not that strange?"
~ Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

"Love cannot be wasted.
It makes no difference where
it is bestowed; it always
brings in big returns."
~ Anonymous


"I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination...."
~ John Keats

"There's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream."
~ Thomas Moore


Compiled by Heather H. Copp, Harvest House Publishers, 1997.