VI ~  Emily Dickinson

Besides the autumn poets sing,

A few prosaic days

A little this side of the snow

And that side of the haze.

A few incisive mornings,

A few ascetic eves, ~

Gone Mr. Bryant's goldenrod,

And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.

Still is the bustle in the brook,
Sealed are the spicy valves;
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many elves.

Perhaps a squirrel may remain,
My sentiments to share.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,
Thy windy will to bear!

Websters Falls, Ontario

Mature Man

The happiest man

I ever knew

Was scarcely

Clad at all;

He had no bath

Like me and you,
But owned a waterfall.
And every sunrise he would wade
The streamlet silver bright,
To stand beneath the clear cascade

With sheer delight.

The happiest man I ever knew
Lived in a forest glade;

His hut of palm-leaf and bamboo

With his own hands he made.
And for his breakfast he would pick
A bread-fruit from the tree,
Or lobster he would gaily flick

From out the sea.

Thank you Neil Paul for yet another fascinating reading.  Also thank you to Elizabeth for sharing the above poem "Mature Man" by Robert Service.

Photo of Websters Falls:  Courtesy of Michael Rozon.




Brantwood Villa ~ Cayuga

 

25 years ~ Residents and Staff Celebrate

Photos:  lbw.  November 15, 2012

Brantwood Villa ~
Opened  in 1987 the culmination of many years of planning and unrelenting commitment on the part of individuals who saw the need for affordable housing for seniors.  The street leading to Brantwood is aptly named:  Robert Dell after our former councillor.

Robert Service c. 1905 Wikipedia

Poet, author, Robert Service*  is the topic today in The Neat L'l Bookshop.   Join us in the afternoon anytime 1:00 p.m.

The following poem was written while Service was staying comfortably in a friend's "little house" near the sea.  He speaks wistfully about someday having his own place.

I HAVE SOME FRIENDS

I have some friends, some worthy friends,

And worthy friends are rare:

These carpet slippers on my feet,

That padded leather chair;

This old and shabby dressing-gown,

So well the worse of wear.

I have some friends, some honest friends,

And honest friends are few;

My pipe of briar, my open fire,

A book that's not too new;

My bed so warm, the nights of storm

I love to listen to.

I have some friends, some good, good friends

Who faithful are to me:

My wrestling partner when I rise,

The big and burly sea;

My little boat that's riding there

So saucy and so free.

I have some friends, some golden friends,

Whose worth will not decline:

A tawny Irish terrier, a purple shading pine,

A little red-roofed cottage that

So proudly I call mine.

All other friends may come and go,

All other friendships fail;

But these, the friends I've worked to win,

Oh, they will never stale;

And comfort me till Time shall write

The finish to my tale.

* (1874 - 1958)

Complete Poems of Robert Service, Dodd, Mead & Co., 1907.

The Neat Little Bookshop  will be closed today in order for us to attend a family funeral.  We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience.
We will return tomorrow and look forward to Neil Paul's visit.  Join Neil for a reading of the poet Robert Service.

Lake Erie Haldimand County

This world is not conclusion

a sequel stands beyond,

Invisible, as music,

But positive, as sound.

It beckons and it baffles;

Philosophies don't know,

And through a riddle, at the last,

Sagacity must go.

To guess it puzzles scholars;

To gain it, men have shown

Contempt of generations,

And crucifixion known.

~ Emily Dickinson, XXX1

"The Rhyme of the Restless Ones"

~ Last two stanzas of Robert Service's poem

And you'll find us in Alaska after gold,
And you'll find us herding cattle in the South.
We like strong drink and fun, and, when the race is run,
We often die with curses in our mouth.
We are wild as colts unbroke, but never mean.
Of our sins we've shoulders broad to bear the blame;
But we'll never stay in town and we'll never settle down,
And we'll never have an object or an aim.

No, there's that in us that time can never tame;
And life will always seem a careless game;
And they'd better far forget ~
Those who say they love us yet~
Forget, blot out with bitterness our name.


~ Collected Poems of Robert Service, Dodd, Mead & Company, 1907