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Saturday, June 10, 2017

Weave Lovely Dreams

Weave lovely dreams, my dear.  Use golden string
For warp and rainbow stuff and stars for woof,
But make your fairest pictures simple things: --
A little house beneath a lowered roof,
A garden running round, a swing where grass
Is worn away by happy children's feet,
Gay curtains, friendly chairs and shining glass,
And every joy that makes a home compete.

Dream much of sun and song and being glad,
As laughing lips and eyes adoring you.
But weave a share of rain and being sad,
For never can the dream of her come true
Who draws too gay a plan for her career,
Or shuts her eyes to living,
O my dear!

Untitled
Unknown author
Found in my mother's poetry notebook

Friday, April 21, 2017

Words are Birds by Francisco X. Alarcón

Words are Birds by Francisco X. Alarcón



This is a seemingly simple poem about words, and oh so lovely.

Monday, March 13, 2017

A Prayer To The God Of Nature

A Prayer To The God Of Nature

God of the roadside weed,
Grant I may humbly serve the humblest need.

God of the scarlet rose,
Give me the beauty that Thy love bestows.

God of the honey bees,
Help me to reach deep joys from all I see.

God of the spider's lure,
Let me, from mine own heart, unwind such grace.

God of the lilly's cup,
Till me! I hold the empty chalice up.

God of the sea -gull's wings,
Bear me above each dark and turbulent thing.

God of the watchful owl,
Help me to see at midnight, like this fowl.

God of the antelope,
Teach me to scale the highest crags of Hope.

God of the burrowing mole,
Let cold earth have no terror for my soul.

God of the chrysalis
Grant that my grave may be a call of bliss.

God of the butterfly,
Help me to vanquish Death, although I die.

~  Fredric Lawrence Knowles

From my mother's poetry notebook




Hang Me Among Your Winds

Hang Me Among Your Winds

Hang me among your winds, O God,
     Above the tremulous stars,
Like a harp of quivering silver strings,
     Showering, as it swings,
          Its tuneful bars
     Of eerie music on the earth.

Play over me, God,
     Your cosmic melodies;
The gusty overture for Spring's
     Caprice and wayward April's mirth;
          The sensuous serenade
     Of summer, languid in the alder glade;
          The wistful symphonies
     Of Autumn; and Winter's rhapsodies
          Among the drifted dunes --
     Her lullabies and her torrential tunes
Moody with wild cadenzas, with fitful stress
          And poignant soundlessness.

Touch me, O God, with but a gesture --
     And let each finger sweep
Over my strings until they leap
     With life; and rain
Their silver chimes upon the plain,
In harmonies of far celestial spaces
     Of high and holy places.

~ Lew Sarett

From my mother's poetry notebook

Love's Beauty

Love's Beauty

All that I had I gave you, never dreaming
Of a return; for it was love I gave.
I gave as a star gives her beauty streaming
In deep of night to a dark western wave.
It was my spirit that I yielded to you,
Surrendering all things; and I asked no more
Than that my mystery none other knew
Should be the secret diadem you wore.

But love is richer than we ever know:
We lavish it, and love comes back to us
A thousandfold.  How can I think it so?
How else?  Our little child proclaims it thus.
For in him love returns, in flower and light,
More than I gave you in the glimmering night.

~ Archibald Rutledge

From my mother's poetry notebook



Sunday, March 5, 2017

High Flight

High Flight

Ah, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds -- and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of -- wheeled and soared and swinging
High in the sunlit silence.  Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
Where never lark, or even eagle, flew;
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

~ John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

From my mother's poetry notebook

Moods

Moods

The Dawn is a pale, cold nun
    with a silver rosary,
And saint am I in the morning,
     who would not be?

But a man of the world am I,
     Careless and debonair
When the gypsy Dusk comes out of the west
     With a star in her hair.

~ Nellie Burget Miller