Heart of Christ, we sing thy praises,
Well-spring of eternal life!
Through the sorrows of thy passion,
We find refuge from our strife.

Heart of Christ, thou dost embody
All the wonder of God's love!
Thou dost tell the tender mercies
Showered from our God above!

Heart of Christ, who bringest healing,
To the lowly and the weak!
Let us know thy loving-kindness;
Show thyself to all who seek!

Catalogue

Catalogue

The snow swirls at the window sills,
The drifts are high,
The pale-gold winter sunlight spills
From a cold sky;
But in my hands I hold a small
And lovely thing:
A nursery catalogue, with all
The light of spring
And summer in it, as I turn
A page and see
Tulips, and scarlet poppies burn
Their fires for me.

Across the winter whiteness drifts
The misty red
Of peonies, and blue smoke lifts
From a larkspur bed.
I warm my heart at a crimson rose;
These berries fee
My hunger, and an apple glows
To meet my need.

Swirl at my window, snow, and see
If you can imprison me!

Grace N. Crowell

From My Mother's Poetry Notebook

I can see my mother pouring over her seed and bulb catalogues.  My mother could grow anything; she had such a green thumb!  She also drew plans/ maps for her flower and vegetable gardens.  They were a lot of work, but I believe they gave her great joy.  My heart is gladdened to think of my mother, especially in her planning for growing things.

Let Me Flower As I Will

God, let me flower as I will!
For I am weary of the chill
Companionship of cloistered vines
And hothouse-nurtured columbines;
Oh, weary of the pruning-knife
That shapes my prim decorous life --
Of clambering trellises that hold me,
Of flawless patterned forms that mold me.

God, let me flower as I will!
A shaggy rambler on the hill --
Familiar with April's growing pain
Of green buds bursting after rain.
Oh, let me hear among the sheaves
Of autumn, the song of wistful leaves,
The lullaby of the brook that dallies
Among the high blue mountain valleys.
And may my comrades be but these:
Birds on the bough, and guzzling bees
Among my blossoms, as they sup
On the dew in my silver-petaled cup.

God, let my parching roots go deep
Among the cold green springs, and keep
Firm grip upon the mossy edges
Of imperishable granite ledges,
That thus my body may withstand
The avalanche of snow and sand,
The trample of the years, the flail
Of whipping wind and bouncing hail.
And when December with its shroud
Of fallen snow and leaden cloud,
Shall find me in the holiday
Of slumber, shimmering and gray
Against the sky -- and in the end,
My somber days shall hold no friend
But a whimpering wolf, and on the tree
A frozen bird -- so may it be.
For in that day I shall have won
The glory of the summer sun;
My leaves, by windy fingers played,
An eerie music shall have made;
I shall have known in some far land
The tender comfort of a Hand,
And the liquid beauty of a Tongue
That finds its syllables among
Wild wind and waterfall and rill --
God, let me flower as I will!

~ Lou Soret

Found in My Mother's Poetry Notebook

This one makes my heart ache with missing my mom, gratitude for who she was, and joy for her example to me.  God bless Almeda for ever and ever.

Easter by Auslander

Easter

     Be not too solemn on this day
     You who hurry forth to pray:
For the Lord who rose from death
Was once a child of Nazareth
Romping hither, running thence,
Happy in His innocence,
And in children found again
Faith that lifts the hearts of men.
Childlike faith, as quick and kind,
Can move mountains from the mind;
     You who hurry forth to pray
     Ponder this on Easter day.

~ Joseph Auslander

found in My Mother's Poetry Notebook

He will abide with thee.

Beautiful thoughts are those that bear
On the wings of love, a silent prayer
Over the mountains, or over the sea,
That His peace may ever abide with thee.
Abide with thee when the shadows fall,
When the day is done and the night birds call,
When the morning comes and the shadows flee,
I know He still will abide with thee.

Untitled by Unknown
Found in my Mothers Poetry Notebook

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

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.