Friday, March 8, 2013

Rain in Summer

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.

In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
Lifting the yoke encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well-watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures, and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees!
He can behold
Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.

He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,--
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers under ground;
And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer,
With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change
From birth to death, from death to birth,
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things, unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning forevermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

Little By Little

“Little by little,” an acorn said,
As it slowly sank in its mossy bed,
“I am improving every day,
Hidden deep in the earth away.”
Little by little, each day it grew;
Little by little, it sipped the dew;
Downward it sent out a thread-like root;
Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot.
Day after day, and year after year,
Little by little the leaves appear;
And the slender branches spread far and wide,
Till the mighty oak is the forest’s pride.
Far down in the depths of the dark blue sea,
An insect train work ceaselessly.
Grain by grain, they are building well,
Each one alone in its little cell.
Moment by moment, and day by day,
Never stopping to rest or to play,
Rocks upon rocks, they are rearing high,
Till the top looks out on the sunny sky.
The gentle wind and the balmy air,
Little by little, bring verdure there;
Till the summer sunbeams gayly smile
On the buds and the flowers of the coral isle.
“Little by little,” said a thoughtful boy,
“Moment by moment, I’ll well employ,
Learning a little every day,
And not spending all my time in play.
And still this rule in my mind shall dwell,
Whatever I do, I will do it well.
“Little by little, I’ll learn to know
The treasured wisdom of long ago;
And one of these days, perhaps, we’ll see
That the world will be the better for me”;
And do you not think that this simple plan
Made him a wise and useful man?

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Teddy Bears

Teddy Bear Poem

I threw away my teddy bear,
The one that lost his eye.
I threw him in the garbage pail
(I thought I heard him cry.)

I've had that little teddy bear
Since I was only two.
But I'm much bigger now and
I've got better things to do

Than play with silly teddy bears.
And so I said good-bye
And threw him in the garbage pail.
(Who's crying - he, or I?)

~Judith Viorst

The Coming of Teddy Bears

The air is quiet
     'Round my bed
The dark is drowsy
     In my head.
The sky's forgetting
     To be red,
And soon I'll be asleep.

A half a million
     Miles away
The silver stars
     Come out to play,
And comb their hair
     And that's okay
And soon I'll be asleep.

And teams of fuzzy
     Teddy bears
Are stumping slowly
     Up the stairs
To rock me in
     Their rocking chairs
And soon I'll be asleep.

The night is shining
     'Round my head
The room is snuggled
     In my bed.
"Tomorrow I'll be 
    Big," they said,
And soon I'll be asleep.
~Dennis Lee 

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Three Poems

Click here to go to NimbleSpirit to read three poems by Luci Shaw. You'll be glad you did.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Burn ME

"When the regime ordered
Books with dangerous knowledge
To be burned in public and everywhere
Oxen were forced to pull, carts with books
To the bonfires, one of the persecuted poets
Disconcerted, that his books were forgotten.
He rushed to his desk, flying on wings of rage
And wrote a letter to the authorities.
Burn me! He wrote with a quick stroke
Burn me! Don't do this to me! Do not spare me!
Have I not always reported the truth in my books?
Yet now you treat me as were I as a liar!
I command you: Burn me!"

By Bertolt, Brecht

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Who Shall Deliver Me?

Who Shall Deliver Me?

by Christina Georgina Rossetti

God strengthen me to bear myself;
That heaviest weight of all to bear,
Inalienable weight of care.

All others are outside myself;
I lock my door and bar them out
The turmoil, tedium, gad-about.

I lock my door upon myself,
And bar them out; but who shall wall
Self from myself, most loathed of all?

If I could once lay down myself,
And start self-purged upon the race
That all must run ! Death runs apace.

If I could set aside myself,
And start with lightened heart upon
The road by all men overgone!

God harden me against myself,
This coward with pathetic voice
Who craves for ease and rest and joys

Myself, arch-traitor to myself ;
My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe,
My clog whatever road I go.

Yet One there is can curb myself,
Can roll the strangling load from me
Break off the yoke and set me free.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Poetry of a Madwoman

This is for all of you homeschooling moms out there.  Pioneer Woman, aka Ree Drummond, takes a stab at poetry from time to time.

Poetry of a Madwoman, Vol. 2

May. 5, 2006

Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?
Their war cries pound my brain.
Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?
I slowly go insane.
Will you? Can I? Why not?
So goes the daily grind.
But wait–I am their mommy.
I love them.
Never mind.

Copyright 2006