Blog: Pictures-Books-Reflections

It is like the light coming through blue stained glass, Yet not quite like it, For the blueness is not transparent, Only translucent. Her soul's light shines through, But her soul cannot be seen. It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, childlike, wise And n

  I speak this poem now with grave and level voice In praise of autumn, of the far-horn-winding fall.   I praise the flower-barren fields, the clouds, the tall Unanswering branches where the wind makes sullen noise.   I praise the fall: it is the human sea

  patience   An absolute patience. Trees stand up to their knees in fog. The fog slowly flows uphill. White cobwebs, the grass leaning where deer have looked for apples. The woods from brook to where the top of the hill looks over the fog, send up no

  A nothing day full of wild beauty and the timer pings. Roll up the silver off the bay take down the clouds sort the spruce and send to laundry marked, more starch. Goodbye golden- and silver- rod, asters, bayberry crisp in elegance. Little fish stream by, a r

  yellow, sadness, colour fading: flower, the sun and rain have had their way with you and yet you are rich, you are immaculate against all you kept your excellence intact.

I never knew the earth had so much gold— The fields run over with it, and this hill Hoary and old, Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill.   Such golden fires, such yellow—lo, how good This spendthrift world, and what a lavish God! This fringe of woo

  Whatever you hoped, you will not find yourselves in the garden, among the growing plants. Your lives are not circular like theirs:   your lives are the bird's flight which begins and ends in stillness-- which begins and ends, in form echoing this arc from t

   @ @ @ A yellow flower (Light and spirit) Sings by itself For nobody.   A golden spirit (Light and emptiness) Sings without a word By itself.   Let no one touch this gentle sun In whose dark eye Someone is awake.   (No light, no gold, no

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.   The w

  The leaves are falling, falling, as from far away from distant gardens, somewhere in the sky they drift and wave, like someone saying 'no'   and through the night the earth is falling, too falling like all the lonely night sky stars   and all of us. Thi