November 12, 2018

Earth Voices


HEARD the spring wind whisper
Above the brushwood fire,
"The world is made forever
Of transport and desire.

  
"I am the breath of being,
The primal urge of things;
I am the whirl of star dust,
I am the lift of wings.
 
"I am the splendid impulse
That comes before the thought,
The joy and exaltation
Wherein the life is caught.
 
"Across the sleeping furrows
I call the buried seed,
And blade and bud and blossom
Awaken at my need.
 
"Within the dying ashes
I blow the sacred spark,
And make the hearts of lovers
To leap against the dark."


 
II
 
I heard the spring light whisper
Above the dancing stream,
"The world is made forever
In likeness of a dream.
 
"I am the law of planets,
I am the guide of man;
The evening and the morning
Are fashioned to my plan.
 
"I tint the dawn with crimson,
I tinge the sea with blue;
My track is in the desert,
My trail is in the dew.
 
"I paint the hills with color,
And in my magic dome
I light the star of evening
To steer the traveller home.


 
"Within the house of being,
I feed the lamp of truth
With tales of ancient wisdom
And prophecies of youth."
 
III
 
I heard the spring rain murmur
Above the roadside flower,
"The world is made forever
In melody and power.
 
"I keep the rhythmic measure
That marks the steps of time,
And all my toil is fashioned
To symmetry and rhyme.
 
"I plow the untilled upland,
I ripe the seeding grass,
And fill the leafy forest
With music as I pass.



"I hew the raw, rough granite
To loveliness of line,
And when my work is finished,
Behold, it is divine!
 
"I am the master-builder
In whom the ages trust.
I lift the lost perfection
To blossom from the dust."
 
IV
 
Then Earth to them made answer,
As with a slow refrain
Born of the blended voices
Of wind and sun and rain,
"This is the law of being
That links the threefold chain:
The life we give to beauty
Returns to us again."

~ Carman

A Tip For You Deer Hunters









An injured buck will seek water.

November 10, 2018

Frost

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening





Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

November 06, 2018

Wendell Berry

The Peace Of The Wild Things

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. 


~ Berry