“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I’ve heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
Emily Dickinson
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
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.
Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
It occurs to me this first day of the New Year that I am well, abundant and free.
Fortunate, blessed are we.
There are no worries today.
The best is now and yet to come.
It occurs to me that to have the ability to smell the roses, to see the sky, to hear the birds sing, to hug the ones you love and taste the elixir of life is pure joy, being totally alive.
We know in our hearts to be free of strife.
This too we know, let go of your woes, negativity will never serve us well.
We might not have it all, still we must strive to pick ourselves up when we fall.
The best is now and yet to come.
It occurs to me to be here now.
Not to wait, nor hesitate.
Life is in this moment, nowhere else.
Believe, focus and achieve.
This is a truth that does not deceive
The best is now and yet to come.
It occurs to me that you are the most beautiful thing created, that is so of of others.
That it must be so of me.
See the courage, kindness and compassion in you.
See the courage, kindness and compassion in me.
That is so of others, that it must be so of me.
We are marvelous souls indeed.
Live your life today without desire and greed.
The best is now and yet to come.
Be here now.
Don’t delay.
The journey started when we were born; we learn along the way, yet, living for only this moment.
Only this day.
The journey has just begun.
Follow the path that is yours, there is a trail, allow life to show you the way.
It will you know, if you simply let go.
The best is now and yet to come.
It occurs to me that are smiles, lives and loves, are all gifts.
Embrace the abundance that is, throw away your concerns, have faith.
Magnificence is all around.
Every day there are miracles to be found.
The best is now and yet to come.
Yes life can be a struggle, a challenge, and a chase.
Sometimes we garner, sometimes we waste.
But it is what it is, no less, no more.
If you let life happen with positive believes and acts.
Ecstasy and joy will be with you forever more.
The best is now and yet to come.
Z
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Poem of the day:
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| DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do go– Rest of their bones and souls’ delivery! Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die! |
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There is another sky by Emily Dickinson
There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields –
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!
“I have lived on the lip of insanity, wanting to know reasons,
knocking on the door. It opens.
I’ve been knocking from the inside.”
Rumi
Dreams by Edgar Allan Poe
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho’ that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
‘Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be- that dream eternally
Continuing- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
‘Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell’d, when the sun was bright
I’ the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,- have left my very heart
In climes of my imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?
‘Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass- some power
Or spell had bound me- ’twas the chilly wind
Came o’er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit- or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly- or the stars- howe’er it was
That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.
I have been happy, tho’ in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
