Autumn In The Garden - Poem by Henry Van Dyke

'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox,
Where the box
Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks,
There's a voice that talks
Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here
Year by year,--
Dreams of joy, that brightened all the labouring hours,
Fading as the flowers.

Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief;
But relief
For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow
From the Long-Ago,
When I think of other lives that learned, like mine,
To resign,
And remember that the sadness of the fall
Comes alike to all.

What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs!
And what prayers
For the silent strenght that nerves us to endure
Things we cannot cure!
Pacing up and down the garden where they paced,
I have traced
All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find
Comfort in my mind.

Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear:
Yet how near
Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face,
Of the human race!
Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart,
Not apart!
They who know the sorrows other lives have known
Never walk alone.

Henry Van Dyke

A Volunteer's Prayer

"I thank Thee, Lord as a volunteer 

For the chance to serve another year. 

And to give of myself in some small way, 

To those not blessed as I each day.

My thanks for health and mind and soul, 

To aid me ever toward my goal. 

For eyes to see the good in all, 

A hand to extend before a fall. 

For legs to go where the need is great, 

Learning to love—forgetting to hate. 

For ears to hear and heart to care, 

When someone's cross is hard to bear. 

A smile to show my affection true, 

With energy aplenty—the task to do.

And all I ask, dear Lord, if I may, 

Is to serve you better day by day."

Heaven - Poem by George Herbert

Oh who will show me those delights on high!

Echo I

Thou Echo, thou art mortal, all men know.

Echo No

Wert thou not born among the trees and leaves?

Echo Leaves

And are there any leaves, that still abide?

Echo Bide

What leaves are they? Impart the matter wholly.

Echo Holy

Are holy leaves the Echo then of blisse?

Echo Yes

Then tell me, what is that supreme delight?

Echo Light

Light to the minde: what shall the will enjoy?

Echo Joy

But are there cares and business with the pleasure?

Echo Leisure

Light, joy and leisure; but shall they persever?

Echo Ever

Ode a la Esperanza

Ode a la Esperanza

Crepusculo marino,

en medio

de mi vida,

las olas como uvas,

la soledad del cielo,

me llenas

y desbordas,

todo el mar,

todo el cielo,

movimiento

y espacio,

los batallones blancos 

de la espuma,

la tierra anaranjada,

la cintura

incendiada

del sol en agonia,

tantos

dones y dones,

aves

que acuden a sus suenos,

y el mar, el mar,

aroma

suspendido,

coro de sal sonora,

mientras tanto,

nosotros,

los hombres,

junto al agua,

luchando

y esperando

junto al mar,

esperando.

Las olas dicen a la costa firme:

"Todo sera cumplido." 

Pablo Neruda

( By the way, loving an author's poem does not mean one approves his political affiliation per se. A message for my readers: I only like Pablo as a poet.)

Yoga or stretching?

A Footing on this Earth

I sought Him where my logic led.

        "This friend is always sure and right;

        His lantern is sufficient light.

    I need no Star," I said.

    I sought Him in the city square.

        Logic and I went up and down

        The marketplace of many a town,

    But He was never there.

    I tracked Him to the mind's far rim.

        The valiant intellect went forth

        To east and west and south and north,

    But found no trace of Him.

    We walked the world from sun to sun,

        Logic and I, with Little Faith,

        But never came to Nazareth,

    Nor met the Holy One.

    We sought in vain. And finally,

        Back to the heart's small house I crept,

        And fell upon my knees, and wept;

    And Lo! He came to me!

    

Sara Henderson Hay (1906-1987), A Footing on this Earth: Poems, Doubleday, 1966, p. 214

Important Question

During my second month of nursing school, our professor gave us a pop quiz. I was a conscientious student and had breezed through the questions, until I read the last one: 'What is the first name of the woman who cleans the school?" Surely this was some kind of joke. I had seen the cleaning woman several times. She was tall, dark-haired and in her 50s, but how would I know her name? I handed in my paper, leaving the last question blank. Before class ended, one student asked if the last question would count toward our quiz grade. Absolutely, said the professor. "In your careers you will meet many people. All are significant. They deserve your attention and care, even if all you do is smile and say hello". I've never forgotten that lesson. I also learned her name was Dorothy.

Author unknown.

The Kiss!

Ode To The Lemon by Pablo Neruda

Ode To The Lemon by Pablo Neruda

From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its plantarium
lemons descended to the earth.

Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.

Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.

So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant nipple
of the earth's breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.