Poem of the Week CXIX

From the author of September:

October's Bright Blue Weather

Helen Hunt Jackson 

O SUNS and skies and clouds of June,
        And flowers of June together,
    Ye cannot rival for one hour
        October's bright blue weather;

    When loud the bumble-bee makes haste,
        Belated, thriftless vagrant,
    And Golden-Rod is dying fast,
        And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

    When Gentians roll their fringes tight
        To save them for the morning,
    And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
        Without a sound of warning;

    When on the ground red apples lie
        In piles like jewels shining,
    And redder still on old stone walls
        Are leaves of woodbine twining;

    When all the lovely wayside things
        Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
    And in the fields, still green and fair,
        Late aftermaths are growing;

    When springs run low, and on the brooks,
        In idle golden freighting,
    Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
        Of woods, for winter waiting;

    When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
        By twos and twos together,
    And count like misers, hour by hour,
        October's bright blue weather.

    O suns and skies and flowers of June,
        Count all your boasts together,
    Love loveth best of all the year
        October's bright blue weather.

Have a listen 19.0

Originally from My Fair Lady, but (in my opinion) done best by good ol' Nat King Cole. Hearing this song always makes me want to dance.




Let me be on the street where you live.

Faults

"Especially be on your guard against and correct those faults which most annoy you in other people."
Thomas a Kempis, The Imitation of Christ

Poem of the Week CXVIII

The Conqueror Worm
Edgar Allan Poe

Lo! ’t is a gala night

   Within the lonesome latter years!   

An angel throng, bewinged, bedight

   In veils, and drowned in tears,   

Sit in a theatre, to see

   A play of hopes and fears,

While the orchestra breathes fitfully   

   The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,   

   Mutter and mumble low,

And hither and thither fly—

   Mere puppets they, who come and go   

At bidding of vast formless things

   That shift the scenery to and fro,

Flapping from out their Condor wings

   Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure   

   It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore   

   By a crowd that seize it not,

Through a circle that ever returneth in   

   To the self-same spot,

And much of Madness, and more of Sin,   

   And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,

   A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out   

   The scenic solitude!

It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs   

The mimes become its food,

And seraphs sob at vermin fangs

   In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!   

   And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

   Comes down with the rush of a storm,   

While the angels, all pallid and wan,   

   Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”   

   And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

Poem of the Week CXVII

Marie Magdalene
George Herbert

When blessed Marie wip'd her Saviour's feet,
(Whose precepts she had trampled on before)
And wore them for a jewell on her head,
Shewing his steps should be the street,
Wherein she thenceforth evermore
With pensive humbleness would live and tread:

She being stain'd herself, why did she strive
To make him clean, who could not be defil'd?
Why kept she not her tears for her own faults,
And not his feet? Though we could dive
In tears like seas, our sinnes are pil'd
Deeper than they, in words, and works, and thoughts.

Deare soul, she knew who did vouchsafe and deigne
To bear he filth; and that her sinnes did dash
Ev'n God himself: wherefore she was not loth,
As she had brought wherewith to stain,
So to bring in wherewith to wash:
And yet in washing one, she washed both.

Tebow and the network of Carthusian Monasteries

"It is simply unimaginable that any prominent Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist or Sikh quarterback, should such a fantasy of anthropology exist, would be subjected to the vileness that is publicly dumped on Tim Tebow."

Friends, I am definitely not a Florida fan, but I just read a very interesting article by George Weigel in the Southern Nebraska Register (thanks Tala) called "Tim Tebow and Christophobia" that I wanted to share with you. Don't worry, you don't have to be a cornhusker or a bugeater to read the article; National Catholic Register can help you out... read the article here.

Now, I think I only have one objection to Mr. Weigel. Who said the Southeastern Conference doesn't resemble a network of Carthusian monasteries? I mean, George, have you ever been to an SEC game? Haha.

In all seriousness, this is a great article. I especially appreciate how Weigel shows the commonalities and common fate of Tebow (and evangelical Christians) and devout Catholics.

Let me know what you think.

Latch-hook Flashbacks

I'm having latch-hook rug flashbacks, only this time, I think I've actually made something kinda useful, not just aesthetically pleasing (hehe)... I now crochet, thanks to sweet Chad Michael. Stay tuned for the finished product. I think we're calling it a "placemat".

On a completely unrelated note, here are some pictures of the beautiful Nashville sky.