And pray to all in earnest

 

I LOVE TO SIT IN SILENCE
      1
I love to sit in silence
Beneath the shady trees
And listen to the song of birds
And to the buzz of bees.
        II
I love to sit in silence
And watch the Clouds roll by
Then read a book or sing a song
And hear the wild bird cry.
       III
I love to sit in silence
When the day is almost done
And see behind the distant hill
The paint glow of the sun.
       IV
I love to sit in silence
In the evening twilight
And listen to the whippor-will
Singing with all its might
        V
I love to sit in silence
Beneath the Starry sky
And pray to all in earnest
To live in silence all the while.

I’ve searched unsuccessfully to find the author of this poem.  If anyone knows, please tell me- I’d love for him or her to receive credit.

(Hotlinked images have a way of disappearing, so I went ahead and transcribed it.  I kept the capitalization and punctuation the same way it was in the image, because it’s not always clear what’s a mistake and what’s poetic license.)

Do Not Apply

I found this haiku on a xeroxed sheet tucked inside a book I bought from a charity sale, so I have no idea who the author is.  Pity, because I really like it:

I think for myself.
The warning signs do not apply
to an immortal.

I Am

Life at Midlife
by Mary Anne Perrone

I am no longer waiting for a special occasion; I burn the best candles on ordinary days.
I am no longer waiting for the house to be clean; I fill it with people who understand that even dust is Sacred.
I am no longer waiting for everyone to understand me; It’s just not their task.
I am no longer waiting for the perfect children; my children have their own names that burn as brightly as any star.
I am no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop; It already did, and I survived.
I am no longer waiting for the time to be right; the time is always now.
I am no longer waiting for the mate who will complete me; I am grateful to be so warmly, tenderly held.
I am no longer waiting for a quiet moment; my heart can be stilled whenever it is called.
I am no longer waiting for the world to be at peace; I unclench my grasp and breathe peace in and out.
I am no longer waiting to do something great; being awake to carry my grain of sand is enough.
I am no longer waiting to be recognized; I know that I dance in a holy circle.
I am no longer waiting for Forgiveness.
I believe, I Believe.

Lucretius, not Locutus

Excerpt from On The Nature of Things by Lucretius, translated by Charles E. Bennett ©1946:

Not wholly, then, doth perish what may seem
To die, since from one thing doth nature build
Another, nor will suffer aught to come
To birth without the death of something else.

A lot of things that were codified into scientific laws were sort of intuitive all along.  A generation before Christ’s birth, Lucretius put the Law of Conservation of Energy into poetic form.

Of course, a thing is true whether or not you write it down.

At least one English translation of On The Nature of Things is in the public domain, and may be downloaded freely from Project Gutenberg, HERE.

Beastie

To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, November, 1785
by Robert Burns

 

Side by side comparison (via Wikipedia)
The original wording The poem in modern English

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.

Thy wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

Little, artful, cowering, timid beast,
Oh, what a panic is in your heart!
You need not start away so hasty
With bickering prattle!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering scraper

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes you startle
At me, your poor, earth born companion
And fellow mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, that you may steal;
What then? Poor beast, you must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it.

Your small house, too, in ruin!
Its feeble walls the winds are scattering!
And nothing now, to build a new one,
Of coarse green foliage!
And bleak December’s winds coming,
Both bitter and piercing!

You saw the fields laid bare and empty,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! The cruel plough passed
Out through your cell.

That small heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter’s sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.

But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still you are blessed, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

Be Still

Move to the left,
And you create right.

Move up,
And you create down.

Cling to the so-called “good,”
And evil appears.

Every move
Manifests its opposite.

Therefore,
Live solely from the center.

Be still.

~excerpt from The Tao of Now ©2008 by Daniel Skach-Mills (via Draw & Wings)

Too

The Rumi poem I posted yesterday reminded me of this old favorite by Robert Frost.  (Via Poetry Foundation)

The Pasture
By Robert Frost

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha’n’t be gone long.  —You come too.

I’m going out to fetch the little calf
That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha’n’t be gone long.  —You come too.