One of my colleagues is a painter. Today he had a showing of his paintings. The theme was "Images of Hope".
One woman who stopped told me that this was just what she needed today, as she was feeling down in the morning. Likely the weather,
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Poetry
I found a new poetry book. Bartlett's Poems for Occasions William Butler Yeats. b. 1865 |
863. When You are Old |
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep | |
And nodding by the fire, take down this book, | |
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look | |
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; | |
How many loved your moments of glad grace, | 5 |
And loved your beauty with love false or true; | |
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, | |
And loved the sorrows of your changing face. | |
And bending down beside the glowing bars, | |
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled | 10 |
And paced upon the mountains overhead, | |
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. |
Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920. |
3. An Old Man’s Winter Night |
ALL out of doors looked darkly in at him | |
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars, | |
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms. | |
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze | |
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand. | 5 |
What kept him from remembering what it was | |
That brought him to that creaking room was age. | |
He stood with barrels round him—at a loss. | |
And having scared the cellar under him | |
In clomping there, he scared it once again | 10 |
In clomping off;—and scared the outer night, | |
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar | |
Of trees and crack of branches, common things, | |
But nothing so like beating on a box. | |
A light he was to no one but himself | 15 |
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what, | |
A quiet light, and then not even that. | |
He consigned to the moon, such as she was, | |
So late-arising, to the broken moon | |
As better than the sun in any case | 20 |
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof, | |
His icicles along the wall to keep; | |
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt | |
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted, | |
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept. | 25 |
One aged man—one man—can’t fill a house, | |
A farm, a countryside, or if he can, | |
It’s thus he does it of a winter night. |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)