Love Quotes

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Midnight Mass for the Dying Year

Yes, the Year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and bleared!

Death, with frosty hand and cold,

Plucks the old man by the beard,

Sorely, sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,

Solemnly and slow;

Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,

It is a sound of woe,

A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain passes

The winds, like anthems, roll;

They are chanting solemn masses,

Singing, "Pray for

The Gift of His Presence

May we never be so focused on getting fits and presents that we forget to receive the gift of His presence.

Blind Bartimeus

Blind Bartimeus at the gates

Of Jericho in darkness waits;

He hears the crowd;--he hears a breath

Say, "It is Christ of Nazareth!"

And calls, in tones of agony,

The thronging multitudes increase;

Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!

But still, above the noisy crowd,

The beggar's cry is shrill and loud;

Until they say, "He calleth thee!"

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands

The crowd

Sonnet 41: I thank all who have loved me in their hearts

XLI

I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,

With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all

Who paused a little near the prison-wall

To hear my music in its louder parts

Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's

Or temple's occupation, beyond call.

But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall

When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's

Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot

Sonnet 27: My own Beloved, who hast lifted me

My own Beloved, who hast lifted me

From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,

And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown

A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully

Shines out again, as all the angels see,

Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,

Who camest to me when the world was gone,

And I who looked for only God, found thee!

I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.

As one

Sonnet 18: I never gave a lock of hair away

I never gave a lock of hair away

To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,

Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully,

I ring out to the full brown length and say

'Take it.' My day of youth went yesterday;

My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee,

Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree,

As girls do, any more: it only may

Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears,

Taught drooping from

Sonnet 29: I think of thee! my thoughts do twine and bud

I think of thee! my thoughts do twine and bud

About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,

Put out broad leaves, and soon there 's nought to see

Except the straggling green which hides the wood.

Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood

I will not have my thoughts instead of thee

Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly

Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,

Rustle thy boughs and set thy

A Dead Rose

O Rose! who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;

But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,---

Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee

Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away

An odour up the lane to last all day,---

If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,

And mix

Sonnet 32: The first time that the sun rose on thine oath

The first time that the sun rose on thine oath

To love me, I looked forward to the moon

To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon

And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.

Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;

And, looking on myself, I seemed not one

For such man's love! more like an out-of-tune

Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth

To spoil his song with, and which

Sonnet 07: The face of all the world is changed, I think

The face of all the world is changed, I think,

Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul

Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole

Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink

Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,

Was caught up into love, and taught the whole

Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole

God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,

And praise its sweetness, Sweet,

Sonnet 09: Can it be right to give what I can give?

Can it be right to give what I can give?

To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears

As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years

Re-sighing on my lips renunciative

Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live

For all thy adjurations? O my fears,

That this can scarce be right! We are not peers,

So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,

That givers of such gifts as mine are, must

Be

Sonnet 42: 'My future will not copy fair my past'

'My future will not copy fair my past'

I wrote that once; and thinking at my side

My ministering life-angel justified

The word by his appealing look upcast

To the white throne of God, I turned at last,

And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied

To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried

By natural ills, received the comfort fast,

While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff

Gave out

Sonnet 01: I thought once how Theocritus had sung

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,

The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point

I.

I stand on the mark beside the shore

Of the first white pilgrim's bended knee,

Where exile turned to ancestor,

And God was thanked for liberty.

I have run through the night, my skin is as dark,

I bend my knee down on this mark . . .

I look on the sky and the sea.

II.

O pilgrim-souls, I speak to you!

I see you come out proud and slow

From the land of the spirits pale as dew. . .

A Child Asleep

How he sleepeth! having drunken

Weary childhood's mandragore,

From his pretty eyes have sunken

Pleasures, to make room for more---

Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day before.

Nosegays! leave them for the waking:

Throw them earthward where they grew.

Dim are such, beside the breaking

Amaranths he looks unto---

Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do.

My Heart and I

I.

ENOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I.

We sit beside the headstone thus,

And wish that name were carved for us.

The moss reprints more tenderly

The hard types of the mason's knife,

As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life

With which we're tired, my heart and I.

II.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.

We dealt with books, we trusted men,

And in our own blood drenched the pen,

Sonnet 11: And therefore if to love can be desert

And therefore if to love can be desert,

I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale

As these you see, and trembling knees that fail

To bear the burden of a heavy heart,

This weary minstrel-life that once was girt

To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail

To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale

A melancholy music, 'why advert

To these things? O Beloved, it is plain

I am not of thy worth nor for

Sonnet 33: Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear

Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear

The name I used to run at, when a child,

From innocent play, and leave the cowslips piled,

To glance up in some face that proved me dear

With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear

Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled

Into the music of Heaven's undefiled,

Call me no longer. Silence on the bier,

While I call God 'call God! So let thy mouth

The Autumn

Go, sit upon the lofty hill,

And turn your eyes around,

Where waving woods and waters wild

Do hymn an autumn sound.

The summer sun is faint on them --

The summer flowers depart --

Sit still -- as all transform'd to stone,

Except your musing heart.

How there you sat in summer-time,

May yet be in your mind;

And how you heard the green woods sing

Beneath the freshening wind.

Though the

Sonnet 13: And wilt thou have me fashion into speech

And wilt thou have me fashion into speech

The love I bear thee, finding words enough,

And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,

Between our faces, to cast light on each?

I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach

My hand to hold my spirit so far off

From myself 'me' that I should bring thee proof

In words, of love hid in me out of reach.

Nay, let the silence of my womanhood

Commend

Comfort

SPEAK low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet

From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low

Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so

Who art not missed by any that entreat.

Speak to mo as to Mary at thy feet !

And if no precious gums my hands bestow,

Let my tears drop like amber while I go

In reach of thy divinest voice complete

In humanest affection -- thus, in sooth,

To lose the sense of

Sonnet 28: My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!

And yet they seem alive and quivering

Against my tremulous hands which loose the string

And let them drop down on my knee to-night.

This said, 'he wished to have me in his sight

Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring

To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,

Yet I wept for it! 'this, . . . the paper's light . . .

Said, Dear, I love

Sonnet 05: I lift my heavy heart up solemnly

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,

As once Electra her sepulchral urn,

And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn

The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see

What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,

And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn

Through the ashen grayness. If thy foot in scorn

Could tread them out to darkness utterly,

It might be well perhaps. But if instead

Thou wait beside me for the

Sonnet 35: If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange

And be all to me? Shall I never miss

Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss

That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,

When I look up, to drop on a new range

Of walls and floors, another home than this?

Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is

Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change?

That 's hardest. If to conquer love, has

Tears

THANK God, bless God, all ye who suffer not

More grief than ye can weep for. That is well--

That is light grieving ! lighter, none befell

Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.

Tears ! what are tears ? The babe weeps in its cot,

The mother singing, at her marriage-bell

The bride weeps, and before the oracle

Of high-faned hills the poet has forgot

Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for

Sonnet 23: Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead

Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,

Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?

And would the sun for thee more coldly shine

Because of grave-damps falling round my head?

I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read

Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine

But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine

While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead

Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.

Jabed Meeker (Humorist)

Twain? Oh, yes, I've heard Mark Twain
Heard him down to Pleasant Plain;
Funny? Yes, I guess so. Folks
Seemed to laugh loud at his jokes!
Laughed to beat the band; but I
Couldn't rightly make out why.
Guess his humor ain't refined.
Quite enough to suit my mind.
Mark's all right'right clever speaker'
But he can't touch Jabed Meeker;
And one thing that makes it queer
Is that Jabed lives right here.

Still the Light

twas' 11 days before Christmas, around 9:38
when 20 beautiful children stormed through heaven's gate.
their smiles were contagious, their laughter filled the air.
they could hardly believe all the beauty they saw there.
they were filled with such joy, they didn't know what to say.

they remembered nothing of what had happened earlier that day.
"where are we?" asked a little girl, as quiet as a mouse.
"this is heaven." declared a small boy. "we're spending Christmas at God's house."
when what to their wondering eyes did appear,
but Jesus, their savior, the children gathered near.
He looked at them and smiled, and they smiled just the same.
then He opened His arms and He called them by name.
and in that moment was joy, that only heaven can bring
those children all flew into the arms of their King
and as they lingered in the warmth of His embrace,
one small girl turned and looked at Jesus' face.
and as if He could read all the questions she had
He gently whispered to her, "I'll take care of mom and dad."
then He looked down on earth, the world far below
He saw all of the hurt, the sorrow, and woe
then He closed His eyes and He outstretched His hand,
"Let My power and presence re-enter this land!"
"may this country be delivered from the hands of fools"
"I'm taking back my nation. I'm taking back my schools!"
then He and the children stood up without a sound.
"come now my children, let me show you around."
excitement filled the space, some skipped and some ran.
all displaying enthusiasm that only a small child can.
and i heard Him proclaim as He walked out of sight,
"in the midst of this darkness, I AM STILL THE LIGHT."

Written by Cameo Smith, Mt. Wolf, PA

Road of Discipleship

“Wherever you now find yourself on the road of discipleship, you are on the right road, the road toward eternal life. Together we can lift and strengthen one another in the great days ahead. Whatever the difficulties confronting us, the weaknesses confining us, or the impossibilities surrounding us, let us have faith in the Son of God, who declared, 'All things are possible to him that believeth.'” –Neil L. Andersen

Someone Else's Middle

Kneel

A Health to Mark Twain

At his Birthday Feast

With memories old and wishes new

We crown our cups again,

And here's to you, and here's to you

With love that ne'er shall wane!

And may you keep, at sixty-seven,

The joy of earth, the hope of heaven,

And fame well-earned, and friendship true,

And peace that comforts every pain,

And faith that fights the battle through,

And all your heart's unbounded wealth,

And

Silent Night: The Spirit of Christmas

God Grant Me

Barren Woman, Sylvia Plath

Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars,
porticoes, rotundas.
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks
back into itself,
Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.

I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Insread, the dead injure me attentions, and nothing
can

A Birthday Present

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking'Is this the one I am too appear for,Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,Adhering to rules, to rules,

Alicante Lullaby, by Sylvia Plath

In Alicante they bowl the barrels
Bumblingly over the nubs of the cobbles
Past the yellow-paella eateries,
Below the ramshackle back-alley balconies,
While the cocks and hens
In the roofgardens
Scuttle repose with crowns and cackles.

Kumquat-colored trolleys ding as they trundle
Passengers under an indigo fizzle
Needling spumily down from the wires:
Alongside the sibliant narhor the lovers
Hear

Buddha at Kamakura

O ye who tread the Narrow WayBy Tophet-flare to Judgment Day,Be gentle when "the heathen" pray To Buddha at Kamakura!To him the Way, the Law, apart,Whom Maya held beneath her heart,Ananda's Lord, the Bodhisat, The Buddha of Kamakura.For though he neither burns nor sees,Nor hears ye thank your Deities,Ye have not sinned with such as these, His children at Kamakura,Yet spare us still the Western

The Children's Song

Puck of Pook's Hills

Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee
Our love and toil in the years to be;
When we are grown and take our place
As men and women with our race.

Father in Heaven who lovest all,
Oh, help Thy children when they call;
That they may build from age to age
An undefiled heritage.

Teach us to bear the yoke in youth,
With steadfastness and careful truth;
That, in our time, Thy

A Christmas Memory

Pa he bringed me here to stay'Til my Ma she's well.--An' nenHe's go' hitch up, Chris'mus-day,An' come take me back againWher' my Ma's at! Won't I beTickled when he comes fer me!My Ma an' my A'nty they'Uz each-uvver's sisters. Pa--A'nty telled me, th' other day,--He comed here an' married Ma....A'nty said nen, 'Go run play,I must work now!' ... An' I saw,When she turn' her face away,She 'uz cryin'

A Bride

'O I am weary!' she sighed, as her billowyHair she unloosed in a torrent of goldThat rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy,Graceful and fair as a goddess of old:Over her jewels she flung herself drearily,Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast,Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearilyClung in her hair like a dove in its nest--.And naught but her shadowy form in the mirrorTo kneel in

A Poet's Wooing

I woo'd a woman once,But she was sharper than an eastern wind.Tennyson"What may I do to make you glad,To make you glad and free,Till your light smiles glanceAnd your bright eyes danceLike sunbeams on the sea?Read some rhyme that is blithe and gayOf a bright May morn and a marriage day?"And she sighed in a listless way she had,--"Do not read--it will make me sad!""What shall I do to make you glad-

The Old Times Were the Best

Friends, my heart is half awearyOf its happiness to-night:Though your songs are gay and cheery,And your spirits feather-light,There's a ghostly music hauntingStill the heart of every guestAnd a voiceless chorus chantingThat the Old Times were the best.CHORUSAll about is bright and pleasantWith the sound of song and jest,Yet a feeling's ever presentThat the Old Times were the best.

The Song of Yesterday

I

But yesterday
I looked away
O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay
In golden blots,
Inlaid with spots
Of shade and wild forget-me-nots.

My head was fair
With flaxen hair,
And fragrant breezes, faint and rare,
And, warm with drouth
From out the south,
Blew all my curls across my mouth.

And, cool and sweet,
My naked feet
Found dewy pathways through the wheat;
And out again
Where

A Child-World

_The Child-World--long and long since lost to view--A Fairy Paradise!--How always fair it was and fresh and new--How every affluent hour heaped heart and eyesWith treasures of surprise!Enchantments tangible: The under-brinkOf dawns that launched the sightUp seas of gold: The dewdrop on the pink,With all the green earth in it and blue heightOf heavens infinite:The liquid, dripping songs of

Birds Of Passage

Black shadows fallFrom the lindens tall,That lift aloft their massive wallAgainst the southern sky;And from the realmsOf the shadowy elmsA tide-like darkness overwhelmsThe fields that round us lie.But the night is fair,And everywhereA warm, soft vapor fills the air,And distant sounds seem near,And above, in the lightOf the star-lit night,Swift birds of passage wing their flightThrough the dewy

A Psalm Of Life

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and

Wind Song

LONG ago I learned how to sleep,

In an old apple orchard where the wind swept by counting its money and throwing it away,

In a wind-gaunt orchard where the limbs forked out and listened or never listened at all,

In a passel of trees where the branches trapped the wind into whistling, 'Who, who are you?'

I slept with my head in an elbow on a summer afternoon and there I took a sleep lesson.

Work Gangs, poem by Carl Sandburg

BOX cars run by a mile long.

And I wonder what they say to each other

When they stop a mile long on a sidetrack.

Maybe their chatter goes:

I came from Fargo with a load of wheat up to the danger line.

I came from Omaha with a load of shorthorns and they splintered my boards.

I came from Detroit heavy with a load of flivvers.

I carried apples from the Hood river last year and this year

Under the Harvest Moon

Under the harvest moon,When the soft silverDrips shimmeringOver the garden nights,Death, the gray mocker,Comes and whispers to youAs a beautiful friendWho remembers.Under the summer rosesWhen the flagrant crimsonLurks in the duskOf the wild red leaves,Love, with little hands,Comes and touches youWith a thousand memories,And asks youBeautiful, unanswerable questions.

White Hands

FOR the second time in a year this lady with the white hands is brought to the west room second floor of a famous sanatorium.Her husband is a cornice manufacturer in an Iowa town and the lady has often read papers on Victorian poets before the local literary club.Yesterday she washed her hands forty seven times during her waking hours and in her sleep moaned restlessly attempting to clean

Whitelight

YOUR whitelight flashes the frost to-nightMoon of the purple and silent west.Remember me one of your lovers of dreams.

Wilderness

THERE is a wolf in me
fangs pointed for tearing gashes
a red tongue for raw meat
and the hot lapping of blood

I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it
to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me
a silver-gray fox
I sniff and guess
I pick things out of the wind and air
I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers
I circle and loop

The Reaper And The Flowers

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,And, with his sickle keen,He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,And the flowers that grow between."Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;"Have naught but the bearded grain?Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,I will give them all back again."He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,He kissed their drooping leaves;It was for the Lord of

Hymn To The Night, poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night

To a Dead Man

Over the dead line we have called to you
To come across with a word to us,
Some beaten whisper of what happens
Where you are over the dead line
Deaf to our calls and voiceless.

The flickering shadows have not answered
Nor your lips sent a signal
Whether love talks and roses grow
And the sun breaks at morning
Splattering the sea with crimson.

Under a Hat Rim

WHILE the hum and the hurry

Of passing footfalls

Beat in my ear like the restless surf

Of a wind-blown sea,

A soul came to me

Out of the look on a face.

Eyes like a lake

Where a storm-wind roams

Caught me from under

The rim of a hat.

I thought of a midsea wreck

and bruised fingers clinging

to a broken state-room door.

A child said, What is the grass, poem by Walt Whitman

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and

Adieu to a Soldier

ADIEU, O soldier!
You of the rude campaigning, (which we shared,)
The rapid march, the life of the camp,
The hot contention of opposing fronts 'the long manoeuver,
Red battles with their slaughter, 'the stimulus 'the strong, terrific game,
Spell of all brave and manly hearts 'the trains of Time through you, and like of you,
all
filled,
With war, and war's expression.

Adieu, dear comrade!
Your

Why do I love You, Sir?

"Why do I love" You, Sir?
Because --
The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer -- Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows -- and
Do not You --
And We know not --
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so --

The Lightning -- never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut -- when He was by --
Because He knows it cannot speak --
And reasons not contained --
-- Of Talk --
There be --

A Prison gets to be a friend

A Prison gets to be a friend --Between its Ponderous faceAnd Ours -- a Kinsmanship express --And in its narrow Eyes --We come to look with gratitudeFor the appointed BeamIt deal us -- stated as our food --And hungered for -- the same --We learn to know the Planks --That answer to Our feet --So miserable a sound -- at first --Nor ever now -- so sweet --As plashing in the Pools --When Memory was a

Where I have lost, I softer tread

Where I have lost, I softer tread --I sow sweet flower from garden bed --I pause above that vanished headAnd mourn.Whom I have lost, I pious guardFrom accent harsh, or ruthless word --Feeling as if their pillow heard,Though stone!When I have lost, you'll know by this --A Bonnet black -- A dusk surplice --A little tremor in my voice Like this!Why, I have lost, the people knowWho dressed in flocks

Forever at His side to walk

Forever at His side to walk --The smaller of the two!Brain of His Brain --Blood of His Blood --Two lives -- One Being -- now --Forever of His fate to taste --If grief -- the largest part --If joy -- to put my piece awayFor that beloved Heart --All life -- to know each other --Whom we can never learn --And bye and bye -- a Change --Called Heaven --Rapt Neighborhoods of Men --Just finding out --

Many a phrase has the English language

Many a phrase has the English language --I have heard but one --Low as the laughter of the Cricket,Loud, as the Thunder's Tongue --Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs,When the Tide's a' lull --Saying itself in new inflection --Like a Whippoorwill --Breaking in bright OrthographyOn my simple sleep --Thundering its Prospective --Till I stir, and weep --Not for the Sorrow, done me --But the push of

Her -- "last Poems"

Her -- "last Poems" --
Poets -- ended --
Silver -- perished -- with her Tongue --
Not on Record -- bubbled other,
Flute -- or Woman --
So divine --
Not unto its Summer -- Morning
Robin -- uttered Half the Tune --
Gushed too free for the Adoring --
From the Anglo-Florentine --
Late -- the Praise --
'Tis dull -- conferring
On the Head too High to Crown --
Diadem -- or Ducal Showing --
Be its Grave

I know that He exists

I know that He exists.Somewhere -- in Silence --He has hid his rare lifeFrom our gross eyes.'Tis an instant's play.'Tis a fond Ambush --Just to make BlissEarn her own surprise!But -- should the playProve piercing earnest --Should the glee -- glaze --In Death's -- stiff -- stare --Would not the funLook too expensive!Would not the jest --Have crawled too far!

I have a King, who does not speak

I have a King, who does not speak --So -- wondering -- thro' the hours meekI trudge the day away --Half glad when it is night, and sleep,If, haply, thro' a dream, to peepIn parlors, shut by day.And if I do -- when morning comes --It is as if a hundred drumsDid round my pillow roll,And shouts fill all my Childish sky,And Bells keep saying "Victory"From steeples in my soul!And if I don't -- the

I'm sorry for the Dead -- Today

I'm sorry for the Dead -- Today --
It's such congenial times
Old Neighbors have at fences --
It's time o' year for Hay.

And Broad -- Sunburned Acquaintance
Discourse between the Toil --
And laugh, a homely species
That makes the Fences smile --

It seems so straight to lie away
From all of the noise of Fields --
The Busy Carts -- the fragrant Cocks --
The Mower's Metre -- Steals --

A Trouble

No Notice gave She, but a Change

No Notice gave She, but a Change --No Message, but a Sigh --For Whom, the Time did not sufficeThat She should specify.She was not warm, though Summer shoneNor scrupulous of coldThough Rime by Rime, the steady FrostUpon Her Bosom piled --Of shrinking ways -- she did not frightThough all the Village looked --But held Her gravity aloft --And met the gaze -- direct --And when adjusted like a SeedIn

Musicians wrestle everywhere

Musicians wrestle everywhere --All day -- among the crowded airI hear the silver strife --And -- walking -- long before the morn --Such transport breaks upon the townI think it that "New Life"!If is not Bird -- it has no nest --Nor "Band" -- in brass and scarlet -- drest --Nor Tamborin -- nor Man --It is not Hymn from pulpit read --The "Morning Stars" the Treble ledOn Time's first Afternoon!Some

Rearrange a "Wife's" affection!

Rearrange a "Wife's" affection!
When they dislocate my Brain!
Amputate my freckled Bosom!
Make me bearded like a man!

Blush, my spirit, in thy Fastness --
Blush, my unacknowledged clay --
Seven years of troth have taught thee
More than Wifehood every may!

Love that never leaped its socket --
Trust entrenched in narrow pain --
Constancy thro' fire -- awarded --
Anguish -- bare of anodyne!

'Tis One by One -- the Father counts

'Tis One by One -- the Father counts --
And then a Tract between
Set Cypherless -- to teach the Eye
The Value of its Ten --

Until the peevish Student
Acquire the Quick of Skill --
Then Numerals are dowered back --
Adorning all the Rule --

'Tis mostly Slate and Pencil --
And Darkness on the School
Distracts the Children's fingers --
Still the Eternal Rule

Regards least Cypherer alike
With

Twas Love -- not me, poem by Emily Dickinson

'Twas Love -- not me --
Oh punish -- pray --
The Real one died for Thee --
Just Him -- not me --

Such Guilt -- to love Thee -- most!
Doom it beyond the Rest --
Forgive it -- last --
'Twas base as Jesus -- most!

Let Justice not mistake --
We Two -- looked so alike --
Which was the Guilty Sake --
'Twas Love's -- Now Strike!

A Wife -- at daybreak I shall be

A Wife -- at daybreak I shall be --Sunrise -- Hast thou a Flag for me?At Midnight, I am but a Maid,How short it takes to make a Bride --Then -- Midnight, I have passed from theeUnto the East, and Victory --Midnight -- Good Night! I hear them call,The Angels bustle in the Hall --Softly my Future climbs the Stair,I fumble at my Childhood's prayerSo soon to be a Child no more --Eternity, I'm coming

Because He loves Her, by Emily Dickinson

Because He loves Her
We will pry and see if she is fair
What difference is on her Face
From Features others wear.

It will not harm her magic pace
That we so far behind --
Her Distances propitiate
As Forests touch the Wind

Not hoping for his notice vast
But nearer to adore
'Tis Glory's far sufficiency
That makes our trying poor.

Million Man March Poem

The night has been long,The wound has been deep,The pit has been dark,And the walls have been steep.Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach,I was dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.Your hands were tied, your mouth was bound,You couldn't even call out my name.You were helpless and so was I,But unfortunately throughout historyYou've worn a badge of shame.I say, the night has been long,The

Television

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs

One Inch Tall

If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school.The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool.A crumb of cake would be a feastAnd last you seven days at least,A flea would be a frightening beastIf you were one inch tall.If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door,And it would take about a month to get down to the store.A bit of fluff would be your bed,You'd

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

DON'T GO FAR OFF, NOT EVEN FOR A DAYDon't go far off, not even for a day, because --because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is longand I will be waiting for you, as in an empty stationwhen the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.Don't leave me, even for an hour, becausethen the little drops of anguish will all run together,the smoke that roams looking for a home will driftinto me,

The Dead Woman

If suddenly you do not exist,if suddenly you are not living,I shall go on living.I do not dare,I do not dare to write it,if you die.I shall go on living.Because where a man has no voice,there, my voiceWhere blacks are beaten,I can not be dead.When my brothers go to jailI shall go with them.When victory,not my victory,but the great victoryarrives,even though I am mute I must speak:I shall see it

I Want It Now

Gooses, geesesI want my geese to lay gold eggs for easterAt least a hundred a dayAnd by the wayI want a feastI want a bean feastCream buns and doughnutsAnd fruitcake with no nutsSo good you could go nutsNo, nowI want a ballI want a partyPink macaroonsAnd a million balloonsAnd performing baboons andGive it to me nowI want the worldI want the whole worldI want to lock itAll up in my pocketIt's my

Attention please! Attention please!

'Attention please! Attention please!
Don't dare to talk! Don't dare to sneeze!
Don't doze or daydream! Stay awake!
Your health, your very life's at stake!
Ho'ho, you say, they can't mean me.
Ha'ha, we answer, wait and see.

Did any of you ever meet
A child called Goldie Pinklesweet?
Who on her seventh birthday went
To stay with Granny down in Kent.
At lunchtime on the second day
Of dearest

The Telephone

'When I was just as far as I could walk From here today, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head again a flower I heard you talk. Don't say I didn't, for I heard you say-- You spoke from that flower on the window sill- Do you remember what it was you said?' 'First tell me what it was you thought you heard.' 'Having found the flower and driven a bee away, I leaned on my head And

Petals

Life is a streamOn which we strewPetal by petal the flower of our heart;The end lost in dream,They float past our view,We only watch their glad, early start.Freighted with hope,Crimsoned with joy,We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;Their widening scope,Their distant employ,We never shall know. And the stream as it flowsSweeps them away,Each one is goneEver beyond into infinite ways.We alone

A Fairy Tale, poem by Amy Lowell

On winter nights beside the nursery fire

We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals

Builded its pictures. There before our eyes

We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone

Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung

With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;

And all along the walls at intervals,

Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,

And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves

And because Love battles, poem by Pablo Neruda

And because love battles
not only in its burning agricultures
but also in the mouth of men and women,
I will finish off by taking the path away
to those who between my chest and your fragrance
want to interpose their obscure plant.

About me, nothing worse
they will tell you, my love,
than what I told you.

I lived in the prairies
before I got to know you
and I did not wait love but I was

Me And The Mule

My old mule,
He's gota grin on his face.
He's been a mule so long
He's forgotten about his race.

I'm like that old mule --
Black -- and don't give a damn!
You got to take me
Like I am.

The Distinguishing Characteristic of Christmas

Seek Him

Trust Jesus

The Children's Hour

Between the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day's occupation,

That is know as the children's hour.

I hear in the chamber above me

The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,

And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,

Descending the broad hall stair,

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,

And Edith

Christmas Begins with Christ

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I Always Learn Something

I always know when I am speaking under the influence of the Holy Ghost because I always learn something from what I have said. -President Marion G. Romney

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Good Things to Come

Don't give up. Don't you quit. You keep walking. You keep trying. There is help and happiness ahead... You keep your chin up. It will be all right in the end. Trust in God and believe in good things to come. -Jeffrey R. Holland, An High Priest of Good Things to Come, October 1999

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Very Different Scale

The Lord uses a scale very different from the world's to weigh the worth of a soul. -Dieter F. Uchtdorf

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Better Things Ahead

That Women Are But Men's Shadows

Follow a shadow, it still flies you;Seem to fly it, it will pursue:So court a mistress, she denies you;Let her alone, she will court you.Say, are not women truly thenStyled but the shadows of us men?At morn and even shades are longest,At noon they are or short or none;So men at weakest, they are strongest,But grant us perfect, they're not known.Say, are not women truly thenStyled but the shadows

A Form Of Women

I have come far enoughfrom where I was not beforeto have seen the thingslooking in at me from through the open doorand have walked tonightby myselfto see the moonlightand see it as treesand shapes more fearfulbecause I fearedwhat I did not knowbut have wanted to know.My facd is my own, I thought.But you have seen itturn into a thousand years.I watched you cry.I could not touch you.I wanted very

Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women

Perhaps I was born kneeling,born coughing on the long winter,born expecting the kiss of mercy,born with a passion for quicknessand yet, as things progressed,I learned early about the stockadeor taken out, the fume of the enema.By two or three I learned not to kneel,not to expect, to plant my fires undergroundwhere none but the dolls, perfect and awful,could be whispered to or laid down to die.Now

Harp Song of the Dane Women

What is a woman that you forsake her,And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,To go with the old grey Widow-maker?She has no house to lay a guest in--But one chill bed for all to rest in,That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.She has no strong white arms to fold you,But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you--Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.Yet, when the signs of summer

The South Wind Say So

IF the oriole calls like last yearwhen the south wind sings in the oats,if the leaves climb and climb on a bean polesaying over a song learnt from the south wind,if the crickets send up the same old lessonsfound when the south wind keeps on coming,we will get by, we will keep on coming,we will get by, we will come along,we will fix our hearts over,the south wind says so.

There's Wisdom In Women

"Oh love is fair, and love is rare"; my dear one she said,"But love goes lightly over". I bowed her foolish head,And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she;So new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly.But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known,And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own,Or how should my dear one, being ignorant and

Countrywomen

These be twoCountrywomen.What a size!Grand big armsAnd round red faces;Big substantialSit-down-places;Great big bosoms firm as cheeseBursting through their country jackets;Wide big lapsAnd sturdy knees;Hands outspread,Round and rosy,Hands to holdA country posyOr a baby or a lamb--And such eyes!Stupid, shifty, small and slyPeeping through a slit of sty,Squinting through their neighbours' plackets.

The Life of Love XVI

SpringCome, my beloved; let us walk amidst the knolls, For the snow is water, and Life is alive from its Slumber and is roaming the hills and valleys. Let us follow the footprints of Spring into the Distant fields, and mount the hilltops to draw Inspiration high above the cool green plains. Dawn of Spring has unfolded her winter-kept garment And placed it on the peach and citrus trees; and They

After the Battle

Night closed around the conqueror's way,And lightnings show'd the distant hill,Where those who lost that dreadful dayStood few and faint, but fearless still.The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,For ever dimm'd, for ever crost --Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,When all but life and honour's lost?The last sad hour of freedom's dream,And valour's task, moved slowly by,While mute they watch'd,

All In a Family Way

My banks are all furnished with rags,So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em;I've torn up my old money-bags,Having little or nought to put in 'em.My tradesman are smashing by dozens,But this is all nothing, they say;For bankrupts, since Adam, are cousins,So, it's all in the family way.My Debt not a penny takes from me,As sages the matter explain; --Bob owes it to Tom and then TommyJust owes it to

Song: The Charms of Lovely Davies

O HOW shall I, unskilful, try
The poet's occupation?
The tuneful powers, in happy hours,
That whisper inspiration;
Even they maun dare an effort mair
Than aught they ever gave us,
Ere they rehearse, in equal verse,
The charms of lovely Davies.

Each eye it cheers when she appears,
Like Phoebus in the morning,
When past the shower, and every flower
The garden is adorning:
As the wretch looks o'er

Death and Dr. Hornbook

SOME books are lies frae end to end,And some great lies were never penn�d:Ev�n ministers they hae been kenn�d,In holy rapture,A rousing whid at times to vend,And nail�t wi� Scripture.But this that I am gaun to tell,Which lately on a night befell,Is just as true�s the Deil�s in hellOr Dublin city:That e�er he nearer comes oursel��S a muckle pity.The clachan yill had made me canty,I was na fou, but

Stanzas to a Friend

AH! think no more that Life's delusive joys,Can charm my thoughts from FRIENDSHIP'S dearer claim;Or wound a heart, that scarce a wish employs,For age to censure, or discretion blame. Tir'd of the world, my weary mind recoilsFrom splendid scenes, and transitory joys;From fell Ambition's false and fruitless toils,From hope that flatters, and from bliss that cloys. With THEE, above the taunts of

Friendships Mystery, To My Dearest Lucasia

Come, my Lucasia, since we see That miracles Men's Faith do move,By wonder and by prodigyTo the dull angry World let's proveThere's a Religion in our Love. For Though we were design'd t'agree,That Fate no liberty destroys,But our Election is as freeAs Angels, who with greedy choiceAre yet determin'd to their joys. Our hearts are doubled by the loss,Here Mixture is Addition grown;We both diffuse,

Friendship After Love

After the fierce midsummer all ablazeHas burned itself to ashes, and expiresIn the intensity of its own fires, There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin daysCrowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.So after Love has led us, till he tiresOf his own throes, and torments, and desires, Comes large-eyed Friendship: with a restful gaze.He beckons us to follow, and acrossCool verdant vales we

Repression of War Experience

Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth;
What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame'
No, no, not that, it's bad to think of war,
When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you;
And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.

Now light

The Black Hawk War of the Artists

Hawk of the Rocks,Yours is our cause to-day.Watching your foesHere in our war array,Young men we stand,Wolves of the West at bay. Power, power for war Comes from these trees divine; Power from the boughs, Boughs where the dew-beads shine, Power from the cones Yea, from the breath of the pine! Power to restoreAll that the white hand mars.See the dead eastCrushed with the iron cars�Chimneys

The War Films

O living pictures of the dead, O songs without a sound, O fellowship whose phantom tread Hallows a phantom ground -- How in a gleam have these revealed The faith we had not found. We have sought God in a cloudy Heaven, We have passed by God on earth: His seven sins and his sorrows seven, His wayworn mood and mirth, Like a ragged cloak have hid from us The secret of his birth. Brother of men, when

On The Hurricane

You have obey'd, you WINDS, that must fulfill The Great Disposer's righteous Will; Throughout the Land, unlimited you flew, Nor sought, as heretofore, with Friendly Aid Only, new Motion to bestow Upon the sluggish Vapours, bred below, Condensing into Mists, and melancholy Shade. No more such gentle Methods you pursue, But marching now in terrible Array, Undistinguish'd was your Prey: In vain the

Inspiration

How often have I started outWith no thought in my noodle,And wandered here and there about,Where fancy bade me toddle;Till feeling faunlike in my gleeI've voiced some gay distiches,Returning joyfully to tea,A poem in my britches.A-squatting on a thymy slopeWith vast of sky about me,I've scribbled on an envelopeThe rhymes the hills would shout me;The couplets that the trees would call,The lays the

Kings Must Die

Alphonso Rex who died in RomeWas quite a fistful as a kid;For when I visited his home,That gorgeous palace in Madrid,The grinning guide-chap showed me whereHe rode his bronco up the stair.That stairway grand of marbled might,The most majestic in the land,In statured splendour, flight on flight,He urged his steed with whip in hand.No lackey could restrain him forHe gained the gilded corridor.He

Your little voice...

your little voiceOver the wires came leapingand i felt suddenlydizzyWith the jostling and shouting of merry flowerswee skipping high-heeled flamescourtesied before my eyesor twinkling over to my sideLooked upwith impertinently exquisite facesfloating hands were laid upon meI was whirled and tossed into delicious dancingupUpwith the pale importantstars and the Humorousmoondear girlHow i was crazy

Morning Glories

Blue and dark-bluerose and deepest rosewhite and pink they are everywhere in the diligent cornfield rising and swaying in their reliablefinery in the littlefling of their bodies their gear and tackle all caught up in the cornstalks. The reaper's story is the story of endless work of work careful and heavy but the reaper cannot separate them out there they are in the story of his life bright

The Bight

At low tide like this how sheer the water is.White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glareand the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaireone could probably hear it turning to marimba music.The little

By All Love's Soft, Yet Mighty Powers

By all love's soft, yet mighty powers,It is a thing unfit,That men should fuck in time of flowers,Or when the smock's beshit.Fair nasty nymph, be clean and kind,And all my joys restore;By using paper still behind,And sponges for before.My spotless flames can ne'er decay,If after every close,My smoking prick escape the fray,Without a bloody nose.If thou would have me true, be wise,And take to

The Imperfect Enjoyment

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,I filled with love, and she all over charms;Both equally inspired with eager fire,Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.With arms,legs,lips close clinging to embrace,She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, playedWithin my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyedSwift orders that I should prepare to

An Allusion to Horace

Well Sir, 'tis granted, I said Dryden's Rhimes,Were stoln, unequal, nay dull many times:What foolish Patron, is there found of his,So blindly partial, to deny me this?But that his Plays, Embroider'd up and downe,With Witt, and Learning, justly pleas'd the Towne,In the same paper, I as freely owne:Yet haveing this allow'd, the heavy Masse,That stuffs up his loose Volumes must not passe:For by that

To A World-Reformer

"I Have sacrificed all," thou sayest, "that man I might succor;Vain the attempt; my reward was persecution and hate."Shall I tell thee, my friend, how I to humor him manage?Trust the proverb! I ne'er have been deceived by it yet.Thou canst not sufficiently prize humanity's value;Let it be coined in deed as it exists in thy breast.E'en to the man whom thou chancest to meet in life's narrow pathway

The Lover in Hell

Eternally the choking steam goes up
From the black pools of seething oil. . . .
How merry
Those little devils are! They've stolen the pitchfork
From Bel, there, as he slept . . . Look! -- oh look, look!
They've got at Nero! Oh it isn't fair!
Lord, how he squeals! Stop it . . . it's, well -- indecent!
But funny! . . . See, Bel's waked. They'll catch it now!

. . . Eternally that stifling

Full Fathom Five

Old man, you surface seldom.Then you come in with the tide's comingWhen seas wash cold, foam-Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung,A dragnet, rising, falling, as wavesCrest and trough. Miles longExtend the radial sheavesOf your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeinsKnotted, caught, survivesThe old myth of orginsUnimaginable. You float nearAs kneeled ice-mountainsOf the north, to be steered

The Pangolin

Another armored animal--scalelapping scale with spruce-cone regularity until theyform the uninterrupted centraltail-row! This near artichoke with head and legs and grit-equippedgizzard,the night miniature artist engineer is,yes, Leonardo da Vinci's replica--impressive animal and toiler of whom we seldom hear.Armor seems extra. But for him,the closing ear-ridge--or bare ear lacking even this

Geraint And Enid

O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true; Here, through the feeble twilight of this world Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are seen! So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth That morning, when they both had got to horse, Perhaps because

Longing

Could I from this valley drear,Where the mist hangs heavily,Soar to some more blissful sphere,Ah! how happy should I be!Distant hills enchant my sight,Ever young and ever fair;To those hills I'd take my flightHad I wings to scale the air.Harmonies mine ear assail,Tunes that breathe a heavenly calm;And the gently-sighing galeGreets me with its fragrant balm.Peeping through the shady bowers,Golden

Ainsi Va le Monde

O THOU, to whom superior worth's allied,Thy Country's honour�and the MUSES' pride;Whose pen gives polish to the varying lineThat blends instruction with the song divine;Whose fancy, glancing o'er the hostile plain,Plants a fond trophy o'er the mighty slain; I Or to the daisied lawn directs its way,Blithe as the songstress of returning day;Who deign'd to rove where twinkling glow-worms leadThe

Liberty

New Castle, July 4, 1878Or a hundred years the pulse of timeHas throbbed for Liberty;For a hundred years the grand old climeColumbia has been free;For a hundred years our country's love,The Stars and Stripes, has waved above.Away far out on the gulf of years--Misty and faint and whiteThrough the fogs of wrong--a sail appears,And the Mayflower heaves in sight,And drifts again, with its little

In Former Songs

1IN former songs Pride have I sung, and Love, and passionate, joyful Life, But here I twine the strands of Patriotism and Death. And now, Life, Pride, Love, Patriotism and Death, To you, O FREEDOM, purport of all! (You that elude me most�refusing to be caught in songs of mine,)I offer all to you. 2�Tis not for nothing, Death, I sound out you, and words of you, with daring tone�embodying you, In

The Vision

THE SUN had clos�d the winter day,The curless quat their roarin play,And hunger�d maukin taen her way,To kail-yards green,While faithless snaws ilk step betrayWhare she has been.The thresher�s weary flingin-tree,The lee-lang day had tired me;And when the day had clos�d his e�e,Far i� the west,Ben i� the spence, right pensivelie,I gaed to rest.There, lanely by the ingle-cheek,I sat and ey�d the

The Patriot

An Old Story

I

It was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day!

II

The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowds and cries.
Had I said, "Good folks, mere noise repels
But give me your sun from yonder skies!"
They had

The Gardener LXI: Peace, My Heart

Peace, my heart, let the time forthe parting be sweet.Let it not be a death but completeness.Let love melt into memory and paininto songs.Let the flight through the sky endin the folding of the wings over thenest.Let the last touch of your hands begentle like the flower of the night.Stand still, O Beautiful End, for amoment, and say your last words insilence.I bow to you and hold up my lamp to

The Price of Peace

Peace without Justice is a low estate,--A coward cringing to an iron Fate!But Peace through Justice is the great ideal,--We'll pay the price of war to make it real.

Peace XVIII

The tempest calmed after bending the branches of the trees and leaning heavily upon the grain in the field. The stars appeared as broken remnants of lightning, but now silence prevailed over all, as if Nature's war had never been fought. At that hour a young woman entered her chamber and knelt by her bed sobbing bitterly. Her heart flamed with agony but she could finally open her lips and say, "

Women

Women have no wilderness in them, They are provident instead, Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread. They do not see cattle cropping red winter grass,They do not hear Snow water going down under culverts Shallow and clear. They wait, when they should turn to journeys, They stiffen, when they should bend. They use against themselves that benevolence To which no man is

Women And Roses

I.I dream of a red-rose tree.And which of its roses threeIs the dearest rose to me?II.Round and round, like a dance of snowIn a dazzling drift, as its guardians, goFloating the women faded for ages,Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.Then follow women fresh and gay,Living and loving and loved to-day.Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence

Ungrateful Fish

It Causes Miracles

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I'm Possible

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Sacred Time

Family time is sacred time and should be protected and respected. -Boyd K. Packer

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Act In His Doctrine

True Conversion brings a change in one's beliefs, heart, and life to accept and conform to the will of God and includes a conscious commitment to become a disciple of Christ and to act in His doctrine." -David A Bednar, Act In Doctrine

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