A home for their hearts: A Prayer for a Fellow Blogger

Poems

I heard A Bird Sing
by Oliver Herford

I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember:
"We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in Septemeber,"
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.

My hands were busy through the day
anonymous
My hands were busy through the day,
I didn’t have much time to play,
The little games you asked me to,
I didn’t have much time for you.
I’d wash your clothes, I’d sew and cook,
But when you’d bring your favorite book,
And ask me, please to share your fun,
I’d say, "A little later hun."
I’d tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers, turn out the light,

Then tiptoe softly to the door,
I wish I’d stayed a minute more.
For life is short, the years rush past.
A little boy grows up so fast.
No longer is he at your side,
His precious secrets to confide.
The picture books are put away.
There are no more games to play.

No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear-
That all belongs to yesteryear.
My hands once busy now lie still.
The days are long and hard to fill.
I wish I might go back and do
The little things you asked me to.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Continuities

By Walt Whitman1819-1892

Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,No birth, identity, form--no object of the world.Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.Ample are time and space--ample the fields of Nature.The body, sluggish, aged, cold--the embers left from earlier fires,The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual;To frozen clods ever the springs invisible law returns,With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.

Friday, August 29, 2008