Poems and Poetry

I see you, on the zigzag rails,
You cheery little fellow!
While purple leaves are whirling down,
And scarlet, brown, and yellow.
I hear you when the air is full
Of snow-down of the thistle;
All in your speckled jacket trim,
“Bob White! Bob White!” you whistle.

Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows,
Are nodding there to greet you;
I know that you are out for play–
How I should like to meet you!
Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,
In this delightful weather;
What splendid playmates you and I,
“Bob White,” would make together!

They say that God lives very high;
But if you look above the pines
You cannot see our God; and why?

And if you dig down in the mines,
You never see Him in the gold,
Though from Him all that’s glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold
Of heaven and earth across His face,
Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that His embrace
Slides down by thrills, through all things made,
Through sight and sound of every place;

As if my tender mother laid
On my shut lids her kisses’ pressure,
Half waking me at night, and said,
“Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Don’t miss this marvelous rant here:

“My personal perspective as a woman, a reader, a mother, and a Christian, is that I hate inclusive language. I hate it because I feel patronized when it’s in use. I hate it because I feel like its promoters, well-intentioned though they may be, are saying to me, ‘O woman, you are not smart enough to know when the words “men” and “man” refer to the whole human race and when they refer to males … I hate inclusive language because it insists that all the places I thought included me were actually excluding me. It seeks to drive a wedge between me and pretty much everything written before 1970. Inclusive language has robbed our language of the little honors paid to the feminine in the tradition of using the feminine pronoun for ships, countries, and abstractions. Inclusive language is the Mrs. Elton in the garden of literature, the tacky boor who wrenches every spotlight towards herself …”

Merrily swinging on briar and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat;
White are his shoulders, and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note,
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Look what a nice, new coat is mine;
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

Here’s a little something to brighten your pro-life evening. Remember that building contractor who organized a boycott of Planned Parenthood’s proposed slaughterhouse in Austin, Texas? Well, on the heels of President Bush signing the partial-birth abortion ban, a commenter has more good news for us:

“An update is that the general contractor dropped the job today. The story has already made CNN and Austin media is in an uproar. Planned Parenthood is vowing to finish and local government is freaking out….but this thing is going to be very difficult to complete without a GC and with few subs willing to do the work. In the past 2 weeks alone, the AC guy dropped out, the foundation contractor dropped out, the lumber supplier cut off lumber and the most likely roofing materials provider also dropped out. This led to the GC giving up on the project and announcing his termination today! We are ecstatic….. Mark Proeger”

“Awake, awake, my little boy!
Thou wast thy mother’s only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
O wake! thy father does thee keep.”

–”O what land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams?
O father! I saw my mother there,
Among the lilies by waters fair.

“Among the lambs, clothed in white,
She walk’d with her Thomas in sweet delight:
I wept for joy; like a dove I mourn:–
O when shall I again return!”

–”Dear child! I also by pleasant streams
Have wander’d all night in the Land of Dreams:–
But, though calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.”

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;
When Mary, and Susan, and Emily,
With their sweet round mouths sing, “Ha, ha, he!”

When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:
Come live, and be merry, and join with me
To sing the sweet chorus of “Ha, ha, he!”
William Blake.

The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta’en delight;
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are cover’d warm,
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:–
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
William Blake.

I’ve been reading the articulate and punchy Elinor Dashwood lately. Naturally, I’ve never said anything to her about enjoying her blog, but have waited until I have something to complain about. (So much for that chivalrous and gentlemanly image I’ve been cultivating …)

Actually I don’t really have a complaint, just an observation and some questions. She’s been arguing with another blogger about male headship, and she seems to imply that male headship isn’t defined doctrine. Mrs Dashwood writes:

“The point is that this Aranda person continues to write as if what he vaguely describes as a ‘traditional teaching’ is the same thing as a defined doctrine. What can I say? It isn’t. Don’t take my word for it, bubbeleh, read the Catechism.”

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;

The goldenrod is yellow,
The corn is turning brown,
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down;

The gentian’s bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun;

The sedges flaunt their harvest
In every meadow nook,
And asters by the brookside
Make asters in the brook;

From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes’ sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies–

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather
And autumn’s best of cheer.

A reply to Shawn McElhinney:

“Authentic Traditionalism is not found in externals Jeff. It is akin to an authentic observation of the Law which Our Lord commanded and which those who were obsessed with external rituals (i.e. Pharisees) did not react to well.”

Catholicism requires externals, Shawn. Lex orandi, lex credendi. But I don’t recall anyone here advocating a restoration in externals alone. Indeed, the compromised externals we are living with today signify a catastrophic decline of belief.

“This is not to say that those attending the Latin mass are Pharisees of course; however, the attachment to externals to the extent many of them have is not spiritually healthy.”