Poems and Poetry

November woods are bare and still;
November days are clear and bright;
Each noon burns up the morning’s chill;
The morning’s snow is gone by night.
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”

I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
I never knew before how much
Of human sound there is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweep,
When all wild things lie “down to sleep.”

I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for her more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled;
Yet for old sakes’ sake, she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.

Or, at least they get close. After days of reading ignorant headlines about a “comatose woman”, CNN has upgraded Terri Schiavo’s condition to “disabled”. I say they get close. The article still describes her as being in a “coma-like” state and does not make it clear that Terri is verifiably conscious.

Meanwhile, Greg Krehbiel reminds us that the executive branch is not helpless in the face of bad court decisions:

“Gov. Bush has swallowed the lie of the imperial court. Who, after all, controls the police in the state of Florida? Isn’t it the governor? By the wise design of our founders, judges have no power at all to enforce their decisions. They rely entirely on the executive branch. It’s one of those checks that was supposed to keep us from tyranny, but the check has bounced. Executives act as if they’re captive to courts.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you
For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:
And so make life, death, and that vast forever
One grand, sweet song.

When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen,–
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down,–
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.

It just gets better and better. Bryan Baldwin of Catholic Light has the following report:

“This afternoon at the Hospice Center Terri Schiavo, whose feeding tube was removed on Wednesday, was denied Viaticum. Monsignor Malanowski was told by police and the attorney for her husband that she could not receive the 1/4 Host he had brought her. (Mrs. Schiavo is fully capable of swallowing.) She has been visited by Msgr. Malanowski for over three years and today, as always, she reacted with joy at his presence as she sat in her chair and turned to greet him.

Three fishers went sailing away to the west–
Away to the west as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep;
And there’s little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimm’d the lamps as the sun went down;
They look’d at the squall, and they look’d at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.

Here’s an inspiring story of small private businesses making a big difference:

“In a boycott that may be the first of its kind, a group of builders and contractors in Austin, Texas have banded together to stop construction on a new abortion business. Workers were slated to begin construction on Tuesday of a new $6.2 million Planned Parenthood abortion facility.

‘We’re going to do everything we can to stop it, slow it down and make it more expensive,’ said Chris Danze, owner of Maldonado and Danze, Inc. an Austin concrete contractor. Danze is chairman of the Austin Area Pro-Life Concrete Contractors and Suppliers Association. He said every concrete supplier within 60 miles of Austin has indicated it will not supply materials or labor to the project …”

When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-who;
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all around the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-who;
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be!
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favors,
In those freckles live their savors:
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

FIRST FAIRY
You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,
Come not near our fairy queen.

Chorus
Philomel, with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell, nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh!
So good-night, with lullaby.

SECOND FAIRY
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence;
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm, nor snail, do no offence.

I. Shawn McElhinney, combining the insights of theology and philosophy, takes on the enemies of Catholic print shops everywhere in his latest commentary. As always, Shawn’s treatment is comprehensive and thought provoking.

While I greatly appreciate his stalwart defense of my rights as a printer, nevertheless I am uncomfortable with the classical liberal formulations that seem to cement his argument. He writes:

“For one cannot demand liberty for a particular faculty for themselves which they then turn around and deny to others: this stance is blatantly hypocritical … if one demands liberty for their own conscience, then they must extend the same to the consciences of others who do not agree with them. Thus, the homosexual activists who would appeal to not being coerced against their conscience -by enemies either real or imagined- cannot be credible in their complaints if they are hypocritically trying to coerce the consciences of those who do not agree with them.”