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Poem for the Day

Posted: 9 October 2014

The fountains mingle with the river, 
And the rivers with the ocean; 
The winds of heaven mix forever 
With a sweet emotion; 
Nothing in the world is single; 
All things by a law divine 
In another's being mingle-- 
Why not I with thine? 

See, the mountains kiss high heaven, 
And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister flower could be forgiven 
If it disdained its brother; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;-- 
What are all these kissings worth, 
If thou kiss not me?

Love' Philosophy
Percy Bysshe Shelley

Poem for the Day

Posted: 8 October 2014

The free bird leaps 
on the back of the wind 
and floats downstream 
till the current ends 
and dips his wings 
in the orange sun rays 
and dares to claim the sky. 

But a bird that stalks 
down his narrow cage 
can seldom see through 
his bars of rage 
his wings are clipped and 
his feet are tied 
so he opens his throat to sing. 

The caged bird sings 
with fearful trill 
of the things unknown 
but longed for still 
and his tune is heard 
on the distant hill 
for the caged bird 
sings of freedom 

The free bird thinks of another breeze 
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees 
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn 
and he names the sky his own. 

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams 
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream 
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied 
so he opens his throat to sing 

The caged bird sings 
with a fearful trill 
of things unknown 
but longed for still 
and his tune is heard 
on the distant hill 
for the caged bird 
sings of freedom.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Maya Angelou

Poem for the Day

Posted: 7 October 2014

My heart is heavy with many a song 
Like ripe fruit bearing down the tree, 
But I can never give you one -
My songs do not belong to me. 

Yet in the evening, in the dusk 
When moths go to and fro, 
In the gray hour if the fruit has fallen, 
Take it, no one will know.

My Heart Is Heavy
Sara Teasdale

Poem for the Day

Posted: 6 October 2014

I spent my whole life making somebody rich,
I busted my ass for that son of a bitch,
He left me to die like a dog in a ditch,
And told me I'm all used up.

He used up my labour, he used up my time,
He plundered my body and squandered my mind.
Then he gave me a pension, some handouts and wine,
And told me I'm all used up.

My kids are in hock to a god you call Work,
Slaving their lives out for some other jerk.
And my youngest in 'Frisco just made shipping-clerk,
He don't know I'm all used up.

Some young people reach out for power and gold
And they don't have respect for anything old.
For pennies they're bought, for promises sold,
Someday they'll be used up.

They use up the oil, they use up the trees,
They use up the air and they use up the seas.
But how about you, friend, and how about me,
What's left, when we're all used up.

I'll finish my life in this crummy hotel,
It's lousy with bugs and my God, what a smell.
But my plumbing still works and I'm clear as a bell,
Don't tell me I'm all used up.

Outside my window the world passes by
It gives me a handout, then spits in my eye.
And no one can tell me, 'cause no one knows why
I'm still living, but I'm all used up.

Sometimes in a dream I sit by a tree,
My life is a book of how things used to be.
And the kids gather 'round and they listen to me,
They don't think I'm all used up.

And there's songs and there's laughter and things I can do,
And all that I've learned I can give back to you.
And I'd give my last breath just to make it come true
And to know I'm not all used up.

They use up the oil, they use up the trees,
They use up the air and they use up the seas.
But as long as I'm breathing they won't use up me,
Don't tell me I'm all used up.

All Used Up 
Utah Philips

Poem for the Day

Posted: 5 October 2014

Here among long-discarded cassocks, 
Damp stools, and half-split open hassocks, 
Here where the vicar never looks 
I nibble through old service books. 
Lean and alone I spend my days 
Behind this Church of England baize. 
I share my dark forgotten room 
With two oil-lamps and half a broom. 
The cleaner never bothers me, 
So here I eat my frugal tea. 
My bread is sawdust mixed with straw; 
My jam is polish for the floor. 
Christmas and Easter may be feasts 
For congregations and for priests, 
And so may Whitsun. All the same, 
They do not fill my meagre frame. 
For me the only feast at all 
Is Autumn's Harvest Festival, 
When I can satisfy my want 
With ears of corn around the font. 
I climb the eagle's brazen head 
To burrow through a loaf of bread. 
I scramble up the pulpit stair 
And gnaw the marrows hanging there. 
It is enjoyable to taste 
These items ere they go to waste, 
But how annoying when one finds 
That other mice with pagan minds 
Come into church my food to share 
Who have no proper business there. 
Two field mice who have no desire 
To be baptized, invade the choir. 
A large and most unfriendly rat 
Comes in to see what we are at. 
He says he thinks there is no God 
And yet he comes… it's rather odd. 
This year he stole a sheaf of wheat 
(It screened our special preacher's seat), 
And prosperous mice from fields away 
Come in to hear our organ play, 
And under cover of its notes 
Ate through the altar's sheaf of oats. 
A Low Church mouse, who thinks that I 
Am too papistical, and High, 
Yet somehow doesn't think it wrong 
To munch through Harvest Evensong, 
While I, who starve the whole year through, 
Must share my food with rodents who 
Except at this time of the year 
Not once inside the church appear. 
Within the human world I know 
Such goings-on could not be so, 
For human beings only do 
What their religion tells them to. 
They read the Bible every day 
And always, night and morning, pray, 
And just like me, the good church mouse, 
Worship each week in God's own house, 
But all the same it's strange to me 
How very full the church can be 
With people I don't see at all 
Except at Harvest Festival.

Diary of a Church Mouse 
John Betjeman

111-115 of 841 blog entries

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