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Poem for the Day

Posted: 10 September 2014

Wee, modest crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, ...
The bonie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckl'd breast!
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble field,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust;
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n
To mis'ry's brink;
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine - no distant date;
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

To a Mountain Daisy
Robert Burns

Poem for the Day

Posted: 9 September 2014

In these very tense, and sometimes ugly and hostile, referendum times, I thought I would choose something of quite indescribable beauty and gentleness.

Baby where's that place where time stands still?
I remember like a lover can,
But I forget it like a leaver will.
It's no place you can get to by yourself
You've got to love someone and they love you,
Time will stop for nothing else.

And memory plays tricks on us,
The more we cling, the less we trust.
And the less we trust the more we hurt,
And as time goes on it just gets worse.
So baby where's that place where time stood still?
Is it under glass inside a frame?
Was it over when you had your fill?

And here we are with nothing
But this emptiness inside of us.
Your smile a fitting, final gesture,
Wish I could have loved you better.

Baby where's that place where time stands still?
I remember like a lover can,
But I forget it like a leaver will,
It's the first time that you held my hand,
It's the smell and the taste and the fear and the thrill,
It's everything I understand,
And all the things I never will.

Where Time Stands Still
Mary Chapin Carpenter

Poem for the Day

Posted: 8 September 2014

This September
So many people carried along.
Old and young voices that argue and brag 
Go rushing together.
Checking their polling cards, singing their song
And waving their banners and flags. 
This September
Changes the tune the piper will play,
Changes forever the dance in the hall.
Naïve the new promises? Secure is the old way?
Sweeter than honey or bitter as gall?

September 2014
Bill Adair

Poem for the Day

Posted: 8 September 2014

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—preferred by Daintier Folk— 

The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me— 
Because He's Sunrise—and I see— 
Therefore—Then— 
I love Thee—

Why Do l Love You, Sir?
Emily Dickinson

Poem for the Day

Posted: 6 September 2014

The art of losing isn't hard to master; 
so many things seem filled with the intent 
to be lost that their loss is no disaster, 

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster 
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. 
The art of losing isn't hard to master. 

Then practice losing farther, losing faster: 
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster. 

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or 
next-to-last, of three loved houses went. 
The art of losing isn't hard to master. 

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, 
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. 
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. 

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture 
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident 
the art of losing's not too hard to master 
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

One Art
Elizabeth Bishop

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