Ah, dearest Jesus, holy Child,
Make Thee a bed, soft, undefiled
Within my heart, that it may be
A quiet chamber kept for Thee.
My heart for very joy doth leap,
My lips no more can silence keep;
I, too, must sing with joyful tongue
That sweetest ancient cradle song.
Glory to God in highest Heaven,
Who unto man His Son hath given;
While angels sing with tender mirth,
A glad new year to all the earth.
— Martin Luther
“Throughout our history, America has been protected by patriots who cherished liberty and made great sacrifices to advance the cause of freedom. The brave members of the United States Armed Forces have answered the call to serve our Nation, ready to give all for their country. On Veterans Day, we honor these extraordinary Americans for their service and sacrifice, and we pay tribute to the legacy of freedom and peace that they have given our great Nation.”
“Veterans Day is dedicated to the extraordinary Americans who protected our freedom in years past, and to those who protect it today. They represent the very best of our Nation. Every Soldier, Sailor, Airman, Marine, and Coast Guardsman has earned the lasting gratitude of the American people, and their service and sacrifice will be remembered forever. In the words of Abraham Lincoln: ‘ . . . let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the Nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle . . . .’ On this Veterans Day, I ask all Americans to express their appreciation to our Nation’s veterans.”
President Bush, 2007 Veterans Day Proclamation
Along with honoring our veterans, I think their loved ones who stay behind deserve our support as well.
The Silent Ranks
I wear no uniforms, no blues or army greens.
But I am in the military in the ranks rarely seen.
I have no rank upon my shoulders. Salutes I do not give.
But the military world is the place where I live.
I’m not in the chain of command, orders I do not get.
But my husband is the one who does, this I can not forget.
I’m not the one who fires the weapon, who puts my life on the line.
But my job is just as tough. I’m the one that’s left behind.
My husband is a patriot, a brave and prideful man.
and the call to serve his country not all can understand.
Behind the lines I see the things needed to keep this country free.
My husband makes the sacrifice, but so do our kids and me.
I love the man I married. Soldiering is his life.
But I stand among the silent ranks known as the Military Wife.
–Shiela Gault
We appreciate you all!
Welcome to Microfiction Monday,
where a picture only paints 140 characters.
Susan at Stony River has begun a Microfiction Monday wherein participants write a story in 140 characters based on a particular image. Design 215’s Character Counter helps keep track of the number of characters. It’s a fun exercise in creative conciseness…or concise creativity…
Imagination on parade
Through the dell, across the glade
Before the dream and daylight fade
And slumber to its rest is laid
Neath the shade.
From prayer that asks that I may be
Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee,
From fearing when I should aspire,
From faltering when I should climb higher,
From silken self, O Captain, free
Thy soldier who would follow Thee.
From subtle love of softening things,
From easy choices, weakenings,
(Not thus are spirits fortified,
Not this way went the crucified)
From all that dims Thy Calvary,
O Lamb of God, deliver me.
Give me the love that leads the way,
The faith that nothing can dismay,
The hope no disappointments tire,
The passion that will burn like fire;
Let me not sink to be a clod:
Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.
~Amy Carmichael
Even though this poem by John Updike is titled “September,” the first line or so has been running through my mind the last few days. And the last four lines seem to describe the rainy week we’ve had.
The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.
An explanation of Poetry Friday is here. It’s being hosted today by Laura Salas.
Photo is from morgueFile.
An explanation of Poetry Friday is here. It’s being hosted today by Crossover.
Yesterday I was looking for a couple of poems that mention September when I came across this stanza that was unfamiliar to me:
The morrow was a bright September morn;
The earth was beautiful as if new-born;
There was that nameless splendor everywhere,
That wild exhilaration in the air,
Which makes the passers in the city street
Congratulate each other as they meet.
That just seemed to capture how a fresh fall breeze makes me feel. I copied a line from the poem to search and see where it came from, and discovered it was from the longer poem“The Falcon of Ser Federigo” which is in turn from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s book of poems titled “Tales of a Wayside Inn.” The “Tales” are told by the landlord and patrons of the Wayside Inn, the first one being the famous Paul Revere’s Ride.
“The Falcon of Ser Federigo” is the tale of a knight who lost his beloved to a rival and now lives in poverty with his dearest treasure, his falcon. He is visited by a young boy who he recognizes immediately as the son of his former love, who is now widowed. One day…
The petted boy grew ill, and day by day
Pined with mysterious malady away.
The mother’s heart would not be comforted;
Her darling seemed to her already dead,
And often, sitting by the sufferer’s side,
“What can I do to comfort thee?” she cried.
At first the silent lips made no reply,
But moved at length by her importunate cry,
“Give me,” he answered, with imploring tone,
“Ser Federigo’s falcon for my own!”
No answer could the astonished mother make;
How could she ask, e’en for her darling’s sake,
Such favor at a luckless lover’s hand,
Well knowing that to ask was to command?
Well knowing, what all falconers confessed,
In all the land that falcon was the best,
The master’s pride and passion and delight,
And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight.
But yet, for her child’s sake, she could no less
Than give assent to soothe his restlessness,
So promised, and then promising to keep
Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep.
I’ll let you read the rest of the story on your own. 🙂
It contains the line “All things come round to him who will but wait,” which is where I assume the line “Good things come to those who wait” came from.
This really piqued my interest. I haven’t read a lengthy poem in quite a while, but this flowed well and was easy to follow. I found numerous places online that have the full text, but I might see if my library has the book one day.
(My Friday Fave Five post is below this one.)
An explanation of Poetry Friday is here. It’s being hosted today by Book Aunt.
I posted this poem a couple of years ago, but I was reminded of it again after reading this morning of Satan being the “accuser of the brethren.”
My Advocate
I sinned. And straightway, post-haste, Satan flew
Before the presence of the most high God,
And made a railing accusation there.
He said, “This soul, this thing of clay and sod,
Has sinned. ‘Tis true that he has named Thy name,
But I demand his death, for Thou hast said,
‘The soul that sinneth, it shall die.’
Shall not Thy sentence be fulfilled?
Is justice dead?
Send now this wretched sinner to his doom.
What other thing can righteous ruler do?”
And thus he did accuse me day and night,
And every word he spoke, O God, was true!
Then quickly One rose up from God’s right hand,
Before Whose glory angels veiled their eyes.
He spoke, “Each jot and tittle of the law
Must be fulfilled; the guilty sinner dies!
But wait — suppose his guilt were all transferred
To Me, and that I paid his penalty!
Behold My hands, My side, My feet! One day
I was made sin for him, and died that he
Might be presented, faultless, at Thy throne!”
And Satan flew away. Full well he knew
That he could not prevail against such love,
For every word my dear Lord spoke was true!
– Martha Snell Nicholson
(You can read more of Mrs. Nicholson’s poetry here.)
(Photo courtesy of stockxchng).
(My Friday Fave Five post is below this one.)
I saw this poem several months ago quoted on the Facebook page of a friend’s daughter — a young woman in her mid-20s! I just loved it and set it aside to post on my birthday — today. I’m sharing it for Poetry Friday as well, hosted this week by The Boy Reader.
I shall be older than this one day.
I shall think myself young when I remember.
Nothing can stop the slow change of masks my face must wear, one following one.
These gloves my hands have put on, the pleated skin, patterned by the pale tracings of my days…
These are not MY hands! And yet, these gloves do not come off!
I shall wear older ones tomorrow, til glove after glove, and mask after mask, I am buried beneath the baggage of Old Women.
Oh, then shall I drop them off,
Unbutton the sagging, misshapen apparel of age, and run, young and naked into eternity.
So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. I Corinthians 15:54
IF we with earnest effort could succeed
To make our life one long connected prayer,
As lives of some perhaps have been and are,
If never leaving Thee, we had no need
Our wandering spirits back again to lead
Into thy presence, but continued there,
Like angels standing on the highest stair
Of the sapphire throne, this were to pray indeed.
But if distractions manifold prevail,
And if in this we must confess we fail,
Grant us to keep at least a prompt desire,
Continual readiness for prayer and praise,
An altar heaped and waiting to take fire
With the least spark, and leap into a blaze.
~ Richard Chenevix Trench
Poetry Friday is hosted at Critique de Mr. Chompchomp today.
I posted this a couple of years ago, but it’s once again “boyhood’s time of June,” and with three boys, I just couldn’t resist. I love this poem. These are only two of the five stanzas.
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,—the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
From The Barefoot Boy by John Greenleaf Whittier (1855)
The picture is Boy and Dog in Nature by Eugene Iverd, from AllPosters.com.
Stray Thoughts 