Let books be your dining table,
And you shall be full of delights
Let them be your mattress
And you shall sleep restful nights.
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayest rest
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
How well I know what I mean to do
When the long dark Autumn evenings come,
And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue?
With the music of all thy voices, dumb
In life’s November too!
I shall be found by the fire, suppose,
O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age,
While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows,
And I turn the page, and I turn the page,
Not verse now, only prose!
— Robert Browning, from “By the Fireside”
Image by Sophie
The tree blushed - a rude blast of air
Betrayed a shapely bough.
My saddened heart aware
That Nature’s clock was chiming,
I froze upon the twelfth
Clanging tone, caught alone,
Staring at a creaking door -
Left ajar for dancing, coloured Autumn,
Pirouetting in her leaves,
While agitated summer creatures
Backed away resignedly,
Sighing in protracted breves.
I turned; gave company;
We stood together, watching
Summer slowly blow away.
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
was like the conscious being of the book.
“Nature is what we know
But have no art to say,
So impotent our wisdom is
To Her simplicity.”
— Emily Dickinson, from “Part Five: The Single Hound XXXIV”
(Photo by RossieCotton)
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
From Childhood Years
I recall – that now recalling it all can’t be done:
The grass… Beyond grass – world vast … I’m – calling someone.
I’m fond in fact of calling into the wide stretched day –
And the thyme all scent and – the sun sleeping – in the hay.
And what else? What else do I of those years be dreaming?
Garden, where many leaves knew I and faces teeming –
Just leaves and faces in fact!… Leaf a stack crowd a stack!
My laughter – by lane’s end. Laughter so hard to hold back!
And head a hazeful of noise, in undercloud I run clear!
I have the sky’s breath– the heart! – below, treetops so near!
My steps already rumble past where dam – and river are.
You can hear them so far! So marvellously afar!
And now I’m – running home I’m returning – through the grass –
And along stairs that love the din of feet running fast…
And the room brimming spring and wave upon wave of heat,
And this my self lounging all corners flung dangling feet –
Pane window pressed – to mouth… A flight – mere glass,
no meaning –
And that watchful, all mighty my – boundless ever being!
day 16 - favorite poem or collection of poetry
My absolute favourite is “Bajka” (en. Fairy Tale) by Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński, but I couldn’t find any credible translation.
Instead, take a look at Bolesław Leśmian’s “From Childhood Years”