I’ve posted this one before, but it’s too much fun not to post again…Happy Halloween
Monday’s witch is foul of face,
Tuesday’s witch is a disgrace,
Wednesday’s witch is long of nose,
Thursday’s witch has extra toes,
Friday’s witch bakes poisoned pies,
Saturday’s witch has evil eyes,
But the witch that was born
On the Sabbath day
Tends to smell……
So keep away!
Thy soul shall find itself alone
‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness — for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.
The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
~Edgar Allan Poe~
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If every wife was happy with a man,
Compare with me ye women if you can.
~Anne Bradstreet ~
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
In remembrance of an innocent man gunned down at the War Memorial in Ottawa, Canada. R.I.P. Nathan Cerillo…
They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old; age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them.
If the gates of that great city should open,
spilling out the wretched refugees in search of something better,
of something worth living for,
other than the hope of another day.
If those holy saviors should storm those gates,
like heavenly angels storming upon the gates of hell itself.
If those saviors should fight upon the same ground
that thousands of others had died upon,
that great moral battlefield of hatred and death,
of blood and hope,
of tears riddled with blood.
If those wretched tears,
those tears that welcomed hope,
such horrible hope,
such cruel, cruel hope,
should end as the last are silenced.
If that same hope that brought a will to survive,
a will that made fathers steal bread from their own children,
a hope that meant life in a place of death,
should be diminished as the gates of wire are plowed down.
what life would that be?
this life in a place of death?
for they no longer fear Hell,
for they have survived in its wake.
Hell is not a fiery pit of suffering–
this great place called Rome,
Hell is a quiet Polish field of grass and blood,
of pits and corpses,
tarnishing the ground with not their blood,
but with their lives,
of what they represent.
And if those who still have the strength should walk toward
those gates of wire,
those great gates that separate reality from the dream world,
those gates that were the edge of the world for two years,
those gates that women and children had thrown themselves upon
for the hope of true life by the hands of death.
If those wretched inhabitants of Rome should yell,
Rome has fallen, Rome has fallen,
and those who disbelieve should come out of their deceased beds
and scream for pity,
that those who cry of help and salvation should be silenced,
and let those who have lost hope to die without the wild yellings of
the living dead,
of those who survived by stealing the bread of others.
If the watchers from their towers of wood should be silenced,
if their staring eyes and cold faces should be shut from the world forever,
their death fitting,
that they should die where they had killed countless others.
If the hands of those storm troopers of life,
those storm troopers of moral dignity,
should fit their hands through the gates of wire,
that the pale hands of those wretched refugees should touch the
hands of those of their saviors,
that their hands should embrace with a common love.
If the faces of those who had waited for death those long hours
should smile with their eyes,
for they are too weak to do so with their faces,
and meet with their saviors,
then Rome has fallen,
and the madness of that great city has ended,
and those who had disbelieved will shout with joy unknown to them–
‘Rome has fallen, Rome has fallen.’
If I could take your troubles
I would toss them into the sea,
But all these things I’m finding
Are impossible for me.
I cannot build a mountain
Or catch a rainbow fair,
But let me be what I know best,
A friend that is always there.
Whichever way the wind doth blow,
Some heart is glad to have it so;
Then blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.
My little craft sails not alone:
A thousand fleets from every zone
Are out upon a thousand seas;
And what for me were favoring breeze
Might dash another, with the shock
Of doom, upon some hidden rock.
And so I do not dare to pray
For winds to waft me on my way,
But leave it to a Higher Will
To stay or speed me; trusting still
That all is well, and sure that He
Who launched my bark will sail with me
Through storm and calm, and will not fail,
Whatever breezes may prevail,
To land me, every peril past,
Within his sheltering heaven at last.
Then, whatsoever wind doth blow,
My heart is glad to have it so;
And blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.
~Caroline Atherton Mason~