National Poetry Month, Day 18

Up-Hill

Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

    Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

    From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

    A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

    You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

    Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

    They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

    Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

    Yea, beds for all who come.

National Poetry Month, Day 17

The Village Blacksmith
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

    The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

    With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

    Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

    His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

    He earns whate’er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

    For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

    You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

    With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

    When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

    Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

    And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

    And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

    He hears his daughter’s voice,

Singing in the village choir,

    And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,

    Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

    How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

    A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, —rejoicing, —sorrowing,

    Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

    Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

    Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

    For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

    Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

    Each burning deed and thought.

National Poetry Month, Day 16

       A Hymn to God the Father

                      John Donne

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,

            Which was my sin, though it were done before?

Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,

            And do run still, though still I do deplore?

When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

                        For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won

            Others to sin, and made my sin their door?

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun

            A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score?

When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

                        For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun

            My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;

But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son

            Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;

And, having done that, thou hast done;

                        I fear no more.

National Poetry Month, Day 15

According to CyberHymnal.org, this hymn was written after 3 major tragedies in Horatio Gates Spafford’s life. The first was the death of his only son, and then in the same year, his financial ruin in the great Chicago Fire of 1871. Then in 1873, while crossing the Atlantic, all 4 of Spafford’s daughters died in a shipwreck. Surviving the tragedy, Spafford’s wife, Anna, sent her husband the now famous telegram, “Saved alone.” Several weeks later, after Spafford’s own ship passed near the spot where his daughters died, he penned the words to this beloved hymn of faith in spite of his heartrending grief. Spafford, like Christians of all ages, rested in eternal hope in God, no matter what pain and grief befalls them on earth.

It is comfortingly poignant, then, that according to survivors of the Titanic, this hymn was played as that great ship sank beneath the Atlantic Ocean 100 years ago today.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

National Poetry Month, Day 14

If— Rudyard Kipling If you can keep your head when all about you    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,    But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,    Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;    If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster    And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,    And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings    And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew    To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you    Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on"; If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,    Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;    If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--    Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

National Poetry Month, Day 13

Love (III)

George Herbert

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,

        Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

        From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

        If I lacked anything.

"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here":

        Love said, "You shall be he."

"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,

        I cannot look on thee."

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

        "Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame

        Go where it doth deserve."

"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"

        "My dear, then I will serve."

"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."

        So I did sit and eat.

National Poetry Month, Day 12

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear,

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I marked the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference. 

National Poetry Month, Day 11

If I can stop one heart from breaking

Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

National Poetry Month, Day 10

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 William Wordsworth Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

National Poetry Month, Day 9

Tears, Idle Tears
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.     Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.     Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.