National Poetry Month, Day 27

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways
William Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

National Poetry Month, 26

A Red, Red Rose

Robert Burns

O my luve's like a red, red rose,

    That's newly sprung in June;

O my luve's like the melodie

    That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

    So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

    And the rocks melt wi' the sun:

O I will love thee still, my dear,

    While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve,

    And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my luve,

    Though it were ten thousand mile

National Poetry Month, Day 25

The Tyger
William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

National Poetry Month, Day 24

Death, Be Not Proud
John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
                                              

1 Corinthians 15:51-55

Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:

Death is swallowed up in victory.
O Death, where is your victory?
O Death, where is your sting?

National Poetry Month, Day 23

Because I could not stop for Death (712)

Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me – 

The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring – 

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 

We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –

The Dews drew quivering and chill –

For only Gossamer, my Gown –

My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground –

The Roof was scarcely visible –

The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses' Heads

Were toward Eternity – 

National Poetry Month, Day 22

The Lamb

William Blake

Little Lamb who made thee

Dost thou know who made thee

Gave thee life & bid thee feed.

By the stream & o'er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing wooly bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice:

Little Lamb who made thee

Dost thou know who made thee

Little Lamb I'll tell thee,

Little Lamb I'll tell thee:

He is called by thy name,

For he calls himself a Lamb:

He is meek & he is mild,

He became a little child:

I a child & thou a lamb,

We are called by his name.

Little Lamb God bless thee.

Little Lamb God bless thee.

National Poetry Month, Day 21

Snow-Flakes

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,

    Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare,

    Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

      Silent, and soft, and slow

      Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

    Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

In the white countenance confession,

      The troubled sky reveals

      The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,

    Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

This is the secret of despair,

    Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

      Now whispered and revealed

      To wood and field.

National Poetry Month, Day 20

Who will believe my verse in time to come (Sonnet 17)

William Shakespeare

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say 'This poet lies:

Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

So should my papers yellow'd with their age

Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,

And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

And stretched metre of an antique song:

       But were some child of yours alive that time,

       You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

National Poetry Month, Day 19

Answer

Sir Walter Scott

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!

To all the sensual world proclaim,

One crowded hour of glorious life

Is worth an age without a name.

The Doolittle Raid on Japan

On this date in 1942, Lt. Col. James Doolittle led an air raid on military targets in the Japan homeland (known as the "Doolittle Raid") in retaliation for the surprise Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor earlier on December 7. Sixteen B-25 bombers were launched on a 1-way mission from the aircraft carrier, USS Hornet (CV-8). All the planes were lost, and 11 crewmen were either killed or captured in this heroic attack (3 were executed by Japanese captors in China).* Militarily it didn't accomplish a great deal as part of the Pacific Theater of World War II, but it did signal to Japan that it was vulnerable to an American attack by air. The raid also boosted American morale in the war effort.

Doolittle and his crew
Source: Wing Commander CIG Forums

The carrier USS Enterprise was part of the escort group that accompanied the USS Hornet and the B-25 bombers on board that participated in Doolittle’s Raid. Later, my Dad will be part of Vestal's crew that will repair Enterprise during the Naval Battle of Guadalcanal, November 12-15, 1942.

*An interesting side note is the compelling story of Jacob DeShazer, one of Doolittle's Raiders, who was captured in China. For the next 3 years, he paid a heavy price for his bravery as the Japanese beat, tortured, and starved him as a war criminal. DeShazer recounts his experiences as a POW. Read his account in "Finding Forgiveness: Former Doolittle Raider, POW Shares Experiences."