Grace Noll Crowell

I have found such joy in simple things;
A plain clean room, a nut-brown loaf of bread,
A cup of milk, a kettle as it sings,
The shelter of a roof above my head,
And in a leaf-laced square along a floor,
Where yellow sunlight glimmers through a door.

I have found such joy in things that fill
My quiet days; a curtain's blowing grace,
A potted plant upon my window sill,
A rose fresh-cut and placed within a vase,
A table cleared, a lamp beside a chair,
And books I long have loved beside me there.

An Easter Hymn

Spake the Lord Christ-'I will arise.'
It seemed a saying void and vain-
How shall a dead man rise again!-
Vain as our tears, vain as our cries.
Not one of all the little band
That loved Him this might understand.

Praetor and priest in vain conspire,
Jerusalem and Rome in vain
Torture the god with mortal pain,
To quench that seed of living fire;
But light that had in heaven its birth
Can never be put out on earth.

'I will arise'-across the years,
Even as to Mary that grey morn,
To us that gentle voice is borne-
'I will arise.' He that hath ears
O hearken well this mystic word,
Let not the Master speak unheard.


Safe in the care of heavenly powers,
The good we dreamed but might not do,
Lost beauty magically new,
Shall spring as surely as the flowers,
When, 'mid the sobbing of the rain,
The heart of April beats again.

Celestial spirit that doth roll
The heart's sepulchral stone away,
Be this our resurrection day,
The singing Easter of the soul:
O Gentle Master of the Wise
Teach us to say, 'I will arise.' 


[Excerpts from An Easter Hymn by Richard Le Gallienne]

Christina Rossetti

So many memories gather in the poetry Robin introduced me to years ago. I don't know that I identified with this one back then as much as I do now:

IN PROGRESS

Ten years ago it seemed impossible
That she should ever grow so calm as this,
With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,
Silent with long-unbroken silences,
Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things,
Patient at pastime, patient at her work,
Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see
Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk
And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.

If I Were You

This poem was handed out in Relief Society several years ago. At first glance I thought it wasn't anything special, but I've continued to hold onto it, using it as a bookmark, because I knew the message was good.
Now, as everyone's lives are so busy, and in some cases, so difficult, I think the message is even more valuable:

I cannot say what I would do
if I were you.
I cannot say unless I knew you through and through.
Unless I knew your every dream and thought
and every fear your life has brought,
and heartache too.
So I'll be slow to criticize,
for in my heart I realize
I might not have done otherwise,
if I were you.

-Linnie Gold

[Sleeper Lost in Dreams, James C. Christensen]

An original

You're laying in bed
With your hands on your head
Stretching and squirming about.

Mother will call
And bang on the wall
And you yell
"Do I have to get out?"

[written in Sacrament meeting when I was about 9 years old]

Grace Noll Crowell

A Prayer for Courage

God, make me brave for life,
Oh, braver than this!
Let me straighten after pain
As a tree straightens after the rain,
Shining and lovely again.
God, make me brave for life,
Much braver than this!
As the blown grass lifts let me rise
From sorrow with quiet eyes,
Knowing thy way is wise.
God, make me brave. Life brings
Such blinding things.
Help me to keep my sight,
Help me to see aright,
That out of the dark comes light.

Christina Rossetti

IN PROGRESS

Ten years ago it seemed impossible
That she should ever grow so calm as this,
With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,
Silent with long-unbroken silences,
Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things,
Patient at pastime, patient at her work,
Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see
Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk
And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.

[Kershisnik, Constellations]

Robert Frost

One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e’er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew—
Only more sure of all I thought was true.

William Ernest Henley and Orson F. Whitney

At the age of 12, William Henley fell victim to tuberculosis of the bone. A few years later, the disease progressed to his foot, and physicians announced that the only way to save his life was to amputate directly below the knee. It was amputated when he was 17. Henley to write his poem from a hospital bed. Despite his disability, he survived with one foot intact and led an active life until his death at the age of 53.
The poem was written in 1875 and first published in 1888 in Henley's Book of Verses, where it was the fourth in a series of poems entitled Life and Death (Echoes). It originally bore no title. Early printings contained only the dedication To R. T. H. B.—a reference to Robert Thomas Hamilton Bruce, a successful Scottish flour merchant and baker who was also a literary patron. The familiar title "Invictus" (Latin for "unconquered") was added by Arthur Quiller-Couch when he included the poem in The Oxford Book Of English Verse.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

The Soul's Captain (Elder Whitney's perspective)
Art thou in truth?
Then what of Him who bought thee with His blood?
Who plunged into devouring seas
And snatched thee from the flood?

Who bore for all our fallen race
What none but him could bear--
The God who died that man might live
And endless glory share.

Of what avail thy vaunted strength
Apart from His vast might?
Pray that His light may pierce the gloom
That thou mayest see aright.

Men are as bubbles on the wave,
As leaves upon the tree,
Thou, captain of thy soul! Forsooth,
Who gave that place to thee?

Free will is thine--free agency,
To wield for right or wrong;
But thou must answer unto Him
To whom all souls belong.

Bend to the dust that "head unbowed,"
Small part of life's great whole,
And see in Him and Him alone,
The captain of thy soul.

from President Spencer W. Kimball

To walk with God, no strength is lost.
Walk on.
To talk with God, no breath is lost.
Talk on.
To wait on God, no time is lost.
Wait on.

Poetry Month

President Kimball quoted this poem in "Tragedy or Destiny" and I think of it every so often. Again, another excellent sonnet, that form that is able to tell a story and develop the point so well:

Pain stayed so long I said to him today,
‘I will not have you with me any more.’
I stomped my foot and said, ‘Be on your way,’
And paused there, startled at the look he wore.
‘I, who have been your friend,’ he said to me,
‘I, who have been your teacher–all you know
Of understanding, love, of sympathy,
And patience, I have taught you. Shall I go?'
He spoke the truth, this strange unwelcome guest;
I watched him leave, and knew that He was wise.
He left a heart grown tender in my breast.
He left a far, clear vision in my eyes.
I dried my tears, and lifted up a song–
Even for one who’d tortured me so long.
(Tragedy or Destiny, Spencer. W. Kimball, Deseret Book: 1996, p. 4.)

[Photo by Robin O.]

Poetry Month

This has been one of my favorites for over 30 years. My sister Shannon wrote this in high school after our mom died.

Angel Mother by Shannon Hoopes

The smile that turned so quickly to a tear
Will richly bring some comfort. To the mind
Remembrance of a mouth and eyes so clear
Upon the face that was so finely lined.

A soft heart giving love to thistle weeds
With understanding for the simplest pain
With more so for a baby's smallest need
Has given all and thus is heaven's gain.

Successfully the tests of life were passed,
But one more challenge for her was required.
Gethsemane and grief until at last
Unconquered still she willingly retired.

No more will endless pain torment the soul
Of one beloved, believed in, gone... Yet whole.

Poetry Month

The Carpenter of Nazareth, by George Blair

In Nazareth, the narrow road,
That tires the feet and steals the breath,
Passes the place where once abode
The Carpenter of Nazareth.

And up and down the dusty way
The village folk would often wend;
And on the bench, beside Him, lay
Their broken things for Him to mend.

The maiden with the doll she broke,
The woman with the broken chair,
The man with broken plough, or yoke,
Said, “Can you mend it, Carpenter?”

And each received the thing he sought,
In yoke, or plough, or chair, or doll;
The broken thing which each had brought
Returned again a perfect whole.

So, up the hill the long years through,
With heavy step and wistful eye,
The burdened souls their way pursue,
Uttering each the plaintive cry:

“O Carpenter of Nazareth,
This heart, that’s broken past repair,
This life, that’s shattered nigh to death,
Oh, can You mend them, Carpenter?”

And by His kind and ready hand,
His own sweet life is woven through
Our broken lives, until they stand
A New Creation—“all things new.”

“The shattered [substance] of [the] heart,
Desire, ambition, hope, and faith,
Mould Thou into the perfect part,
O, Carpenter of Nazareth!”

Poetry Month

I have two versions of this poem. The first one is a variation of the second, I believe, and doesn't have an author.

The Weaver
My life is but a weaving
between my God and me.
I do not choose the colors
He worketh steadily.
Not till the loom is silent
and the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
and explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
in the skillful weaver's hand
As the threads of gold and silver
in the pattern He has planned.

The Weaver (Originally titled "Just a Weaver")
by Benjamin Malacia Franklin

My life is just a weaving
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot change the color
For He works most steadily.

Oft times He weaves the sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.

Until the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Will God roll back the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the skillful Weaver's Hand
As the golden threads of silver
He has patterned in His Plan.


There are actually more versions, all slightly different, but the same idea. In reading it over again though, I have to disagree with part of the poem if you look at our agency as our choosing of the colors. If you look at the colors as some of the trials we are given, then I don't disagree :)

Poetry Month

I spent some time out in the garden this morning while Doug was teaching cycling safety at a regional Boy Scout camp, before we went to the temple this afternoon, and in between rain/snowstorms. There is a row of peas up, the lettuce and spinach are still alive but spindley, and beets needed a second planting already. I think I've decided where everything else will be planted, including a new stretch of ground to make room for zucchini and pumpkins since my tomatoes are always so crowded. I tried to get the crabgrass out from along the back fence but gave up. I dug out some of the dandelions that have sprung up in the last couple of days, and weeded around Robin's rosebush and some of the raspberries.
While I was working, I uprooted a pea plant or two and I naturally thought of this poem. Then I remembered Elder Christofferson's general conference retelling of the currant bush story. There are a lot of lessons in gardening.

The Growing Season, by Carol Lynn Pearson

A wound in my roots
From a zealous hoe -

The quick demise
Of friendly weeds-

A strange new stretching
With the flow
Of nourishment
From last year's leaves.

Sun and rain
By turns appear:

Growing season
Must be here.

Sometimes growing season lasts a long, long time, doesn't it? Sometimes I think I am the zealous hoe that wounds others' roots; sometimes I'm the wounded one. The weeds don't really seem to die easily. And the rain? It keeps coming, but the sun and blessings show up in the midst of the storms. That's why Saturday afternoons at the temple are where I like to be: it's a bit of sun on a cloudy day or an even brighter light on a clear one.

[Look: signs of spring!]

Poetry Month

I've liked Edgar A. Guest's poems since I heard Sister Flora Benson quote "Home" (It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home) in Stake Conference up in Wyoming about 40 years ago. (She, Gray Hillstead, and Grandpa Ames may just be the reason I've always liked poetry and wanted to memorize it.) Her bubbly personality so impressed me that the poem did too and I have never forgotten it.
Some don't consider Guest a serious poet, but I like the simple refrains and sing-song rhymes. Here is Looking Back:

I might have been rich if I'd wanted the gold
instead of the friendships I've made.
I might have had fame if I'd sought for renown
in the hours when I purposely played.
Now I'm standing to-day on the far edge of life,
and I'm just looking backward to see
What I've done with the years and the days that were mine,
and all that has happened to me.

I haven't built much of a fortune to leave
to those who shall carry my name,
And nothing I've done shall entitle me now
to a place on the tablets of fame.
But I've loved the great sky and its spaces of blue;
I've lived with the birds and the trees;
I've turned from the splendor of silver and gold
to share in such pleasures as these.

I've given my time to the children who came;
together we've romped and we've played,
And I wouldn't exchange the glad hours spent with them
for the money that I might have made.
I chose to be known and be loved by the few,
and was deaf to the plaudits of men;
And I'd make the same choice should the chance
come to me to live my life over again.

I've lived with my friends and I've shared in their joys,
known sorrow with all of its tears;
I have harvested much from my acres of life,
though some say I've squandered my years.
For much that is fine has been mine to enjoy,
and I think I have lived to my best,
And I have no regret, as I'm nearing the end,
for the gold that I might have possessed.

[Photo by Robin O.]

Poetry Month

OPTICAL ILLUSION, by Carol Lynn Pearson. This one is a family favorite.

Time is a stage magician
Pulling sleight-of-hand tricks
To make you think things go.
There--eclipsed by the quick scarf--
A lifetime of loves.
Zip--the child is man.
Zip--the friend in your arms is earth.
Zip--the green tree is gold, is white,
Is smoking ash, is gone.
Zip--Time's trick goes on.
All things loved
Now you see them, now you don't.
Oh, this world has more of coming and of going
Than I can bear.
I guess it's eternity I want,
Where all things are and always will be.
Where I can hold my loves a little looser.
Where finally we realize--
Time
Is the only thing that really dies.

Poetry Month

Here's another one from Grace Noll Crowell. She lived from 1877 to 1969, and was a near-contemporary of Robert Frost. Said Orson Scott Card: "I imagine that if Crowell had been a man, she would have been given similar respect -- for both Frost and Crowell did their work in the prefeminist era when women just flat out didn't get taken as seriously in the arts."

After wild syncopation, a sane song,
A tree that straightens after the winds' release,
The cool green stillness of an April wood,
A silver pool, unruffled by the breeze,
The clean expanse of a prairie's solitude
And calm, unhurried hours -- I love these.
I have been tangled in the nets too long;
I shall escape and find my way again
Back to the quiet place where I belong,
Far from the tinseled provinces of men.
These will be waiting after my release:
The sheltered ways, the quiet ways of peace.

[Photo by Robin O.]

Poetry month

It's only America's fifth annual National Poetry Month, but I think it's a nice idea. To honor it, I'm going to highlight some of my old favorite poems, some new ones I've found, and maybe even an original or two. I love sonnets, so I begin with this one, by 1940s Texas poet laureate Grace Noll Crowell.

I think that God is proud of those who bear
A sorrow bravely -- proud indeed of them
Who walk straight through the dark to find Him there
And kneel in faith to touch His garment's hem.
Oh, proud of them who lift their heads to shake
Away the tears from eyes that have grown dim,
Who tighten quivering lips and turn to take
The only road they know that leads to Him.
How proud He must be of them -- He who knows
All sorrow, and how hard grief is to bear!
I think He sees them coming, and He goes
With outstretched arms and hands to meet them there,
And with a look, a touch on hand or head,
Each finds his hurt heart strangely comforted.

Perfect.

[art by James C. Christensen]

December

First of all, isn't this the ugliest wreath? It looks better in this picture than it does in real life, poor thing. I don't know where it came from, but it was upstairs in the attic with the Christmas boxes so I brought it down with me the other night. I must have, in my after-Christmas bargain hunting last year, not wanted to come home empty-handed, and maybe I bought it for a dollar...or less.


Every year my girls and I used to read one entry each night before Christmas from a little book by Diane Goode, called American Christmas. It has a collection of stories, poems, and a song or two. Most of all we loved the artwork, even down to the pretty marbled borders that were different on each page.
For old time sake, here's the first item, entitled December, by one of my favorite children's authors, Aileen Fisher:

I like days

with a snow-white collar,

and nights when the moon

is a silver dollar,

and hills are filled

with eiderdown stuffing

and your breath makes smoke

like an engine puffing.

I like days

when feathers are snowing,

and all the eaves

have petticoats showing,

and the air is cold,

and the wires are humming,

but you feel all warm . . .

with Christmas coming!