“The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o’ the morn.”
Robert Burns
Poetry
January Mist
By Sandra Fowler
Sometimes at night I hear small birds lament.
Dark notes that seem to second moon’s descent.
Cold is the color of a deep regret,
An etude perfected by winterset.
The world was music and it turned us round.
Stirred by the subtle atmospheric sound,
You gently sketched a snowflake on my face
Which shall be mine till light has left this place.
Such solace has the power to outlast time,
To lock a small bird’s elegy in rhyme.
Somewhere beyond the January mist,
The magic of our landscape still exists
On the Pulse of Morning
(excerpt)
By Maya Angelou
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow,
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Facedown in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today,
You may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.
The Morning Comes Before the Sun
by Susan Coolidge
Slow buds the pink dawn like a rose
From out night’s gray and cloudy sheath;
Softly and still it grows and grows,
Petal by petal, leaf by leaf;
Each sleep-imprisoned creature breaks
Its dreamy fetters, one by one,
And love awakes, and labor wakes,–
The morning comes before the sun.
What is this message from the light
So fairer far than light can be?
Youth stands a-tiptoe, eager, bright,
In haste the risen sun to see;
Ah! check thy lunging, restless heart,
Count the charmed moments as they run,
It is life’s best and fairest part,
This morning hour before the sun.
When once thy day shall burst to flower,
When once the sun shall climb the sky,
And busy hour by busy hour,
The urgent noontide draws anigh;
When the long shadows creep abreast,
To dim the happy task half done,
Thou wilt recall this pause of rest,
This morning hush before the sun.
To each, one dawning and one dew,
One fresh young hour is given by fate,
One rose flush on the early blue.
Be not impatient then, but wait!
Clasp the sweet peace on earth and sky,
By midnight angels woven and spun;
Better than day its prophecy,–
The morning comes before the sun.
“To hear never-heard sounds, To see never-seen colors and shapes, To try to understand the imperceptible Power pervading the world; To fly and find pure ethereal substances That are not of matter But of that invisible soul pervading reality. To hear another soul and to whisper to another soul; To be a lantern in the darkness Or an umbrella in a stormy day; To feel much more than know. To be the eyes of an eagle, slope of a mountain; To be a wave understanding the influence of the moon; To be a tree and read the memory of the leaves; To be an insignificant pedestrian on the streets Of crazy cities watching, watching, and watching. To be a smile on the face of a woman And shine in her memory As a moment saved without planning.” ― Dejan Stojanovic
I’m neither an impostor nor a guest!
I’m not the maid! I am your seventh
Day, your longed-for Sunday’s rest,
Your passion and your seventh heaven!
On earth, they wouldn’t offer me a dime,
Hung millstones on my neck to spite me.
My love! Do you not recognize me? I’m
Your little bird, your swallow – Psyche!
April 1918
By Marina Tsvetaeva
Translation by Andrey Kneller
Evening Star
William Blake
Thou fair hair’d angel of the evening,
Now, while the sun rests on the mountains light,
Thy bright torch of love; Thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and when thou drawest the
Blue curtains, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep.
Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes
And wash the dusk with silver.
Soon, full, soon,
Dost thou withdraw; Then, the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro’ the dun forest.
The fleece of our flocks are covered with
Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence.
Shine, rule, and conquer the world!
No, thanks, I’m opposed to this attitude.
The more I love people, the more
I’ve learned to cherish my solitude –
to wander the fields, to go out
on trails, less traveled, afar,
expressing aloud to the clouds,
how beautiful all of you are.
By Vera Pavlova
Translation by Andrey Kneller
No, thanks, I’m opposed to this attitude.
The more I love people, the more
I’ve learned to cherish my solitude –
to wander the fields, to go out
on trails, less traveled, afar,
expressing aloud to the clouds,
how beautiful all of you are.
By Vera Pavlova
Translation by Andrey Kneller
“My friend,
This hour enjoyment more intense,
Shall captivate each ravish’d sense,
Than thou could’st compass in the bound
Of the whole year’s unvarying round;
And what the dainty spirits sing,
The lovely images they bring.
Are no fantastic sorcery.
Rich odours shall regale your smell,
On choicest sweets your palate dwell,
Your feelings thrill with ecstasy.
No preparation do we need,
Here we together are. Proceed.”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe – Faust
Winter morning
Alexander Pushkin
Cold frost and sunshine: day of wonder!
But you, my friend, are still in slumber –
Wake up, my beauty, time belies:
You dormant eyes, I beg you, broaden
Toward the northerly Aurora,
As though a northern star arise!
Recall last night, the snow was whirling,
Across the sky, the haze was twirling,
The moon, as though a pale dye,
Emerged with yellow through faint clouds.
And there you sat, immersed in doubts,
And now, – just take a look outside:
The snow below the bluish skies,
Like a majestic carpet lies,
And in the light of day it shimmers.
The woods are dusky. Through the frost
The greenish fir-trees are exposed;
The room is lit with amber light.
And bursting, popping in delight
Hot stove still rattles in a fray.
While it is nice to hear its clatter,
Perhaps, we should command to saddle
A fervent mare into the sleight?
And sliding on the morning snow
Dear friend, we’ll let our worries go,
And with the zealous mare we’ll flee.
We’ll visit empty ranges, thence,
The woods, which used to be so dense
And then the shore, so dear to me.
Maverick Mist 