Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds, Continue reading “Sonnet 116: “Let me not to the marriage of true minds…””
Song of the Rain by Hugh McCrae
Night,
and the yellow pleasure of candle-light….
old brown books and the kind, fine face of the clock
fogged in the veils of the fire – it’s cuddling tock. Continue reading “Song of the Rain by Hugh McCrae”
Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
South of my Days by Judith Wright
South of my days’ circle, part of my blood’s country,
rises that tableland, high delicate outline
of bony slopes wincing under the winter,
From Tintern Abbey
The River Wye
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Continue reading “From Tintern Abbey”
They also serve who only stand and wait.
Following on from the last post, those words popped in to my head. From Milton, meaning of course, that standing & waiting is a service to others. (Not that you get served even if you don’t push in the que!!) And Waiting is is not just sitting there, it is related to serving, as in a waiter in a restaurant.
On His Blindness
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
Walker, there is no road
Walker, there is no road
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace el camino,
y al volver la vista atr’s
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.Walker, there is no road.
The road is made as you walk.
As you walk the road is made
and when you look behind you
you see the trail
you will never step on again.Antonio Machado (Spanish, 1875-1939)
Friday, 30 December, 2011
Wide brown land
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror �
The wide brown land for me!
We had to say this at school in the fifties – over and over and the imprinting sticks. I love the place. Went there recently for the Psychodrama Conference in Brisbane, spent a week in northern NSW, driving around, camping, the poem kept rolling through my head, especially when there were floods or sweeping pains. I saw plenty of both while there.
Australia
Great Southern Land Lyrics – Icehouse
Great Southern Land, in the sleeping sun
you walk alone with the ghost of time
they burned you black, black against the ground
and they make it work with rocks and sand
I hear the sound of the stanger’s voices
I see their hungry eyes, their hungry eyes
Great Southern Land, Great Southern Land
you walk alone, like a primitive man
you walk alone with the ghost of time
and they burned you black
yeah, they burned you black
Great Southern Land
I have roots in that land. I heard the author speak about the first long note in that song, listening to him talk bought me back for a look. It is inspired by the the vast width flying from Sydney to Perth. I have flown that a few times! Vast sunburnt. I am not sure I really get the words but I sense an awe of of the land intertwined with the original people.
Ithaca
Always keep Ithaca fixed in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for long years;
and even to anchor at the isle when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Love this poem by Constantine Cavafy. Thanks Stephen, for sending it along a few years ago.
Continue reading “Ithaca”