Springtime Emily

1860, #162,

Emily Dickinson

Some Rainbow -- coming from the Fair!
Some Vision of the World Cashmere --
I confidently see!
Or else a Peacock's purple Train
Feather by feather -- on the plain
Fritters itself away!

The dreamy Butterflies bestir!
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year's sundered tune!
From some old Fortress on the sun
Baronial Bees -- march -- one by one --
In murmuring platoon!

The Robins stand as thick today

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Pope Pouri

Just spent an hour of my day awaiting the ascension of Pope Francis I - a kindly man, to judge by his eyes. For the sake of believers, I'm glad of the choice. But then, what poem to choose for the day? Why, who else than that Pope of Poets, Alexander? And what other poem than one celebrating the classic clerical tragedy of Abelard and Eloise. Now, I didn't read the thing all the way through , but here's the nut of the thing. And a link to the whole, should you have another hour or two to spend in the 18th Century. Read more about Pope Pouri


It's Early, But

a woman I met at breakfast at the Sylvia last week said she loved Mary Oliver. When I told her I had brought a volume of Oliver's poetry with me, she wanted to know if I had a copy of this poem. It wasn't in the collection I brought with me, which was , so I wanted to post it for her here, in case she's ever listening.

The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
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The Sun Rising

Valentine's Day dawns tomorrow, and with it, my birthday. These days I love the sunrise, these days I am eager for the day to begin, to rise and take up where I left off. But I remember days when sunrise was not so welcome, when I did not want to get out of bed, because the things I had to do were not the things I loved, or there were tasks I dreaded to take up, and, every once in a while, because there was a lover beside me whom I did not want to leave.

The Sun Rising

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Long About Now

Even those of us in the land of rain begin to think that a little sun wouldn't hurt that much.

Loud are the thunder drums in the tents of the mountains.
Oh, long, long
Have we eaten chia seeds
and dried deer's flesh of the summer killing.
We are tired of our huts
and the smoky smell of our clothing.
We are sick with the desire for the sun
And the grass on the mountain.

- Paiute Late Winter Song* Read more about Long About Now


The Things We Do For Love