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The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on. Emily Dickinson
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 View from Vermont Institute of Natural Science Lookout Morning
by Emily Dickinson Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day? Could I see it from the mountains IF I were a s tall as they? Has it feet like water-lilies? Has it feathers like a bird? Is it brought from famous countries? Of which I have never heard? Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor! Oh, some wise man, from the skies! Please to tell a little pilgrim Where the place called morning lies. September
by Helen Hunt Jackson The golden-rod is yellow; The corn is turning brown; The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down. The gentian’s bluest fringes Are curling in the sun; In dusty pods the milkweed Its hidden silk has spun. The sedges flaunt their harvest, In every meadow nook; And asters by the brook-side Make asters in the brook. From dewy lanes at morning the grapes’ sweet odors rise; At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies. By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer’s best of weather, And autumn’s best of cheer. But none of all this beauty Which floods the earth and air Is unto me the secret Which makes September fair. ‘T is a thing which I remember; To name it thrills me yet: One day of one September I never can forget. "Washing" by John Drinkwater
What is all this washing about, Every day, week in, week out? From getting up till going to bed, I'm tired of hearing the same thing said. Whether I'm dirty of whether I'm not, Whether the water is cold or hot, Whether I like or whether I don't Whether I will or whether I won't-- "Have you washed your hands, And washed your face?" I seem to live in the washing-place. Whenever I go for a walk or ride, As soon as I put my nose inside The door again, there's some one there With a sponge and soap, and a lot they care If I have something better to do, "Now wash your face and your fingers too." Before a meal is ever begun, And after ever a meal is done, It's time to turn on the waterspout. Please, what is all this washing about? To Babies
May polar bears welcome you to northern Manitoba, their lumbering grace marking the ice. May there still be ice. May giant trees lean over your path in warm places, brush your brow. So many details now disappeared... tiny toads in deserts, fireflies. Where are the open window screens, whispers of breeze against a sleeping cheek? If we stop poking holes in soil, watching onions grow, what will we know? If we no longer learn cursive, will our hand muscles disintegrate? You blink, beginning to focus. Where will the lost loops of handwritten "g's" and "y's" go? We dream you will have so much to admire. Naomi Shihab Nye Voices in the Air: Poems for Listeners "This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall Until the bitter weather passes. Try, as best you can, not to let The wire brush of doubt Scrape from your heart All sense of yourself And your hesitant light. If you remain generous, Time will come good; And you will find your feet Again on fresh pastures of promise, Where the air will be kind And blushed with beginning.” ― John O'Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings  photo Kenneth Summers They are fighting again the war to end war,
and the ewe flock, bred in October, brings forth in March. This so far remains, this pain and renewal, whatever war is being fought. We go through the annual passage of birth and death, triumph and heartbreak, love and exasperation, mud, milk, mucus, and blood. Yet once more the young ewe stands with her lambs in the downright, the lambs well-suckled and dry. There is no happiness like this. The window again welcomes the light of lengthening days. The river in its old groove passes again beneath the opening leaves. In their brevity, between cold and shade, flowers again brighten the woods floor. This then may be the prayer without ceasing, this beauty and gratitude, this moment. - Wendell Berry, Given Sonnet 19: When I consider how my light is spent
BY JOHN MILTON 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.” TRIPPING OVER JOY
What is the difference Between your experience of Existence And that of a saint? The saint knows That the spiritual path Is a sublime chess game with God And that the Beloved Has just made such a Fantastic Move That the saint is now continually Tripping over Joy And bursting out in Laughter And saying, “I Surrender!” Whereas, my dear, I am afraid you still think You have a thousand serious moves. - Hafez,  Matthew Wong, "Starry Night" Two Poems for the new year:
The Peace of Wild Things Wendell Berry, The Peace of Wild Things and Other Poems When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. _____ Within This Strange and Quickened Dust Madeleine L’Engle, The Ordering of Love O God, within this strange and quickened dust The beating heart controls the coursing blood In discipline that holds in check the flood But cannot stem corrosion and dark rust. In flesh’s solitude I count it blest That only you, my lord, can see my heart With passion’s darkness tearing it apart With storms of self, and tempests of unrest. But your love breaks through blackness, bursts with light; We separate ourselves, but you rebind In Dayspring all our fragments; body, mind, And spirit join, unite against the night. Healed by your love, corruption and decay Are turned, and whole, we greet the light of day |
"Ideas
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"Perhaps this is one of the secrets of life--to know 'glory' when we see it."
--Charlotte Mason
Virtual Life?
A wee explanation: this website was created as a way to amplify the daily surprise of seeing glory in one small life. The notebook entries represented here are all selected from things actually lived and noted on paper in an effort to live the full life British educator Charlotte Mason so ably championed.
In Appreciation
Photos chosen are linked to their original posts in most cases because I have found something of value there and hope my readers will likewise find a helpful resource. In the case of miss-attribution or if you desire your work not be linked, please let me know.
Photos chosen are linked to their original posts in most cases because I have found something of value there and hope my readers will likewise find a helpful resource. In the case of miss-attribution or if you desire your work not be linked, please let me know.
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