Sunday Poem~

She Walks in Beauty
George Gordon Byron, 1788 – 1824

I.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

II.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

III.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/she-walks-beauty

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Photo Credit: Victoria Kaloss

Happy Lunar Eclipse/Full Moon tomorrow 🙂

Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility
‘One can judge a nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle
Victoria Kaloss

Sunday Poem ~

It’s all I have to bring today (26)
Emily Dickinson, 1830 – 1886

It’s all I have to bring today—
This, and my heart beside—
This, and my heart, and all the fields—
And all the meadows wide—
Be sure you count—should I forget
Some one the sum could tell—
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.It’s all I have to bring today (26)
Emily Dickinson, 1830 – 1886

It’s all I have to bring today—
This, and my heart beside—
This, and my heart, and all the fields—
And all the meadows wide—
Be sure you count—should I forget
Some one the sum could tell—
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

<a href="https://www.poets.org/

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Photo Credit: urbanpollinators.blogspot.com

Sunday Poem ~

Rasp
by Maggie Smith

The heat rises in distorted gold
waves around fire
but without fire,
shimmering, twisting

anything seen through it.
The heat rises, rasping
the air it rises through,
scuffing the surface,

if the air has a surface.
The tall summer
field is the keeper
of secrets. Lie down

and forget your body, forgive
your body its bad cradle,
its brokenness.
Lie down and listen

to the rasp, to heat sweep
the pale, dry grass as if
it were your own
breathing, as if the field

you’ve pressed your shape into
is a broom in reverse,
a broom being
swept by the wind.

Copyright © 2017 Maggie Smith. Used with permission of the author.

http://academyofamericanpoets.cmail20.com/t/ViewEmail/y/D527E132D7EF3F3B/F7AC937704804FC38BD4C707EBCCB890

I am grateful to Maggie Smith for giving me permission to post her extraordinary poem.

“Rasp” touched my heart and had me catching my breath. I hope you all enjoy Maggie Smith’s “Rasp” with all your heart and soul.
Again, thank you, Maggie Smith, for your generosity!

Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility
‘One can judge a nation by the wy it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle
Victoria Kaloss

Sunday Poem ~

australian willow
Photo credit: Victoria Kaloss (Australian Willow)

In the Desert
by Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”

Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility
‘One can judge a nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle
Victoria Kaloss

Sunday Poem ~ July 4th Edition

I Hear America Singing
by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or
at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

4th smoke fire water
Photo Credit: Victoria Kaloss

Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility

‘One can judge a nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle

Victoria Kaloss

Sunday Poem ~

On the Beach at Night

by Walt Whitman

On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.
Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.
From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.
Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.
Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?
Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.
Photo Credit: Kevin Adams http://www.kevinadamsphoto.com
Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility
‘One can judge a nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle
Victoria Kaloss

Sunday Poem ~

 

William Shakespeare, 15641616

Prospero speaks to Ferdinand and Miranda

You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex’d;
Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled:
Be not disturb’d with my infirmity:
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk,
To still my beating mind.

 

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/tempest-act-iv-scene-i-you-do-look-my-son

 

Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility

‘One can judge a nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle

Victoria Kaloss

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