Posted on 12/01/2006 8:08:18 PM PST by Soaring Feather
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oH YEAH, THAT SO! How are you??
Hi starbase,glad to see you got moved in:),fatima
Mernin', Ms Feather!
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 as 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!
Aww that is a lovely poem! So fragile, like Emily.
MORNING TOmkow man we worry about you for last couple weeks we thought Vlady got you ROFL after drinking the Russia vodka with your voices
Morning Tom:)
Ms. Feather, I didn't see a ping this morning - did I have too many pings to find it?
Cloth of White
The white wool sits there in my hand,
the wheel goes round and round and round,
As the thread is formed, a thin white strand,
And the wheel goes round and round.
Once it sat on back of ewe,
The wheel goes round and round and round,
And knew the sun, the feel of dew,
And the wheel goes round and round.
Once it knew the shearer's hand,
The wheel goes round and round and round
all gathered up in a dirty white band,
And the wheel goes round and round.
Once it met the water clear,
and the wheel goes round and round and round,
That made its grime all disappear,
And the wheel goes round and round.
Once it met the woolen card,
And the wheel goes round and round and round
To make it smooth and not so hard,
And the wheel goes round and round.
And soon it will be cloth of wool,
and the wheel goes round and round and round,
To keep me from the winter's cool,
and the wheel goes round and round.
The hand of God works like that too,
and the wheel goes round and round and round
Takes me through each step I rue,
and the wheel goes round and round,
Finds me wild then cuts the dross,
and the wheel goes round and round and round,
The tool he uses is his own cross,
And the wheel goes round and round.
Baptismal waters to wash my soul
and the wheel goes round and round and round,
And his own love to make me whole,
And the wheel goes round and round,
His cleansing comb sweeps through my life,
and the wheel goes round and round and round,
to straighten out the noise and strife,
and the wheel goes round and round and round.
Spun into thread for God's tapestry
and the wheel goes round and round and round,
I'm part of that bright cloth, you see,
and the wheel goes round and round.
Each life is precious in his hand,
And the wheel goes round and round and round,
Each life has place, a shining strand
And the wheel goes round and round.
The cloth he makes a shining white,
And the wheel goes round and round and round,
To clothe his Bride in linen bright,
And the wheel goes round and round.
And when the last strand's woven in
And the wheel goes round and round and round,
The wedding feast will then begin.
And the wheel goes round and round.
Knitting, Mea Culpa on me, I did not include you, so sorry.
Now for the poem. It is wonderful. My grandmother used to spin her own wool. One of my uncles received her spinning wheel.
My mom told me the cloth was course and itchy. It was warm, however.
This one for the Anthology -today as a matter of fact, yesterday's poem also.
I went through a poetically dry period as we got ready to move, but the words seem to be flowing again as we are getting resettled.
I seem to have rediscovered rhyme.
Yes, and I am loving it as I have been in a drought, too.
You have FReepmail.
Mernin',Ms Feather!
Mernin', Tom.
Fragment
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The body,
Eternal Shadow of the finite Soul,
The Soul's self-symbol, its image of itself.
Its own yet not itself--
Snow in the Suburbs
by Thomas Hardy
Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.
A sparrow enters the tree,
Whereon immediately
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eye
And overturns him,
And near inurns him,
And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.
The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope,
A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
And we take him in.
Ah, lovely, just lovely.
Hope you are well Lady. Do you have some snow this morning?
No snow, just dark & gray as usual. We aren't expecting any, either, but we are expecting extremely cold temps tonight and tomorrow.
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