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Posted on 03/09/2007 9:21:10 PM PST by Soaring Feather
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Places of Silence
Late days of August
evoke a sense of silence.
Silently, crows feed
Deer graze with confidence,
Crickets do not crick.
Silence covers the hill--
humming birds jab at feeders
with abandon energy.
Silence hangs like a heavy drape,
the wind does not speak.
Ancient pines have gone silent
they do not whisper.
Silence enfolding a human soul.
On an early August evening.
Soaring Feather/ bentfeather (c) 1993
It's hard to tell when cats are acting strange.
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Meg, I don't think I remembered to thank you for posting the sweet graphic Lady Jag made for you.
Cood morning Soaring Feather. and a Happy Saint Patrick's Day to you as well.
Thanks. Well, we have about eight inches of snow, the temps are in the 20s it's cold, and a good day to make soup.
OTOH, I may be too, lazy, to make soup. ;)
In the 6th grade we had to learn this poem. I have never forgotten the first stanza...
351. The First Snow-Fall
By James Russell Lowell
THE SNOW had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock 5
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow, 10
The stiff rails softened to swan’s-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 15
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood. 20
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snow-fall, 25
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o’er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow, 30
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar that renewed our woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
“The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father 35
Alone can make it fall!”
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow. 40
I can tell that it is early in the morning because the coffee has not kicked in to allow the eyes and fingers to work in a coordinated manner. LOL. Are you expecting more snow?
More snow coming but not as much. The cold will continue well into next week.
I woke way to early this morning, happens when I crash early. I have the Colombian coffee coursing through my veins so things should be looking up soon. ;)
Good poem.
Strange, I never realized it was so long, maybe the assignment was just a few verses.
I would think that most people in my age group grew up with the mind set that most of the poem eludes to.
Youth is wasted on the young, I don't know who said that, just makes sense.
My youth was spent raising responsible women, for whom I am grateful.
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