Friday, September 23, 2011

September

September
by John Updike

The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel--

Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Drying grass,
New books and blackboards
Chalk in class.

The bee, his hive
Well-honey, hums
While Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.

Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.

Merry Autumn Days

Merry Autumn Days
By Charles Dickens

‘Tis pleasant on a fine spring morn
To see the buds expand,.
‘Tis pleasant in the summer time
To see the fruitful land;
‘Tis pleasant on a winter’s night
To sit around the blaze,
But what are joys like these, my boys,
To merry autumn days!

We hail the merry Autumn days,
When leaves are turning red;
Because they’re far more beautiful
Than anyone has said,
We hail the merry harvest time,
The gayest of the year;
The time of rich and bounteous crops,
Rejoicing and good cheer.


Wednesday, September 14, 2011

She Was A Phantom Of Delight

She Was A Phantom of Delight

by William Wordsworth

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon a nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warm, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright,
With something of angelic light.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Birthday Sonnet

I tried to write some lines for you today
To celebrate another year of you,
And maybe in my grasping, fumbling way
Depict the highest ideal I pursue.

But one needs Shakespeare, Wordsworth or a Browning
To capture perfect beauty with just words.
I start the task, abandon it, with frowning
At my conceit (it's utterly absurd).

You voice puts me in such a pleasant spell
From heart to pen the words won't make a start.
I curse these meager lines of doggerel
And pray instead you'll hear what's in my heart.

    And so I'll not attempt a birthday rhyme.
    Your sonnet must await some other time.