To See the World in a Grain of Sand

To See the World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

-- William Blake (1757-1827)

Praying

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak

--Mary Oliver, "Praying," from Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

The Ninetieth Psalm

O Lord, thou art our home, to whom we fly,

   And so hast always been from age to age:

Before the hills did intercept the eye,

   Or that the frame was up to earthly stage,

          One God thou were, and art, and still shall be;

          The line of time, it doth not measure thee.

Both death and life obey thy holy lore,

   And visit in their turns, as they are sent:

I thousand years with the they are no more

   Then yesterday, which, ere it is, is spent:

           Or as a watch by night, that course doth keep,

          And goes, and comes, unaware as to them that sleep.

Thou carriest man away as with a tide:

   Then down swim all his thoughts that mounted high;

Much like a mocking dream, that will not bide,

   But flies before the sight of waking eye;

          Or ask the grass, that cannot term obtain

          To see the summer come about again.

At morning, fair it musters on the ground;

   At even, it is cut down and laid along:

And so it spared were and favor found,

   The weather would perform the mower’s wrong:

           Thus hast thou hanged our life on brittle pins,

          To let us know it will not bear our sins.

Thou buriest not within oblivion’s tomb

   Our trespasses, but enterest them aright;

Even those that are conceived in darkness’ womb,

   To thee appear as done at broad daylight.

          As a tale told, which sometimes men attend,

          And sometimes not, our life steals to an end.

The life of man is threescore years and ten,

   Or, that if he be strong, perhaps fourscore;

Yet all things are bit labor to him then,

   New sorrows still come on, pleasures no more.

          Why should there be such turmoil and such strife,

          To spin in length this feeble line of life?

But who considers duly of thine ire?

   Or doth the thoughts thereof wisely embrace?

For thou, O God, art a consuming fire:

   Frail man, how can he stand before thy face?

          If thy displeasure thou dost not refrain,

          A moment brings all back to dust again.

Teach us, O Lord, to number well our days,

   Thereby our hearts to wisdom to apply;

For that which guides man best in all his ways,

   In meditation of mortality.

          This bubble light, this vapor of our breath,

          Teach us to consecrate to hour of death.

Return unto us, Lord, and balance now

   With the days of joy our days of misery;

Help us right soon, our knees to thee we bow,

   Depending wholly on thy clemency;

         Then shall thy servants both with heart and voice,

         All the days of their life in thee rejoice.

Begin by work, O Lord, in this our age,

   Show it unto thy  servants that now live;

But to our children raise it many a stage,

   That all the world to thee may glory give.

          Our handiwork likewise, as fruitful tree,

          Let it, O Lord, blessed, not blasted be.

--Francis Bacon (1561-1626), from The Poets’ Book of Psalms (edited by Laurance Wieder)    

The wall

The wall surrounding them they never saw;
The angels, often. Angels were as common
As birds or butterflies, but looked more human.
As long as the wings were furled, they felt no awe.
Beasts, too, were friendly. They could find no flaw
In all of Eden: this was the first omen.
The second was the dream which woke the woman.
She dreamed she saw the lion sharpen his claw.
As for the fruit, it had no taste at all.
They had been warned of what was bound to happen.
They had been told of something called the world.
They had been told and told about the wall.
They saw it now; the gate was standing open.
As they advanced, the giant wings unfurled.


--Donald Justice (1925-2004), from Collected Poems (2017)

photo: detail from frieze at Ste. Chappelle, Paris

Irish Blessing

May you live

as long as you want,

and never want

as long as you live.

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
      And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

--John Masefield (1878-1967), English poet and poet laureate

The Rainbow

MY heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
     Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

--William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Especially when the October wind

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea’s side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water’s speeches.

Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour’s word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow’s signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven’s sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea’s side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

--Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), from 18 Poems, 1934

Traditional Prayer to St. Brigid

Saint Brigid.
You were a woman of peace.
You brought harmony where there was conflict.
You brought light to the darkness.
You brought hope to the downcast.
May the mantle of your peace cover those
who are troubled and anxious,
and may peace be firmly rooted in our hearts
and in our world.
Inspire us to act justly
and to reverence all God has made.
Brigid, you were a voice for the wounded and the weary.
Strengthen what is weak within us.
Calm us into a quietness that heals and listens.
May we grow each day into greater wholeness
in mind, body and spirit.
Amen.

--from the Order of St. Brigid

My Thankful Heart with Glorying Tongue

My thankfull heart with glorying Tongue
Shall celebrate Thy name,
Who hath restor’d, redeem’d, recur’d
From sickness, death, and Pain.

I cry’d thou seem’st to make some stay,
I sought more earnestly;
And in due time thou succour’st me
And sent’st me help from High.

Lord, whilst my fleeting time shall last,
Thy Goodness let me Tell.
And new Experience I have gain’d,
My future Doubts repell.

An humble, faitefull life, O Lord,
For ever let me walk;
Let my obedience testefye,
My Praise lies not in Talk.

Accept, O Lord, my simple mite,
For more I cannot give;
What Thou bestow’st I shall restore,
For of thine Alms I live.

--Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672), early colonial Puritan poet, 1661

A rainbow on the floor of La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.

Heschel on Prayer

Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement... get up in  the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed.

― Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907-1972)

The primary purpose of prayer is not to make requests. The primary purpose is to praise, to sing, to chant. Because the essence of prayer is a song, and man cannot live without a song. Prayer may not save us. But prayer may make us worthy of being saved.”

― Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907-1972), from Moral Grandeur and Spiritual Audacity: Essays

Sabbath Bells

Oh holy Sabbath bells,
Ye have a pleasant voice!
Through all the land your music swells,
And man with one commandment tells
To rest and to rejoice.

As birds rejoice to flee
From dark and stormy skies
To brighter lands beyond the sea
Where skies are calm, and wings are free
To wander and to rise;

As thirsty travellers sing,
Through desert paths that pass,
To hear the welcome waters spring,
And see, beyond the spray they fling
Tall trees and waving grass;

So we rejoice to know
Your melody begun;
For when our paths are parched below
Ye tell us where green pastures glow
And living waters run.

--George MacDonald (1824-1905), Scottish poet, Celtic scholar, and minister, 1840


Photo: the big bell at Christ Church Cathedral, St. Louis, originally made for the 1904 World's Fair.