A host of things I take on trust

21. 

A host of things I take on trust: I take
The nightingales on trust, for few and far
Between those actual summer moments are
When I have heard what melody they make.
So chanced it once at Como on the Lake:
But all things, then, waxed musical; each star
Sang on its course, each breeze sang on its car,
All harmonies sang to senses wide awake.
All things in tune, myself not out of tune,
Those nightingales were nightingales indeed:
Yet truly an owl had satisfied my need,
And wrought a rapture underneath that moon,
Or simple sparrow chirping from a reed;
For June that night glowed like a doubled June.

-- Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English Romantic poet, Anglo-Catholic supporter of the Oxford movement.

Beatus vir qui non ablit

Come to the place where every breath is praise,

And God is breathing through each passing breeze.
Be planted by the waterside and raise

Your arms with Christ beneath these rooted trees,
Who lift their breathing leaves up to the skies.
Be rooted, too, as still and strong as these,

Open alike to sun and rain. Arise
From meditation by these waters. Bear
The fruit of that deep rootedness. Be wise

In the trees' long wisdom. Learn to share
The secret of their patience. Pass the day
In their green fastness and their quiet air.

Slowly discern a life, a truth, a way,
Where simple being flowers in delight.
Then let the chaff of life just blow away.

-- Malcolm Guite (1957- ), English priest, poet, musician, and academic, from David's Crown.
Inspired by Psalm 1.

Sonnet

I had not thought of violets late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet 
In wistful April days, when lovers mate 
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. 
The thought of violets meant florists' shops, 
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; 
And garish lights, and mincing little fops 
And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines. 
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, 
I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams; 
The perfect loveliness that God has made,— 
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. 
And now—unwittingly, you've made me dream 
Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.

--Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson (1875-1935), biracial American poet, teacher, suffragette, activist, and editor

Sonnet

The late Gracie Allen was a very lucid comedienne,
Especially in the way that lucid means shining and bright.
What her husband George Burns called her illogical logic
Made a halo around our syntax and ourselves as we laughed.

George Burns most often was her artful inconspicuous straight man.
He could move people about stage, construct skits and scenes, write
And gather jokes. They were married as long as ordinary magic
Would allow, thirty-eight years, until Gracie Allen's death.

In her fifties Gracie Allen developed a heart condition. 
She would call George Burns when her heart felt funny and fluttered 
He'd give her a pill and they'd hold each other till the palpitation 
Stopped—just a few minutes, many times and pills. As magic fills 
Then fulfilled must leave a space, one day Gracie Allen's 
      heart fluttered 
And hurt and stopped. George Burns said unbelievingly to the doctor, 
     "But I still have some of the pills."

--Alice Notley (1945- ) from Grave of Light: New and Selected Poems, 1970-2005.

Sonnet

My heart be brave, and do not falter so, 
Nor utter more that deep, despairing wail. 
Thy way is very dark and drear I know, 
But do not let thy strength and courage fail;  
For certain as the raven-winged night 
Is followed by the bright and blushing morn, 
Thy coming morrow will be clear and bright; 
’Tis darkest when the night is furthest worn. 
Look up, and out, beyond, surrounding clouds,
And do not in thine own gross darkness grope,
Rise up, and casting off thy hind’ring shrouds,
Cling thou to this, and ever inspiring hope: 
 Tho’ thick the battle and tho’ fierce the fight, 
 There is a power making for the right.

--James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938), African American poet, teacher, newspaperman, and lawyer

Sonnet 1

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, 
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain, 
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, 
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,— 
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, 
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, 
Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow 
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain. 
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay: 
Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows, 
And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way. 
Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, 
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: 
“Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart and write.”

-- Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586), English poet, courtier, and diplomat