Our Hearts Are Restless

The Donkey - G.K. Chesterton When fishes flew and forests walked And figs grew upon thorn, Some moment when the moon was blood, Then surely I was born; With monstrous head and sickening cry And ears like errant wings, The devil's walking parody On all four-footed things. The tattered outlaw of the earth, Of ancient crooked will; Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, I keep my secret still. Fools! For I also had my hour; One far fierce hour and sweet: There was a shout about my ears, And palms before my feet.

In Rome - Fr. Abram Joseph Ryan At last the dream of youth Stands fair and bright before me, The sunshine of the home of truth Falls tremulously o'er me. And tower, and spire, and lofty dome In brightest skies are gleaming; Walk I, to-day, the ways of Rome, Or am I only dreaming? No, 'tis no dream; my very eyes Gaze on the hill-tops seven; Where crosses rise and kiss the skies, And grandly point to Heaven. Gray ruins loom on ev'ry side, Each stone an age's story; They seem the very ghosts of pride That watch the grave of glory. There senates sat, whose sceptre sought An empire without limit; There grandeur dreamed its dream and thought That death would never dim it. There rulers reigned; yon heap of stones Was once their gorgeous palace; Beside them now, on altar-thrones, The priests lift up the chalice. There legions marched with bucklers bright, And lances lifted o'er them; While flags, like eagles plumed for flight, Unfurled their wings before them. There poets s...

The Fourth Shepherd - Joyce Kilmer I On nights like this the huddled sheep Are like white clouds upon the grass, And merry herdsmen guard their sleep And chat and watch the big stars pass. It is a pleasant thing to lie Upon the meadow on the hill With kindly fellowship near by Of sheep and men of gentle will. I lean upon my broken crook And dream of sheep and grass and men -- O shameful eyes that cannot look On any honest thing again! On bloody feet I clambered down And fled the wages of my sin, I am the leavings of the town, And meanly serve its meanest inn. I tramp the courtyard stones in grief, While sleep takes man and beast to her. And every cloud is calling "Thief!" And every star calls "Murderer!" II The hand of God is sure and strong, Nor shall a man forever flee The bitter punishment of wrong. The wrath of God is over me! With ashen bread and wine of tears Shall I be solaced in my pain. I wear through black and endless years Upon my brow the mark of Cain. I...

Let folly praise that fancy loves, I praise and love that Child Whose heart no thought, whose tongue no word, whose hand no deed defiled. I praise Him most, I love Him best, all praise and love is His; While Him I love, in Him I love, and cannot live amiss. Love’s sweetest mark, laud’s highest theme, man’s most desired light, To love Him life, to leave Him death, to live in Him delight. He mine by gift, I His by debt, thus to each other due; First friend He was, best friend He is, all times will try Him true. Though young, yet wise; though small, yet strong; though man, yet God He is: As wise, He knows; as strong, He can; as God, He loves to bless. His knowledge rules, His strength defends, His love doth cherish all; His birth our joy, His life our light, His death our end of thrall. Alas! He weeps, He sighs, He pants, yet do His angels sing; Out of His tears, His sighs and throbs, doth bud a joyful spring. Almighty Babe, whose tender arms can force all foes to fly, Correct my faults, ...

The Way Of A Maid - Francis Thompson The lover whose soul shaken is In some decuman billow of bliss, Who feels his gradual-wading feet Sink in some sudden hollow of sweet, And 'mid love's us-ed converse comes Sharp on a mood which all joy sums-- An instant's fine compendium of The liberal-leav-ed writ of love; His abashed pulses beating thick At the exigent joy and quick, Is dumbed, by aiming utterance great Up to the miracle of his fate. The wise girl, such Icarian fall Saved by her confidence that she's small,-- As what no kindred word will fit Is uttered best by opposite, Love in the tongue of hate exprest, And deepest anguish in a jest,-- Feeling the infinite must be Best said by triviality, Speaks, where expression bates its wings, Just happy, alien, little things; What of all words is in excess Implies in a sweet nothingness, With dailiest babble shows her sense That full speech were full impotence; And while she feels the heavens lie bare, She only talks about he...

To St. Michael in Time of Peace - G.K. Chesterton Michael, Michael: Michael of the Morning, Michael of the Army of the Lord, Stiffen thou the hand upon the still sword, Michael, Folded and shut upon the sheathed sword, Michael, Under the fullness of the white robes falling, Gird us with the secret of the sword.When the world cracked because of a sneer in heaven, Leaving out for all time a scar upon the sky, Thou didst rise up against the Horror in the highest, Dragging down the highest that looked down on the Most High: Rending from the seventh heaven the hell of exaltation Down the seven heavens till the dark seas burn: Thou that in thunder threwest down the Dragon Knowest in what silence the Serpent can return. Down through the universe the vast night falling (Michael, Michael: Michael of the Morning!) Far down the universe the deep calms calling (Michael, Michael: Michael of the Sword!) Bid us not forget in the baths of all forgetfulness, In the sigh long drawn from the frenzy and t...

Feast Of The Assumption - Fr. Abram Joseph Ryan Dark! Dark! Dark! The sun is set; the day is dead: Thy Feast has fled; My eyes are wet with tears unshed; I bow my head; Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway I bend my knee, And, like a homesick child, I pray, Mary, to thee. Dark! Dark! Dark! And, all the day -- since white-robed priest In farthest East, In dawn's first ray -- began the Feast, I -- I the least -- Thy least, and last, and lowest child, I called on thee! Virgin! didst hear? my words were wild; Didst think of me? Dark! Dark! Dark! Alas! and no! The angels bright, With wings as white As a dream of snow in love and light, Flashed on thy sight; They shone like stars around thee, Queen! I knelt afar -- A shadow only dims the scene Where shines a star! Dark! Dark! Dark! And all day long, beyond the sky, Sweet, pure, and high, The angel's song swept sounding by Triumphantly; And when such music filled thy ear, Rose round thy throne, How could I hope that thou wouldst...

I memorized this poem years ago for a homeschool recital at a nursing home.  This last weekend with Kevin's family, I had so much fun with the little girls that I wanted to find a poem for this month about children.  This came to mind, and I've always liked the imagery!  The last two stanzas are especially beautiful. The Children's Hour, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors l...

I include the following poem this month for a number of reasons.  First, it is the month of the Sacred Heart - therefore it is liturgically and in popular tradition appropriate.  Second, June is the month of marriages in our modern culture and my sister was just married.  The Sacred Heart is the truest of love poems.  Third, we are going to visit my dear sister, Sister Michael Joseph of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, this coming week.  Her symbol in the convent, a tiny image that acts as a monogram (for the work assignment board each week, embroidering on her handkerchieves and clothes, etc.) is a little line-drawing of the Sacred Heart.  Fourth, my sister the sister is a Carmelite, and the following poem was written by a great Carmelite saint, St. Therese of Lisieux. To the Sacred Heart     ~St. Therese of Lisieux O Heart of Jesus, treasured tenderness, Thou art my joy supreme, my hope, my all! Thou who didst charm my youth and sweetly bless, Stay with me now till twilight shadows fall. Ma...

I suddenly realized that I haven't done a poem of the month for a disgustingly long time.  Perhaps because I am longing for a warm summer's day, I looked for summer poems.  For absolutely no reason other than that it is both Shakespearean and mentions summer, I chose Sonnet XVIII of William Shakespeare.  By fortuitous chance, this is also my hundredth post on this blog. XVIII Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long...

Well, I realized that it was high time for me to post a poem for this month of October.  I decided that perhaps I should poke around and find a new poem, one I hadn't read before, and utilize the skills I've gained both from my mother's teaching and what I've learned at school to understand something without having to be taught the meaning of it directly.  In this process, I came across several fun poems for the month of October and the season of Autumn!  The first was the favorite of those I found, the others interesting ones I thought were good enough not to pass up.  I've also included a couple that I knew of already, but rediscovered. October  by Hilaire Belloc Look, how those steep woods on the mountain's face Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold Invades our very noon: the year's grown old, Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace. The vines below have lost their purple grace, And in Forreze the white wrack backward rolled, Hangs to the hills t...

A gem that someone showed me - a new favorite poem of mine. REDEMPTION by George Herbert Having been tenant long to a rich Lord, Not thriving, I resolved to be bold, And make a suit unto him, to afford A new small-rented lease, and cancell th’ old. In heaven at his manour I him sought : They told me there, that he was lately gone About some land, which he had dearly bought Long since on earth, to take possession. I straight return’d, and knowing his great birth, Sought him accordingly in great resorts ; In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts : At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth Of theeves and murderers : there I him espied, Who straight, Your suit is granted , said, and died.  

Anthony Esolen, a well-respected Catholic literature professor and translator (Dante's Divine Comedy being among his works) wrote an article analyzing Wordsworth's poem "Old Cumberland Beggar" in light of what it has to say on the dignity of a human life.  The culture of life is so threatened now that infancy and old age have no meaning - there was little way Wordsworth could have foreseen the widespread use of abortion and euthanasia, yes his poem applies well to the current age. Read Esolen's article here after reading the poem below.  It's quite a profound reflection and a good read.  Thanks to Fr. Z for drawing my attention to it - Esolen spoke at Christendom last year and we used his translation of Dante last semester in literature class. Old Cumberland Begger     William Wordsworth I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk; And he was seated, by the highway side, On a low structure of rude masonry Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they Who lead their horses ...

What more appropriate for Our Lady's month than the "May Magnificat" by Gerard Manley Hopkins? MAY is Mary’s month, and I Muse at that and wonder why: Her feasts follow reason, Dated due to season— Candlemas, Lady Day; But the Lady Month, May, Why fasten that upon her, With a feasting in her honour? Is it only its being brighter Than the most are must delight her? Is it opportunest And flowers finds soonest? Ask of her, the mighty mother: Her reply puts this other Question: What is Spring?— Growth in every thing— Flesh and fleece, fur and feather, Grass and greenworld all together; Star-eyed strawberry-breasted Throstle above her nested Cluster of bugle blue eggs thin Forms and warms the life within; And bird and blossom swell In sod or sheath or shell. All things rising, all things sizing Mary sees, sympathising With that world of good, Nature’s motherhood. Their magnifying of each its kind With delight calls to mind How she did in her stored Magnify the Lord. Well but t...

Just realized that, what with Easter and the play, I never posted a poem for this month. One of my friends here at school, a literature major, is going into the convent soon.  She showed me this poem, since my sister is a Carmelite nun.  Having been blessed to speak with her a little bit on the phone on Easter Sunday, I thought I would share this short verse this month. Heaven-Haven: A Nun Takes the Veil Gerard Manley Hopkins I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where fly no sharp and sided hail And a few lilies blow. And I have asked to be Where no storms come, Where the green swell is in the havens dumb, And out of the swing of the sea.

In honour of Lent, I thought it fitting to share one of my favorite poems, by Joseph Mary Plunkett.   I see his blood upon the rose And in the stars the glory of his eyes, His body gleams amid eternal snows, His tears fall from the skies.   I see his face in every flower; The thunder and the singing of the birds Are but his voice—and carven by his power Rocks are his written words.   All pathways by his feet are worn, His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea, His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn, His cross is every tree.

Tomorrow is the feast of Our Lady's Purification, a celebration commonly called Candlemas.  In honor of this feast of Our Lady, and the close of the forty days of the joyful Christmas season, I present the following poem. Hymn by Edgar Allan Poe At morn–at noon–at twilight dim- Maria! thou hast heard my hymn! In joy and woe–in good and ill- Mother of God, be with me still! When the hours flew brightly by, And not a cloud obscured the sky, My soul, lest it should truant be, Thy grace did guide to thine and thee; Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast Darkly my Present and my Past, Let my Future radiant shine With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

It is cold and snowy outside; I feel like the weather ought to be a blizzard; and my mood is a bit quirky.  My thoughts turned to this poem for January's post. The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold. The arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold. The northern lights have seen queer sights But the queerest they ever did see, Was that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge I cremated Sam McGee. Now Sam McGee was from Tenessee Where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the south to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold Seemed to hold him like a spell, Though he’d often say in his homely way That “he’d sooner live in Hell.” On a Christmas day we were mushing our way Over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold It stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till som...

The state of one's mind in the final days of the semester somehow leads one to read, or perhaps write, such poems as the following.  I firmly believe that Lewis Carroll wrote this poem during the last days of a college term.  Therefore join me in my current mantal abberrations and read this. "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll   `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head ...

Yes, the month is almost over.  But still, a good piece of poetry is never wasted.  This is by J.R.R. Tolkien, and is in The Lord of the Rings.  Since I have been traveling a lot this semester, I find it appropriate.  The formatting is funky on here and I cannot for the life of me figure out why it goes wonky when I try to paste from somewhere else.  Argh.  Tech support!!! Roads go ever ever on,  Over rock and under tree,  By caves where never sun has shone,  By streams that never find the sea;  Over snow by winter sown,  And through the merry flowers of June,  Over grass and over stone,  And under mountains in the moon.   Roads go ever ever on,  Under cloud and under star.  Yet feet that wandering have gone  Turn at last to home afar.  Eyes that fire and sword have seen,  And horror in the halls of stone  Look at last on meadows green,  And trees and hills they long have known.   The Road goes ever on and on  Down from the door where it began.  Now far ahead the Road has gone,  And I ...