The Glory
Edward Thomas
The glory of the beauty of the morning,
-The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew;
The blackbird that has found it, and the dove
That tempts me on to something sweeter than love;
White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay;
The heat, the stir, the sublime vacancy
Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart:
-The glory invites me, yet it leaves me S
Scorning all I can ever do, all I can be,
Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue.
The happiness I fancy fit to dwell
In beauty's presence. Shall I now this day
Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell,
Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start
And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops,
In hope to find whatever it is I seek,
Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things
That we know naught of, in the hazel copse?
Or must I be content with discontent
As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings?
And shall I ask at the day's end once more
What beauty is, and what I can have meant
By happiness? And shall I let all go,Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know
That I was happy oft and oft before,
Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent,
How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to,
Is Time?
I cannot bite the day to the core.
Tag: Poem
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The Glory
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What does the Universe want from me?
A poem by Erica Sarzin-Borillo (http://www.mythichealingarts.com/)
To hold a candle in the dark and illuminate what could not be seen
And often what would not be seenTo hold hold a pic in the minds of men to get to soul…
To get to Truth…To chisel away at the Rock of Ages
Containing the living Beauty withinTo crack the nut of Life
Of mine and of yoursI guess I don’t care how dirty
I get in the process
If trouble is what it takes
to get to the Center
Then I am an advocate for trouble
If chaos has to be entered into
In order to find order
Then you will find me there
Hanging by a single thread
Over the abyss…I may be a sensitive
In the light of day
But there is much to life
that needs the inner goods
And I guess I was born to this workI am coming back
with a piece of Eternity
A chunk of World Soul
that time and again
Gets forgotten
by the puppet worldOh I know the game
I’m no different than you
You will find me well dressed
In my Sunday best
Gorging on this mock up life
(You know , we want and we want
But we don’t know
what we really want)
So we buy it all and we buy it up
But there’s never enough
of this puppet stuffI’ve had my fill of what cannot fulfill
So weary as I am
and nearing “the end”
I’m going in one more time
I’m heading in for the Immortal Soul
The One with whom I fell
Deeply and eternally in love
The One who partnered
with Eros himself
And birthed the child called JoyThis is how the story goes
Such love cannot be bought or sold
Such joy cannot be measuredWhen I die my fellow man
I pray I will walk hand in hand
With my authentic Soul
And with my last breath
Thank God for the true life I led!ESB
from “The House of Gathering” -
The Place Beyond Words
In the white swan space
of thin mountain air
Truth comes
as light
pure
unseen
flowing – bathing
illuminating entire worldsWho am I
beyond words
beyond thoughts
beyond ideas
beyond memories
beyond emotions
what am I really
beneath it allNo answer I can hear
in that place
beyond words
stillness – silence
the deep silence
the source of speech
out of which
all creativity comes -
Come To The River – Rumi
Come! Take a pick-axe
And break apart
Your stony self.
The heart’s matrix
is glutted with rubies.
Springs of laughter
are buried in your breast.
Unstop the wine jar
Batter down the door
to the treasury
of nonexistence.
The water in your jug
is brackish and low.
Smash the jug
and come to the river!Rumi
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Sometimes
‘Mandala of life’ by Paul SwatridgeSometimes, when a bird cries out,
Or the wind sweeps through a tree,
Or a dog howls in a far off farm,
I hold still and listen a long time.My soul turns and goes back to the place
Where, a thousand forgotten years ago,
The bird and the blowing wind
Were like me, and were my brothers.My soul turns into a tree,
And an animal, and a cloud bank.
Then changed and odd it comes home
And asks me questions. What should I reply?—Hermann Hesse
