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"Know
you, solely to drop in the earth the germs of a greater religion,
The
following chants each for its kind I sing."
(Walt
Whitman)
As the quotes
page shows you, I love small snippets of poems and songs, exquisite
turns of phrase captured in a line or two; yet there are certain
entire and complete poems which are the sacred hymns of my heart's religion.
In many cases
these have resonated for me since childhood, yet have lost none of
their peculiar power through the passage of time or the development
of my thea/ology. A collection of these works comprises my own
personal Book of Shadows: they are wordspells, invocations, immortal
songs in praise of Nature.
I hope they will
resonate for you as well, and bring you joy.
"The World
Is Too Much With Us"
(William
Wordsworth)
The world is too
much with us; late and soon,
Getting and
spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in
Nature that is ours;
We have given our
hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that
bares her bosom to the moon:
The Winds that
will be howling at all hours,
And are
up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for
every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.
--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in
a creed outworn;
So might I,
standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that
would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of
Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton
blow his wreathèd horn.
"The Song
of Wandering Aengus"
(William Butler Yeats)
I went out to the
hazel wood,
Because a fire was
in my head,
And cut and peeled
a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry
to a thread;
And when white
moths were on the wing,
And moth-like
stars were flickering out,
I dropped the
berry in a stream
And caught a
little silver trout.
When I had laid it
on the floor
I went to blow the
fire aflame,
But something
rustled on the floor,
And some one
called me by my name:
It had become a
glimmering girl
With apple blossom
in her hair
Who called me by
my name and ran
And faded through
the brightening air.
Though I am old
with wandering
Through hollow
lands and hilly lands,
I will find out
where she has gone,
And kiss her lips
and take her hands;
And walk among
long dappled grass,
And pluck till
time and times are done
The silver apples
of the moon,
The golden apples
of the sun.
"To Juan
At The Winter Solstice"
(Robert Graves)
There is one story
and one story only
That will prove
worth your telling,
Whether as learned
bard or gifted child;
To it all lines or
lesser gauds belong
That startle with
their shining
Such common
stories as they stray into.
Is it of trees you
tell, their months and virtues,
Or strange beasts
that beset you,
Of birds that
croak at you the Triple will?
Or of the Zodiac
and how slow it turns
Below the Boreal Crown,
Prison of all true
kings that ever reigned?
Water to water,
ark again to ark,
From woman back to woman,
So each new victim
treads unfalteringly
The never altered
circuit of his fate,
Bringing twelve
peers as witness
Both to his starry
rise and starry fall.
Or is it of the
Virgin's silver beauty,
All fish below the thighs?
She in her left
hand bears a leafy quince;
When, with her
right she crooks a finger, smiling,
How may the king
hold back?
Royally then he
barters life for love.
Or of the undying
snake from chaos hatched,
Whose coils
contain the ocean,
Into whose chops
with naked sword he springs,
Then in black
water, tangled by the reeds,
Battles three days
and nights,
To be spewed up
beside her scalloped shore?
Much snow is
falling, winds roar hollowly,
The owl hoots from
the elder,
Fear in your heart
cries to the loving-cup:
Sorrow to sorrow
as the sparks fly upward.
The log groans and confesses:
There is one story
and one story only.
Dwell on her
graciousness, dwell on her smiling,
Do not forget what flowers
The great boar
trampled down in ivy time.
Her brow was
creamy as the crested wave,
Her sea-blue eyes
were wild
But nothing
promised that is not performed.
"The Green Man"
(William Anderson,
from his book The Green Man)
Like antlers, like
veins of the brain the branches
Mark patterns of
mind on the red winter sky;
'I am thought of
all plants,' says the Green Man,
'I am thought of
all plants,' says he.
The hungry birds
harry the last berries of rowan
But white is her
bark in the darkness of rain;
'I rise with the
sap,' says the Green Man,
'I rise with the
sap,' says he.
The ashes are
clashing their boughs like sword-dancers,
Their black buds
are tracing wild faces in the clouds;
'I come with the
wind,' says the Green Man,
'I come with the
wind,' says he.
The alders are
rattling as though ready for battle
Guarding the grove
where she waits for her lover.
'I burn with
desire,' says the Green Man,
'I burn with
desire,' says he.
In and out of the
yellowing wands of the willow
The pollen-bright
bees are plundering the catkins;
'I am honey of
love,' says the Green Man,
'I am honey of
love,' says he.
The hedges of
quick are thick with may blossom
As the dancers
advance on the leaf-covered King;
'It's off with my
head,' says the Green Man,
'It's off with my
head,' says he.
Green Man becomes
grown man in flames of the oak
As its crown forms
his mask and its leafage his features;
'I speak through
the oak,' says the Green Man,
'I speak through
the oak,' says he.
The holly is
flowering as hayfields are rolling
Their gleaming
long grasses like waves of the sea;
'I shine with the
sun,' says the Green Man,
'I shine with the
sun,' says he.
The hazels are
rocking the cups of their nuts
As the harvesters
shout when the last sheaf is cut;
'I swim with the
salmon,' says the Green Man,
'I swim with the
salmon,' says he.
The globes of the
grapes are robing with bloom
Like the hazes of
autumn, like the Milky Way's stardust;
'I am crushed for
your drink,' says the Green Man,
'I am crushed for
your drink,' says he.
The aspen drops
silver of leaves on earth's salver
And the poplars
shed gold on the young ivy flowerheads;
'I have paid for
your pleasure,' says the Green Man,
'I have paid for
your pleasure,' says he.
The reedbeds are
flanking in silence the islands
Where meditates
Wisdom as she waits and waits;
'I have kept her
secret,' says the Green Man,
'I have kept her
secret,' says he.
The bark of the
elder makes whistles for children
To call to the
deer as they rove over the snow.
'I am born in the
dark,' says the Green Man,
'I am born in the
dark,' says he.
From "Priapus
And The Pool"
(Conrad Aiken)
This is the shape
of the leaf, and this of the flower,
And this the pale
bole of the tree
Which watches its
boughs in a pool of unwavering water
In a land we never
shall see.
The thrush on the
bough is silent, the dew falls softly,
In the evening is
hardly a sound.
And the three
beautiful pilgrims who come here together
Touch lightly the
dust of the ground,
Touch it with feet
that trouble the dust but as wings do,
Come shyly
together, are still,
Like dancers who
wait, in a pause of the music, for music
The exquisite
silence to fill.
This is the
thought of the first, and this of the second,
And this the grave
thought of the third:
"Linger we
thus for a moment, palely expectant,
And silence will
end, and the bird
"Sing the
pure phrase, sweet phrase, clear phrase in the twilight
To fill the blue
bell of the world;
And we, who on
music so leaflike have drifted together,
Leaflike apart
shall be whirled
Into what but the
beauty of silence, silence forever?" . . .
. . . This is the
shape of the tree,
And the flower,
and the leaf, and the three pale beautiful pilgrims
This is what you
are to me.
. . . . . . . . .
. . . .
Continue
to Page 2 of "Poetry"
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