Innocent intuitions

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S m a l l   S w e e t   B o y

The Home Front

Columbia, South Carolina

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Lo, soul, seest thou not God's purpose from the first?
The earth to be spann'd, connected by network,
The races, neighbors, to marry and be given in marriage,
The oceans to be cross'd, the distant brought near,
The lands to be welded together.
 
A worship new I sing,
You captains, voyagers, explorers, yours,
You engineers, you architects, machinists, yours,
You, not for trade or transportation only,
But in God's name, and for thy sake O soul.

Passage indeed O soul to primal thought,
Not lands and seas alone, thy own clear freshness,
The young maturity of brood and bloom,
To realms of budding bibles.
 
O soul, repressless, I with thee and thou with me,
Thy circumnavigation of the world begin,
Of man, the voyage of his mind's return,
To reason's early paradise,
Back, back to wisdom's birth, to innocent intuitions,
Again with fair creation.
 
O we can wait no longer,
We too take ship O soul,
Joyous we too launch out on trackless seas,
Fearless for unknown shores on waves of ecstasy to sail

Passage, immediate passage! the blood burns in my veins!
Away O soul! hoist instantly the anchor!
 
Cut the hawsers -- haul out  -- shake out every sail!
Have we not stood here like trees in the ground long enough?
Have we not grovel'd here long enough, eating and drinking like mere brutes?
Have we not darken'd and dazed ourselves with books long enough?
 
Sail forth -- steer for the deep waters only,
Reckless O soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou with me,
For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go,
And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all.
 
O my brave soul
O farther farther sail!
O daring joy, but safe! are they not all the seas of God?
O farther, farther, farther sail!

= Walt Whitman =

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Happy Wednesday

After the locust's song

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W a i t i n g   H e r e

Trinity Church Wall Street

New York, New York

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The adolescent night, breath of the town,
Porchswings and whispers, maple leaves unseen
Deploying moonlight quieter than a man dead
After the locust’s song. These homes were mine
And are not now forever, these on the steps
Children I think removed to many places,
Lost among hushed years, and so strangely known.

This business is well ended. If in the dark
The firefly made his gleam and sank therefrom,
Yet someone’s hand would have him, the wet grass
Bed him no more. From corners of the lawn
The dusk-white dresses flutter and are past.
Before our bed time there were things to say,
Remembering tree-bark, crickets, and the first star …

After, and as the sullenness of time
Went on from summer, here in a land alien
Made I my perfect fears and flower of thought:
Sleep being no longer swift in the arms of pain,
Revisitations are convenient with a cough,
And there is something I would say again
If I had not forever, if there were time.

= Robert Fitzgerald =

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Happy Tuesday

All through the ages

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B r o a d   S t r i p e s   A n d   B r i g h t   S t a r s

National Cemetery

Beaufort, South Carolina

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To fallen soldiers let us sing

Where no rockets fly nor bullets wing

Our broken brothers let us bring

To the mansions of the Lord

No more weeping, no more fight

No prayers pleading through the night

Just divine embrace, eternal light

In the mansions of the Lord

Where no mothers cry and no children weep

We will stand and gaurd though the angels sleep

All through the ages let us keep

The mansions of the Lord

= Randall Wallace =

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Happy Monday :: Happy Memorial Day

Sweet freedom's song

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A t   A t t e n t i o n

Beaufort National Cemetery

Beaufort, South Carolina

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My country, 'tis of thee

Sweet land of liberty

Of thee I sing

Land where my fathers died

Land of the pilgrims' pride

From every mountainside

Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee

Land of the noble free

Thy name I love

I love thy rocks and rills

Thy woods and templed hills

My heart with rapture thrills

Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze

And ring from all the trees

Sweet freedom's song

Let mortal tongues awake

Let all that breathe partake

Let rocks their silence break

The sound prolong.

Our fathers' God to Thee

Author of liberty

To Thee we sing

Long may our land be bright

With freedom's holy light

Protect us by Thy might

Great God our King.

Grand birthright of our sires

Our altars and our fires

Keep we still pure

Our starry flag unfurled

The hope of all the world

In peace and light impearled

God hold secure.

= Samuel F. Smith =

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Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord;

and the people whom he hath chosen

for his own inheritance.

Psalm 33:12

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Happy Sunday

To their ethereal homes

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H i g h   T i m e

Old Brick Church Graveyard

Jenkinsville, South Carolina

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Talk not to me of Summer Trees

The foliage of the mind

A Tabernacle is for Birds

Of no corporeal kind

And winds do go that way at noon

To their Ethereal Homes

Whose Bugles call the least of us

To undepicted Realms

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday