Haunted House by Edwin Arlington Robinson
For shelter, save as we did from the rain.
We saw no ghost, yet once outside again
Each wondered why the other should be so dumb;
And ruin, and to our vision it was plain
Where thrift, outshivering fear, had let remain
Some chairs that were like skeletons of home.
There were no trackless footsteps on the floor
Above us, and there were no sounds elsewhere.
But there was more than sound; and there was more
Than just an axe that once was in the air
Between us and the chimney, long before
Our time. So townsmen said who found her there.
The Haughty Snail-King by Vachel Lindsay
They’d creep an inch or so,
Then stop and bug their eyes
Some folks . . . are . . . deadly . . . slow.
Twelve snails went walking yestereve,
Led by their fat old king.
They were so dull their princeling had
No sceptre, robe or ring—
Only a paper cap to wear
When nightly journeying.
This king-snail said: “I feel a thought
Within. . . . It blossoms soon. . . .
O little courtiers of mine, . . .
I crave a pretty boo. . . .
Oh, yes . . . (High thoughts with effort come
And well-bred snails are ALMOST dumb.)
“I wish I had a yellow crown
As glistering . . . as . . . the moon.”
Children Selecting Books In A Library by Randall Jarrell
The child’s head, bent to the book-colored shelves,
Is slow and sidelong and food-gathering,
Moving in blind grace … yet from the mural, Care
The grey-eyed one, fishing the morning mist,
Seizes the baby hero by the hair
And whispers, in the tongue of gods and children,
Words of a doom as ecumenical as dawn
But blanched like dawn, with dew.
The children’s cries
Are to men the cries of crickets, dense with warmth
— But dip a finger into Fafnir, taste it,
And all their words are plain as chance and pain.
Their tales are full of sorcerers and ogres
Because their lives are: the capricious infinite
That, like parents, no one has yet escaped
Except by luck or magic; and since strength
And wit are useless, be kind or stupid, wait
Some power’s gratitude, the tide of things.
Read meanwhile … hunt among the shelves, as dogs do, grasses,
And find one cure for Everychild’s diseases
Beginning: Once upon a time there was
A wolf that fed, a mouse that warned, a bear that rode
A boy. Us men, alas! wolves, mice, bears bore.
And yet wolves, mice, bears, children, gods and men
In slow preambulation up and down the shelves
Of the universe are seeking … who knows except themselves?
What some escape to, some escape: if we find Swann’s
Way better than our own, an trudge on at the back
Of the north wind to — to — somewhere east
Of the sun, west of the moon, it is because we live
By trading another’s sorrow for our own; another’s
Impossibilities, still unbelieved in, for our own …
“I am myself still?” For a little while, forget:
The world’s selves cure that short disease, myself,
And we see bending to us, dewy-eyed, the great
CHANGE, dear to all things not to themselves endeared.
Being as Little Children by Raymond A. Foss
Wonder, amazement, at the littlest thing
marvels in all of creation, faith, attachment
in the sound of familiar voices,
Voices of mother, of father, drawing the
head, their eyes, tilting to the common timbre
the nurturing of their parents
Another parent, more loving, eternal
calls us too, to know us, and us them
to turn our beings, our gaze
our lives toward them, to
loving guidance, ageless lessons
distinguishing good from evil,
paths to follow, to avoid
lessons for life, best heard,
when we are open, humble
as little children
These lovely young ladies are watching the older girls dance and are awaiting their cue to go on stage.
I am running a couple of days late in posting; so darn busy! I have right around 45 photos loaded into Ps for re-sizing and watermarks and maybe a couple of edits but this is all I am catching up with. Tomorrow will come soon enough and I can post the other three that I will be owing to myself then. Right now, I am aching to look at the backs of my eyelids.