Of the Week

by Bliss Carman THERE is something in the autumn that is native to my blood— Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name. photo taken October 2012; light & size edited in Apple Photos in October 2018 "How beautifully the leaves grow old! How full of light and color are their last days!" John Burroughs  

by Jonathan Ashurst written October 2018 My Grandma Ashurst taught me To listen for the chords When playing the piano, When walking with the Lord. Some notes sound well together; Some chords have hints of strife. There's lots of life in music; There's music in each life. Here's what my Grandma taught me, The piano player from Wales: Look for the bigger picture, The story each song tells. Be mindful of the pattern, The sequence that unfolds; Awareness of this framework Will make your playing bold. Maintain a steady rhythm Through every changing mood; Bring joy to all who hear you Through each vicissitude. Find beauty in the thickness Of life's cacophony, And celebrate God's goodness In this grand symphony. When genius comes out clunky, Just laugh and keep your poise. Have fun while you are playing; Bring melody from noise. The key to making music, The secret to life's art, Is more than hitting notes right: It's playi...

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 left unguarded    They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret    O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me;    They seem to be everywhere. ...

by Martha Snell Nicholson God of the dawn of the ages, God of all future years, God of the winds and the waters, God of the whirling spheres; God of the storm and the tempest, God of the starry sky — God, I am calling to Thee; How canst Thou hear my cry? God of the hearth fires rising, God of the little home, God of all gardens growing, God of the fragrant loam; God of the broken hearted, God, Who art very nigh, God of repentant sinners, God, Thou hast heard my cry! "For  thus says the One who is high and lifted up, who inhabits eternity, whose name is Holy: 'I dwell in the high and holy place, and also with him who is of a contrite and lowly spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly, and to revive the heart of the contrite.' " Isaiah 57:15 ESV

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow      When I compare What I have lost with what I have gained, What I have missed with what attained,   Little room do I find for pride.      I am aware How many days have been idly spent; How like an arrow the good intent   Has fallen short or been turned aside.      But who shall dare To measure loss and gain in this wise? Defeat may be victory in disguise;   The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. "a righteous man falleth seven times, and riseth up again" Proverbs 24:16 ASV

Photo by Allan Stanglin (u sed by permission) Retrieved from allanstanglin.com Poet: Sidney Lanier Year: 1880 Into the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to Him, The little gray leaves were kind to Him: The thorn-tree had a mind to Him When into the woods He came. Out of the woods my Master went, And He was well content. Out of the woods my Master came, Content with death and shame. When Death and Shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last: 'Twas on a tree they slew Him—last When out of the woods He came. "And  there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground." Luke 22:43-44 KJV

Photo Credit: Elizabeth Lawson elizabethwinpennylawson.com Used by permission Poet: Robert Frost Year written: 1922 Year published: 1923 Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. " He giveth snow like wool " Psalm 147:16 KJV

by John Greenleaf Whittier Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy,— I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art,—the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,— Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood’s painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee’s morning chase, Of the wild-flower’s time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground...

by William Blake    Little lamb, who made thee    Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bid thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice?    Little lamb, who made thee?    Dost thou know who made thee?    Little lamb, I'll tell thee;    Little lamb, I'll tell thee: He is callèd by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild, He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are callèd by His name.    Little lamb, God bless thee!    Little lamb, God bless thee! "the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters" Revelation 7:17 KJV

by Martha Snell Nicholson I trust Him for my daily bread The keeping of my precious dead, The wiping out of all my sin, My going out, my coming in. I trust Him for the grace to bear This pain and weariness and care, I trust Him with this laboring breath, And with my ancient fear of death. Within the anguish of my mind His purpose and His love I find, Nor will He fail to give me strength Which meets the need of each day's length. In the day and in the night, In the darkness and the light, I trust the guidance of His hand Through ways I cannot understand, Until at last, earth's shadows gone, I shall awake, some glorious dawn, And in the brightness of His face Begin to understand His grace! "The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him, and I am helped" Psalm 28:7 KJV

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow April 2009 When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs     The first flower of the plain.     I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell     The coming-on of storms. April 2012     From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,     The drooping tree revives.     The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along     The forest openings.     When the bright sunset fills April 2013 The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,     And wide the upland glows.     And when ...

by Henry van Dyke Let me but do my work from day to day,   In field or forest, at the desk or loom,   In roaring market-place or tranquil room; Let me but find it in my heart to say, When vagrant wishes beckon me astray,   "This is my work; my blessing, not my doom;   Of all who live, I am the one by whom This work can best be done in the right way." Then shall I see it not too great, nor small,   To suit my spirit and to prove my powers;   Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours, And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall At eventide, to play and love and rest, Because I know for me my work is best. "Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men" Colossians 3:23 ESV

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. "Pleasant words are as an honeycomb,     sweet to the soul, and health to the bones." Proverbs 16:24 KJV

THE life that counts must toil and fight; Must hate the wrong and love the right; Must stand for truth, by day, by night—        This is the life that counts. The life that counts must hopeful be; In darkest night make melody; Must wait the dawn on bended knee—        This is the life that counts. The life that counts must aim to rise Above the earth to sunlit skies; Must fix its gaze on Paradise—        This is the life that counts. The life that counts must helpful be; The cares and needs of others see; Must seek the slaves of sin to free—        This is the life that counts. The life that counts is linked with God; And turns not from the cross, the rod; But walks with joy where Jesus trod—        This is the life that counts. "let your manner of life be worthy of the gospel of Christ" Philippians 1:27 ESV

by Jonathan Ashurst The World The whole world is before me now, I see it shining, bright, Glistening in fame and power, money and delight. It promises to give me all the glories of its hoard, If I will only bow myself before its rebel lord. I answer, "O, Depart from me! My heart is not your throne! I worship King Immanuel, I worship Him alone! Your treasures are deceptive, they leave a massive hole, For what a loss to gain the world and lose one's very soul!" The Flesh The Flesh has cooked a banquet, she calls me from inside: "Come stay with me a while, you'll be well satisfied." But the house is built of prison walls; the food's a stealthy lie: The one who eats that poisoned fare will slowly choke and die. She promises me samples of the sweetest food on earth. She claims that stolen bread is sweet, and laughs at me in mirth. But I flee her dangerous presence and run to Jesus' throne: I've food she does not know of; man can...

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silver...