One scrambled egg
Two pieces of toast
Three little sausages
Four cups of coffee, no cream.
(First word's value) + 3 = syllables
The waves forever move;Perhaps this poem struck me because the times are so vituperative. If one be on the one side, the other side is surely terrible. Unless the vice be versa? That's not to take a position on any position but this: God seems to have it in mind that people can be different, even opposed, yet faithful. I should note that Jesus tells Martha that her sister was doing what was right. But I'm not inclined to think that he was condemning her concern for hospitality so much as her anxiety.
The hills forever rest:
Yet each the heavens approve,
And Love alike hath blessed
A Martha's household care,
A Mary's cloistered prayer.
They say that "Time assuages" -
Time never did assuage -
An actual suffering strengthens
As Sinews do, with age -
Time is a Test of Trouble -"Time heals all wounds," say amateur therapists who lack enough silver in their coinage to buy some better sense. Or if they don't go in for aphorisms they might say something more along the lines of, "In the wake of this murderous rampage that left scores of children dead, we need a time of healing" as if a certain collection of weeks or months, maybe salted with some preferred legislation or a nice speech, would remove the holes from the bodies and undo the harm that was done.
But not a Remedy -
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no Malady -
Souvenir by Edwin Arlington Robinson
A vanished house that for an hour I knew
By some forgotten chance when I was young
Had once a glimmering window overhung
With honeysuckle wet with evening dew,
Along the path tall dusky dahlias grew,
And shadowy hydrangeas reached and swung
Ferociously; and over me, among
The moths and mysteries, a blurred bat flew.
Somewhere within there were dim presences,
Of days that hovered and of years gone by.
I waited, and between their silences
There was an evanescent faded noise;
And though a child, I knew it was the voice
Of one whose occupation was to die.
The Shrine by Sara Teasdale
There is no lord within my heart,
Left silent as an empty shrine
Where rose and myrtle intertwine,
Within a place apart.
No god is there of carven stone
To watch with still approving eyes
My thoughts like steady incense rise;
I dream and weep alone.
But if I keep my altar fair,
Some morning I shall lift my head
From roses deftly garlanded
To find the god is there.
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
In red weather.
The Jarts of Justice
Raining down on Mr. D.
Bocce balls will creep
Like angry iron ninjas
To kiss your sweet sleep.