Cycles by Annella Grayce

Cycles

By Annella Grayce

 

                    Spring

Winter                            Summer

                   Autumn

 

                   Sunrise

Midnight                         Noon

                   Sunset

 

Light            Dark

Hot              Cold

Life             Death

 

Cycles go round and round

Life goes up and down

It’s all just waiting to . . . lived            enjoyed        discovered

                                      squandered   wasted         ignored

The choice is yours.  Choose wisely

Born Like the Pines by: James Ephrain McGirt

Born Like the Pines

By:  James Ephrain McGirt

 

Born like the pines to sing,

   The harp and song in m’ breast,

Though far and near,

There’s none to hear,

I’ll sing as th’ winds request.

 

To tell the trend of m’ lay,

   Is not for th’ harp or me;

I’m only to know,

From the winds that blow,

What th’ theme of m’ song shall be.

 

Born like the pines to sing,

   The harp and th’ song in m’ breast,

As th’ winds sweep by,

I’ll laugh or cry,

In th’ winds I cannot rest.

 

The Tree by Anne Finch

The Tree

By:  Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea

 

Fair tree! for thy delightful shade

'Tis just that some return be made;

Sure some return is due from me

To thy cool shadows, and to thee.

When thou to birds dost shelter give,

Thou music dost from them receive;

If travellers beneath thee stay

Till storms have worn themselves away,

That time in praising thee they spend

And thy protecting pow'r commend.

The shepherd here, from scorching freed,

Tunes to thy dancing leaves his reed;

Whilst his lov'd nymph, in thanks, bestows

Her flow'ry chaplets on thy boughs.

Shall I then only silent be,

And no return be made by me?

No; let this wish upon thee wait,

And still to flourish be thy fate.

To future ages may'st thou stand

Untouch'd by the rash workman's hand,

Till that large stock of sap is spent,

Which gives thy summer's ornament;

Till the fierce winds, that vainly strive

To shock thy greatness whilst alive,

Shall on thy lifeless hour attend,

Prevent the axe, and grace thy end;

Their scatter'd strength together call

And to the clouds proclaim thy fall;

Who then their ev'ning dews may spare

When thou no longer art their care,

But shalt, like ancient heroes, burn,

And some bright hearth be made thy urn.

Cold v Warm by Annella Grayce

Cold v Warm

By Annella Grayce

 

Cold is harsh

Warm is inviting

Cold is penetrating

Warm is welcome

Cold is hard

Warm is comforting

Cold is unwanted

Warm is enveloping

Cold is only one season

Warm is the rest of the year

The Sound of Trees by Robert Frost

The Sound of Trees
By Robert Frost

I wonder about the trees.

Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.

Dust of Snow by Robert Frost

Dust of Snow
By Robert Frost

The way a crow

Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

 

Bright Star by John Keats

Bright Star
By John Keats

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—

         Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
         Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
         Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
         Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
         Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
         Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.