Rage Against the Dying of the Light

I do not understand all of Dylan Thomas's poem, "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night", but somehow the words of that poem came to mind as I walked the autumn woods and saw the season dying.  Everything is folding up, shrinking, and blowing away.

When I saw these weeds standing bright and tall in the woods, I thought how they blazed with glory in the afternoon light, arms stretched up in a show of defiance.  They are not going gentle into the night of winter, but are standing fast against the wind and frost.

It cheered me to see it, and reminded me that I, too, can rage against the dying light as we go into the darkest season of the year, where the minutes of daylight shrink at an alarming rate.  I can get out and take walks and keep my thoughts elevated, and focus on the joys of life even as the world is slowly wrapped in the darkness of winter.  It will be a long traverse, but I know that in February and March, life will spring anew and everything will bud and be beautiful again!

My Heart Is There

Today's post is dedicated to the poem "Tadoussac" by Charles Bancroft.  It expresses so well my never-ending delight with the woods, and the hunger in my soul to be there when I must be other places instead.

I've seen the Thousand Islands

In the beauty of the dawn;

And sailed on lake Ontario,

When the shades of night were drawn,

I've wandered in Toronto,
Climbed the "Mount" at Montreal;
Run the great St. Lawrence rapids,
Where the waters swirl and fall.

I've slept up in the Chateau,
At Quebec; and known the thrill
Of rambling through the "Old Town"
And the fort upon the hill.

I've felt the sacred beauty
Of the splendor on Sag'nay;
The warmth of homespun blankets
That were made at Murray Bay.

But in my soul's a hunger
Once again for Tadoussac;
The endless fascination
Of its quaintness draws me back.

I hear again the mission bell
That calls the folks to prayer;
And as I walk the city streets
My heart is with them there.

April Mire

Today's post shares a poem by Robert Frost, called "Blue-Butterfly Day."  It is a favorite spring poem of mine, and I am pairing it with a couple of my photos.  Maybe like me, you have noticed that the butterflies are back, zigzagging over the grasses and stopping at all of the early blossoms.

Blue-Butterfly Day

by Robert Frost

It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,

And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry

There is more unmixed color on the wing

Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.

But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:

And now from having ridden out desire

They lie closed over in the wind and cling

Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.

I've always loved that final image - "Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire."  I've seen the muddy ruts left behind after a vehicle has passed by and how, as the noise of it fades away - the insects and birds return to the new puddles in the altered terrain.

The Eagle

Here is a favorite eagle poem of mine.   I'm sharing it, and this photo of an eagle I took, in honor of my son.  He earned his Eagle Scout rank this week.

This one's for you, Jason.*  I'm so proud of you!


                                                             The Eagle
                                                  by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

                                        He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
                                        Close to the sun in lonely lands,
                                        Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

                                        The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
                                        He watches from his mountain walls,
                                        And like a thunderbolt he falls.

*Names have been changed to protect the - well - they've been changed!

Time to Fly

Something Told the Wild Geese
by Rachel Field


Something told the wild geese
It was time to go,

Though the field lay golden
Something whispered, "snow."

Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,

But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned, "frost."

All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice

But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.

Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,

Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.

A Fading Crown

Soaking up the beginnings of autumn on a walk recently, I could not help but think of Galadriel's song in Tolkien's bittersweet chapter, "Farewell to Lorien".  Indeed, I could not help singing it, as the leaves spun slowly to the ground around me, and the crows called coarsely to one another.  Long  ago I set her words to music, and the song has been a comfort and a companion every fall, as the glorious crown of autumn fades into winter.

If you are unfamiliar with the mythology of Middle Earth, you can still appreciate the archetypal images and mournful meter of her song.  The fellowship are departing, their fate unknown.  Whether they succeed or not, Galadriel's power will fail.  It is already failing.  Her woodland realm - created as a fair haven for her people - is fading into an autumn and a winter that will never see spring.

As we must all say goodbye to people and places we have long cherished and worked for, we might be encouraged by Galadriel's song, which is one of reflection and sorrow, but not of despair.

....................................................................................

From The Fellowship of the Rings, by J. R. R. Tolkien:


"I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:
Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew.

Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,
And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree.

Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,

In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.

There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,

While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears.

O Lorien!  The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day;

The leaves are falling in the stream, the River flows away.

O Lorien!  Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore

And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.

But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,

What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?"

Orphans

I had a little fun with that poor mole yesterday, when I wrote my post "Body Found on Trail".  However, writing about that mole and wondering if it was a mother mole with babies in the den, reminded me of a poem I am going to share here.

This is Lew Sarett's poem, "Four Little Foxes".  The season doesn't match our current summertime, but the sentiment does.

..................................................

Speak gently, Spring, and make no sudden sound
For in my windy valley yesterday I found
New born foxes squirming on the ground
Speak gently.


Walk softly, March, forbear the bitter blow,
Her feet within a trap, her blood upon the snow,
The four little foxes saw their mother go
Walk softly.


Go lightly, Spring, oh give them no alarm;
When I covered them with boughs to shelter them from harm
The thin blue foxes suckled at my arm
Go Lightly.


Step softly, March, with your rampant hurricane
Nuzzling one another and whimp'ring with pain,
The new little foxes are shiv'ring in the rain
Step softly.


..................................................

This is a sad poem, and I don't like the content, but I do admire the way it is written.  In the second stanza, for example, I like the way that the phrase "the bitter blow" could mean, among other things, the deadly cold wind and temperatures, or the actual death of the fox kits themselves.  And throughout the poem, by imploring Spring and March to be gentle and soft, the tenor of the poem matches the way in which the long, straightforward descriptions are cut short by the final beseeching imperative at the end of each stanza, almost most like the author is hushing the entities he is addressing, and the readers as well.

Hyacinths to Feed Thy Soul

Yesterday's post on Spring Beauties, and the quote used there, reminded me of a poem.  You probably know it already.  It goes like this:

"If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store
Two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul."

Photo courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net by Vera Kratochvil

This poem was written by Shaikh Saadi, a famous Persian poet, who was born in the late 1100's.

I love how people can communicate through time and space with their writing. Upon reading Saadi's peom, we instantly have a connection with this man who lived hundreds of years before us.  Suddenly the chasms of time and culture begin to be bridged.  If he felt like that, and so do I, then what else might we have in common?