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Acceptance by Robert Frost

 

Acceptance

by Robert Frost

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud

And goes down burning into the gulf below,

No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud

At what has happened. Birds, at least must know

It is the change to darkness in the sky.

Murmuring something quiet in her breast,

One bird begins to close a faded eye;

Or overtaken too far from his nest,

Hurrying low above the grove, some waif

Swoops just in time to his remembered tree.

At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe!

Now let the night be dark for all of me.

Let the night be too dark for me to see

Into the future.

Let what will be, be.'

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If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me

by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know

one thing.

You know how this is:

if I look

at the crystal moon, at the red branch

of the slow autumn at my window,

if I touch

near the fire

the impalpable ash

or the wrinkled body of the log,

everything carries me to you,

as if everything that exists,

aromas, light, metals,

were little boats

that sail

toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,

if little by little you stop loving me

I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly

you forget me

do not look for me,

for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,

the wind of banners

that passes through my life,

and you decide

to leave me at the shore

of the heart where I have roots,

remember

that on that day,

at that hour,

I shall lift my arms

and my roots will set off

to seek another land.

But

if each day,

each hour,

you feel that you are destined for me

with implacable sweetness,

if each day a flower

climbs up to your lips to seek me,

ah my love, ah my own,

in me all that fire is repeated,

in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,

my love feeds on your love, beloved,

and as long as you live it will be in your arms

without leaving mine.

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For Whom The Bell Tolls by John Donne

For Whom The Bell Tolls

by John Donne

No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manner of thine own

Or of thine friend's were.

Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee.

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She Walks In Beauty by George Gordon / Lord Byron

She Walks In Beauty by George Gordon Lord Byron She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

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Patience Taught by Nature by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Patience Taught By Nature

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

'O DREARY life,' we cry, 'O dreary life!'

And still the generations of the birds

Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds

Serenely live while we are keeping strife

With Heaven's true purpose in us, as a knife

Against which we may struggle! Ocean girds

Unslackened the dry land, savannah-swards

Unweary sweep, hills watch unworn, and rife

Meek leaves drop yearly from the forest-trees

To show, above, the unwasted stars that pass

In their old glory: O thou God of old,

Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these!--

But so much patience as a blade of grass

Grows by, contented through the heat and cold.

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The Bait by John Donne

The Bait

by John Donne

Come live with me and be my love

And we will some new pleasures prove

Of golden sands and crystal brooks,

With silken lines and silver hooks.

There will the river -- whispering run

Warmed by thy eyes more than the sun

And there th' enamoured fish will stay,

Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,

Each fish, which every channel hath,

Will amorously to thee swim,

Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth,

By sun or moon, thou darken'st both

And if myself have leave to see,

I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,

And cut their legs with shells and weeds

Or treacherously poor fish beset,

With strangling snare or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest

The bedded fish in banks out-wrest;

Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,

Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes.

For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,

For thou thyself art thine own bait:

That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,

Alas, is wiser far than I.

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High Flight by John Gillespie McGee

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High Flight

by John Gillespie McGee

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,

I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew -

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

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The Seven Ages of Man by William Shakespeare

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The Seven Ages of Man

by William Shakespeare

from "As You Like It"

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players, They have their exits and entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws, and modern instances, And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side, His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide, For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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Not Over The Hill

Up the hill.  Over the hill.  Down the hill.

I've been up the hill.  I'm over the hill.  I'm not ready to go down the hill, but I guess that's where I am headed.  Today I found out I'll be running in my fifth St. George Marathon.  I wanted to run this year because I turned fifty-five, but I don't feel that old.

The first time I ran the marathon I was probably thirty-six or seven.  I was celebrating my wife's cancer victory; I figured if she could survive cancer, I could run a marathon.  It wasn't a stellar performance, but for a guy who didn't think he could run a mile until he was twenty-five, it was a pretty fun four-and-one-half hours.

That's right.  Even though the winners were done in just over two hours, I was still running two hours later.  But that was fine with me.  It was the most amazing feeling of accomplishment.  Surging with endorphins and totally exhausted, I felt on top of the world.  But I must have looked pretty ragged, because as I leaned against a tree in the park in the center of St. George, a lady walked up and asked me if I needed to go to the hospital.

I had just jogged, plodded, ran and walked twenty-six point two miles.  What should I look like?  I felt like an Olympian God ready to send lightning bolts from my fingertips.  But I bet I looked like a sweaty, exhausted mess.

It was a long journey from not being able to run a mile to finishing a marathon, and just like everything else I've done in my life, it just takes putting one foot in front of the other and not stopping.  It sounds hackneyed and trite but it's true.  Just don't stop.

The St. George Marathon is an amazing, exhilarating race where it seems the entire city turns out to cheer every runner for every step.  As a celebration for my luck in the lottery to decide who gets to run, I walked up my local hill today.  I'm not in the best shape, and the last time I ran the marathon two years ago, I had to walk the final six miles.  My knees stopped working.  I hadn't trained enough, but I finished the race.

Now as a baby-boomer, senior-citizen, I am officially over-the-hill.  I have a hill to climb in the next one-hundred forty-four days.  That's the countdown given on the website.

I'm not in the beginning of my race of life, but I'm also not at the bottom of the hill.  I've found out a few things on this long distance race.  Life isn't a bunch of short sprints but more like a marathon than most people know.   Endurance has a lot more to do with success than we might think, and that really is the secret to the marathon -- and to life.  Danny Kaye once said, "Life is a great big canvas, throw all the paint at it you can."

I may not win the marathon, but I am a winner in life.  I've thrown so much paint at my canvas most people ask if I have a clone.  I'm an award-winning gardener, and I love working in my yard.  I've acted in more than thirty films, commercials or television shows.  On stage I've performed more than fifty different plays.  I've had a radio program and recorded all of the Shakespearean sonnets.  I have a website which is getting about twenty-thousand visits each month.  I've taught high school and college for more than thirty years, continuing to expand my interests like wind-surfing, skiing, writing poetry.  But since I am over the hill, I guess I'll just have to increase the speed I learn new things.

As I speed down the hill, toward the end of this race, I'll know I did everything I wanted.  And if I didn't do it, I just didn't want to badly enough.  Walking up the hill today was a beginning, but mostly a symbol.  The St. George Marathon starts at the top of a long canyon and so it is mostly downhill.  The course descends a half-mile over the twenty-six miles.

But there is one part of the race which challenges every runner.  Veyo.  A small hill in the middle of a long race, but it does show up just a little into the race; just enough to discourage anyone looking up at the extinct volcano.  My approach to the hill is to not stop running.  It may not look like I am running to anyone else, but in my own plodding and determined style, I know as long as I don't stop, eventually I will be over the hill.

Even when I'm already over the hill.

You Are Old, Father William by Lewis Carroll

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You Are Old, Father William

by

Lewis Carroll

You are old, Father William', the young man said,
'And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head --
Do you think, at your age, it is right?'

'In my youth', Father William replied to his son,
'I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.
'
'You are old', said the youth, 'as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door --
Pray, what is the reason of that?'

'In my youth', said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
'I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment - one shilling the box -
Allow me to sell you a couple?'

'You are old', said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak -
Pray, how did you manage to do it?'

'In my youth', said his father, 'I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.'

'You are old', said the youth, 'one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose -
What made you so awfully clever?'

'I have answered three questions, and that is enough,'
Said his father, 'don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!'

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