Poetry night!

And since the wind has been shaking the trees tonight, and I'm a fan of W. B. Yeats, a little poem of his making (in the public domain, yet! So take that, Disney and others of that kidney! THPBHPHT.)

Running to Paradise (1916)

AS I came over Windy Gap
They threw a halfpenny into my cap,
For I am running to Paradise;
And all that I need do is to wish
And somebody puts his hand in the dish
To throw me a bit of salted fish:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

My brother Mourteen is worn out
With skelping his big brawling lout,
And I am running to Paradise;
A poor life do what he can,
And though he keep a dog and a gun,
A serving maid and a serving man:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

Poor men have grown to be rich men,
And rich men grown to be poor again,
And I am running to Paradise;
And many a darling wit’s grown dull
That tossed a bare heel when at school,
Now it has filled an old sock full:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

The wind is old and still at play
While I must hurry upon my way,
For I am running to Paradise;
Yet never have I lit on a friend
To take my fancy like the wind
That nobody can buy or bind:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

Underestimation

Just a smidgen of poetry. Yeah, it's lazy free-verse poetry, but I'm kinda fond of it anyway. Plus if you turn your head to the right, the concrete-poetry shape echoes the subject matter.

You never know who might be hiding wings.

Velvet Shoes

Let us walk in the white snow
In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
At a tranquil pace,
Under veils of white lace.

I shall go shod in silk,
And you in wool,
White as white cow's milk,
More beautiful
Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town
In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
Upon silver fleece,
Upon softer than these.

We shall walk in velvet shoes:
Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
On white silence below.
We shall walk in the snow.


--Elinor Wylie

Beauty is everywhere

Another bit of photographic proof that there is no autumnal beauty as acute as that of a burning tree against an overcast, Northwest watercolor sky. This unexpected feast of color was captured in our church parking lot.

A bit of Wallace Stevens

Something for Sunday morning.