And thus it is. The tale I have to tell
Is such another. He who reads shall find
That which he brings to it of Heaven or Hell
For his best recompense where much is blind,

I stood upon the peak, amid the air;
Below me lay the peopled, busy earth.
Life, life, and life again was everywhere,
And everywhere were melody and mirth,
Save on that peak, and silence brooded there.

Night Thoughts In Age

© John Hall Wheelock

Light, that out of the west looked back once more

Through lids of cloud, has closed a sleepy eye;

Dearest, this one day we own

© Augusta Davies Webster

DEAREST, this one day we own,
Stolen from the crowd and press,
Let it be sweet silence's.
We two, heart in heart, alone;
Any speech were less.

Returning To Brussels

© Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Upon a Flemish road, when noon was deep,

I passed a little consecrated shrine,

Upon A Sheet Of White Paper

© John Bunyan

This subject is unto the foulest pen,
Or fairest handled by the sons of men.
'Twill also show what is upon it writ,
Be it wisely, or nonsense for want of wit,
Each blot and blur it also will expose
To thy next readers, be they friends or foes.

Until You've Found Pain

© Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

Until you've found pain, you won't reach the cure
Until you've given up life, you won't unite with
the supreme soul
Until you've found fire inside yourself, like the Friend,
You won't reach the spring of life, like Khezr.

Verses Left by Mr. Pope

© Alexander Pope

With no poetic ardour fir'd
I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
That here he lov'd, or here expir'd,
Begets no numbers grave or gay.

Seven Laments For The War-Dead

© Yehuda Amichai

1
Mr. Beringer, whose son
fell at the Canal that strangers dug
so ships could cross the desert,
crosses my path at Jaffa Gate.

The Kalevala - Rune XXVIII

THE MOTHER'S COUNSEL.

The Worlds Desire

The roses of voluptuousness
Wreathe her dark locks and hide her eyes;
Her limbs are flower-like nakedness,
Wherethrough the fragrant blood doth press,
The blossom-blood of Paradise.

SonnetXLVII. To G.W.C.

STILL shines our August day, as calm, as bright
As when, long years ago, we sailied away
Down the blue Narrows and the widening bay
Into the wrinkling ocean's flashing light;

Freedom

Out of the heart of the city begotten
Of the labour of men and their manifold hands,
Whose souls, that were sprung from the earth in her morning,
No longer regard or remember her warning,
Whose hearts in the furnace of care have forgotten
Forever the scent and the hue of her lands;

Pippa Passes: Part I: Morning

Sebald
[sings]

Louisiana Line by Betty Adcock: American Life in Poetry #129 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-200

© Ted Kooser

North Carolina poet, Betty Adcock, has written scores of beautiful poems, almost all of them too long for this space. Here is an example of her shorter work, the telling description of a run-down border town. Louisiana Line

The wooden scent of wagons,
the sweat of animalsâthese places
keep everythingâbreath of the cotton gin,
black damp floors of the icehouse.