The Conclusion

Sir Walter Raleigh (1552? - 1618)

Even such is Time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
      Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wander'd all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

His Pilgrimage

Sir Walter Raleigh (1552? - 1618)

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
    My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
    My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer;
    No other balm will there be given;
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
    Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
            There will I kiss
            The bowl of bliss;
            And drink mine everlasting fill
            Upon every milken hill.
            My soul will be a-dry before;
            But, after, it will thirst no more.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Once I read that Sir Walter Raleigh wrote this poem during his imprisonment as he was awaiting his execution.

Here is the beautiful letter he wrote to his wife on the eve of his death.

Jabberwocky

Lewis Carroll (1832 - 1898)

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son
    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
    The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
    Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
    And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
    The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
    And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
    The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
    He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
    Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
    He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.



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On everyone's list of favorite poems, Jabberwocky was one of the first I memorized, to be recited for a speech or drama class (I've forgotten which) in high school, and is one of the few I can still quote from memory.

Here's a gem from Pentamom: Christopher Lee reading Jabberwocky.

And here's another: the crazy kids of a friend of mine, doing a hilarious Jabberwocky Rap of their own composition for their dad's birhtday, who, incidentally, hates rap music.

We are...

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)                                       We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. (Prospero in The Tempest, Act IV, Scene I)

The Emperor of Ice-Cream

Wallace Stevens (1879 - 1955)

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.


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[... for we sorrow not, as others which have no hope...]

in Just--

E.E. Cummings * (1894 - 1962)

in Just-
spring                 when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles         far         and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far         and         wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
        the

                goat-footed

balloonMan         whistles
far
and
wee

Christus vincit!

[Traditional]

Christus vincit! Christus regnat!
Christus, Christus imperat!

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[This hymn is traditionally associated with Christ the King Sunday -- the last Sunday before the new Church year begins at Advent -- but it perfectly expresses my feelings on this resurrection day.]

A Hymne to God the Father

John Donne (1572 - 1631)

                                      I.
Wilt thou forgive that sinne where I begunne,
    Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sinne, through which I runne,
    And do run still: though still I do deplore?
        When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
                    For I have more.

                                      II.
Wilt thou forgive that sinne which I have wonne
    Others to sinne? and, made my sinne their doore?
Wilt thou forgive that sinne which I did shunne
    A yeare, or two: but wallowed in, a score?
        When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
                        For I have more.

                                      III.
I have a sinne of feare, that when I have spunne
    My last thred, I shall perish on the shore;
But sweare by thy selfe, that at my death thy sonne
    Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
        And, having done that, Thou hast done,
                        I feare no more.

Redemption

George Herbert (1593 - 1633)

Having been tenant long to a rich Lord,
            Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,
            And make a suit unto him, to afford
A new small-rented lease, and cancel th’ old.
In heaven at his manor I him sought:
            They told me there, that he was lately gone
            About some land, which he had dearly bought
Long since on earth, to take possession.
I straight return’d, and knowing his great birth,
            Sought him accordingly in great resorts;
            In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts:
At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth
            Of thieves and murderers: there I him espied,
            Who straight, Your suit is granted, said, and died.

Later Life: A Double Sonnet of Sonnets

Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-1894)

[excerpts]

                        3.
Thou Who didst make and knowest whereof we are made,
      Oh bear in mind our dust and nothingness,
      Our wordless tearless dumbness of distress:
Bear Thou in mind the burden Thou hast laid
Upon us, and our feebleness unstayed
      Except Thou stay us: for the long long race
      Which stretches far and far before our face
Thou knowest,–remember Thou whereof we are made.
If making makes us Thine, then Thine we are;
      And if redemption, we are twice Thine own:
If once Thou didst come down from heaven afar
      To seek us and to find us, how not save?
  Comfort us, save us, leave us not alone,
      Thou Who didst die our death and fill our grave.

                        4.
So tired am I, so weary of to-day,
      So unrefreshed from foregone weariness,
      So overburdened by foreseen distress,
So lagging and so stumbling on my way,
I scarce can rouse myself to watch or pray,
      To hope, or aim, or toil for more or less,—
      Ah, always less and less, even while I press
Forward and toil and aim as best I may.
Half-starved of soul and heartsick utterly,
      Yet lift I up my heart and soul and eyes
      (Which fail in looking upward) toward the prize:
Me, Lord, Thou seest though I see not Thee;
      Me now, as once the Thief in Paradise,
Even me, O Lord my Lord, remember me.