Sunday, April 27, 2008

Poetry Sunday



False Rue Anemone
(Enemion biternatum)


Today the tulips are blooming, and the violets are starting to come out in the shady back yard. The ferns are unfurling, though I can't seem to get a decent picture, and the false rue anemone is blooming. They like the same habitat as the garlic mustard, so I had to pull some of that this afternoon. It was no trouble because the soil is so damp from our recent rain. I still have not seen the hummingbird, but I put out sugar water earlier in the week.

Prayer in Spring
Robert Frost

OH, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

3 comments:

Michael said...

That sneaky Robert Frost. Just when you're rolling along pleasantly.... "For this is love AND NOTHING ELSE IS LOVE,... " What did he mean by that?

Nothing else? Nothing else other than what God directs? Perhaps, like Garbo's mole, this little cautionary serves as the flaw in the gem that makes it more memorable, and unique.

Sherry said...

LOL, Michael. I think Frost was a tough enough guy to offer to kick you in the rear for saying his poem was flawed. I suspect that he would tell you that he speaks for himself, and is in love with the beauty of springtime. Perfect love is reserved for God, according to Frost, but I doubt he only loved spring flowers. Artistic license allows all sorts of hyperbole.

Michael said...

You're undoubtedly right about Frost's kick. I didn't mean the poem was flawed, from a mistake--but rather that that was a suddenly different thought, or a surprising extension of whatever he had been thinking.... and that difference, that little challenge to the reader, served a function AKIN to the flaw on perfect skin.
(Btw, that poetic license business is overdue to be reported to the Consumer Advocate, imo. You can only go so far with that scam! I want his final meaning, and I want it consistent!)