Alaska According to Marie
Friday, February 22, 2008
My neices
Influence
Edgar Guest
This I think as I go my way:
What can matter the words I say,
And what can matter the false or true
Of any deed I am moved to do?
This I think as I go along:What can matter my right or wrong?
Whichever path I may choose to take,
What possible difference can it make?
This I think as I go to town:
What can matter my smile or frown?
Can any one's destiny altered be
For better or worse because of me?
And something whispers;
"Another maybe sadly deceived by the words you say.
And another, believing and trusting you,
May be led astray by the things you do."
"For much that never you'll see or know
Will mark your days as you come and go.
And in countless lives that you'll never learn
The best and the worst of you will return."
[Pictures are of Ashlee, holding her treasured picture of a gargoyle that Matthew took for her; Alexis, in her dramatic rendition of Hopelessly Devoted to You; and little Raegan enjoying a warm sunny, snowy day on her front porch. Pictures taken yesterday.]
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Heaven
Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)
Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud!---Death eddies near---
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.
Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud!---Death eddies near---
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.
