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Poetry

0 137

I looked up from my writing, And gave a start to see, As if rapt in my inditing, The moon's full gaze on me. Her meditative misty head Was spectral in its air, And I involuntarily said, 'What are you doing there?' 'Oh, I've...
wilbur
1 154

Hope permeates God’s creation, our natural world and the world of nature, as concrete images and as an enduring cycle, a complete and unrelenting season in itself... Hope is not a finite thing as Emily Dickinson well...

"Occasioned by General Washington's Arrival in Philadelphia, On the Way to his Residence in Virginia" The great, unequal conflict past, The Briton banish’d from our shore, Peace, heav’n-descended, comes at last, And hostile nations rage no more; From fields of death the weary...
1 157

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad, That...
1 116

The Author's outcry against Octavianus Caesar Augustus as he contemplated Schleissen's marble effigy of Marcus Tullius Cicero. Extemporaneous poem. He was an ingrate, more a barbarian, Marcus, then even the lictor, when he left you beneath some lictor's ignominious blow. Octavianus was almost more...
1 362

Poetry is able to grant the reader the ability to perceive that reality, in spite of its often chaotic and random appearance, has some underlying unity by which it is bound together. This insight, in turn, provides the terms by which one may make peace with the...
0 165

Great is the sun, and wide he goes Through empty heaven with repose; And in the blue and glowing days More thick than rain he showers his rays. Though closer still the blinds we pull To keep the shady parlour cool, Yet he will find...
0 160

So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky of this black August. My sister, the sun, broods in her yellow room and won't come out. Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume like a kettle, rivers overrun; still, she will not rise and...
ozymandias
3 259

I met a traveler from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert.... Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor...

Continuing my series of sonnets ‘Sounding the Seasons’ of the Church’s year, here is a sonnet for the feast of the transfiguration. The Transfiguration is usually celebrated on August 6th, but sometimes on the Sunday nearest, and sometimes in...
City
4 356

What we need today to re-create the beautiful city, an icon through which to see the glorious City of God, is a new Iliad, a new story that will manifest “what the many do together,” for what the many do together “rarely lacks a certain nobility, or beauty”...
0 217

Oh fairest of the rural maids! Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Were all that met thine infant eye. Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were even in the sylvan wild; And all...
revealing
1 344

Making art is a mode of revealing the world in new ways... For the past two weeks, I’ve been writing about the opportunity to make a new Catholic culture, not from scratch and not from attempts to...
0 208

“Thoughts are sand,” she said And it was true; Water them—they’ll clump Together and glue. “Beliefs are sand,” she said, But culture dumps Presuppositions, Making builders chumps. “Truth is sand,”...