"Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? -- every, every minute?" Question asked by Emily, in OUR TOWN "to find a value above all price for the smallest events in our daily life" ~Thornton Wilder
My brother Bruce: "yep...planned to take it down on Epiy, but life got in the way. Now it's ten days later and I still haven't got around to it."
Me: "That’s what I like to hear!"
Sharon T. B. "I wait till the Three Kings show up, too. But they never help me!!!!! I got all mine down last weekend, though." https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=6491650030864012&set=a.749132405115832
Put out the lights now! Look at the Tree, the rough tree dazzled In oriole plumes of flame, Tinselled with twinkling frost fire, tasselled With stars and moons - the same That yesterday hid in the spinney and had no fame Till we put out the lights now. Hard are the nights now: The fields at moonrise turn to agate, Shadows are cold as jet; In dyke and furrow, in copse and faggot The frost's tooth is set; And stars are the sparks whirled out by the north wind's fret On the flinty nights now. So feast your eyes now On mimic star and moon-cold bauble; Worlds may wither unseen, But the Christmas Tree is a tree of fable, A phoenix in evergreen, And the world cannot change or chill what its mysteries mean To your hearts and eyes now. The vision dies now Candle by candle: the tree that embraced it Returns to its own kind, To be earthed again and weather as best it May the frost and the wind. Children, it too had its hour – you will not mind If it lives or dies now.
"Give me some light!" cries Hamlet's uncle midway through the murder of Gonzago. "Light! Light!" cry scattering courtesans. Here, as in Denmark, it's dark at four, and even the moon shines with only half a heart.
The ornaments go down into the box: the silver spaniel, My Darling on its collar, from Mother's childhood in Illinois; the balsa jumping jack my brother and I fought over, pulling limb from limb. Mother drew it together again with thread while I watched, feeling depraved at the age of ten.
With something more than caution I handle them, and the lights, with their tin star-shaped reflectors, brought along from house to house, their pasteboard toy suitcases increasingly flimsy. Tick, tick, the desiccated needles drop.
By suppertime all that remains is the scent of balsam fir. If it's darkness we're having, let it be extravagant.
https://www.facebook.com/DillonSkyeCo/posts/pfbid02Zx14qtNKoLTC43ys95niP1rg5Tzd7Bq8UAuPXXK4KyV4Z5UA5eYaGmxnGs2w4AFl
ReplyDeleteQ: Tree still up?
My brother Bruce: "yep...planned to take it down on Epiy, but life got in the way. Now it's ten days later and I still haven't got around to it."
Me: "That’s what I like to hear!"
Sharon T. B. "I wait till the Three Kings show up, too. But they never help me!!!!! I got all mine down last weekend, though."
https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=6491650030864012&set=a.749132405115832
"The Christmas Tree"
ReplyDeleteby Cecil Day Lewis
Put out the lights now!
Look at the Tree, the rough tree dazzled
In oriole plumes of flame,
Tinselled with twinkling frost fire, tasselled
With stars and moons - the same
That yesterday hid in the spinney and had no fame
Till we put out the lights now.
Hard are the nights now:
The fields at moonrise turn
to agate,
Shadows are cold as jet;
In dyke and furrow, in copse and faggot
The frost's tooth is set;
And stars are the sparks whirled out by the north wind's fret
On the flinty nights now.
So feast your eyes now
On mimic star and moon-cold bauble;
Worlds may wither unseen,
But the Christmas Tree is a tree of fable,
A phoenix in evergreen,
And the world cannot change or chill what its mysteries mean
To your hearts and eyes now.
The vision dies now
Candle by candle: the tree that embraced it
Returns to its own kind,
To be earthed again and weather as best it
May the frost and the wind.
Children, it too had its hour – you will not mind
If it lives or dies now.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKKIhz-3jnw
"Taking Down the Tree"
ReplyDeleteby Jane Kenyon
"Give me some light!" cries Hamlet's
uncle midway through the murder
of Gonzago. "Light! Light!" cry scattering
courtesans. Here, as in Denmark,
it's dark at four, and even the moon
shines with only half a heart.
The ornaments go down into the box:
the silver spaniel, My Darling
on its collar, from Mother's childhood
in Illinois; the balsa jumping jack
my brother and I fought over,
pulling limb from limb. Mother
drew it together again with thread
while I watched, feeling depraved
at the age of ten.
With something more than caution
I handle them, and the lights, with their
tin star-shaped reflectors, brought along
from house to house, their pasteboard
toy suitcases increasingly flimsy.
Tick, tick, the desiccated needles drop.
By suppertime all that remains is the scent
of balsam fir. If it's darkness
we're having, let it be extravagant.
https://www.thenationalbookreview.com/features/2020/4/22/review-the-poetry-of-jane-kenyon-who-died-tragically-young-25-years-ago