Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Camera-Shy





A ruby-throated hummingbird
Has found a ruby throne
Before a single leaf has stirred
He's made it all his own.

And from the kitchen windows
I watch him sit and preen
But when the flush of daylight grows
He's nowhere to be seen

I'd like to get a picture snapped
Beneath a clear blue sky
  But I suppose I must adapt--
My friend is camera-shy.






Friday, April 27, 2012

Thankfulness


By Adelaide Anne Procter
1825-1864




My God, I thank Thee who hast made 
The earth so bright;
So full of splendour and of joy,
Beauty and light;
So many glorious things are here,
Noble and right!





I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast made
Joy to abound;
So many gentle thoughts and deeds
Circling us round,
That in the darkest spot of earth
Some love is found.






I thank Thee more that all our joy 
Is touched with pain;
That shadows fall on brightest hours;
That thorns remain,
So that earth's bliss may be our guide,
And not our chain.





For Thou, who knowest, Lord, how soon
Our weak heart clings,
Hath given us joys, tender and true,
Yet all with wings;
So that we see, gleaming on high,
Diviner things.






I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast kept
The best in store:
We have enough, yet not too much
To long for more;
A yearning for a deeper peace,
Not known before. 





I thank Thee Lord, that here our souls
Though amply blessed,
Can never find, although they seek,
A perfect rest--
Nor ever shall, until they lean
On Jesus' breast!


. . . . . . . .


Adelaide Anne Procter lived in London and was a popular poet, 
the favorite poet of Queen Victoria. 
She died at the age of 38 after a protracted battle with tuberculosis.




Linking with Weekly Top Shot



Monday, June 28, 2010

All the Others Can Sing

This little poem is one my Mother used to recite when we were young:



"All the others can sing," he dolefully said,
"All the others can sing," said he.
 So he sat and drooped.
 But as far and wide the music was borne on the air's warm tide,
 A sudden thought came to the sad little bird
 And he lifted his head as within him it stirred;
"If I cannot sing, I can listen!" he cried.
"Ho, ho! I can listen!" he cried.


                                  by Julia C. R. Dorr