I keep it staying home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.
Some keep the sabbath in surplice;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.
God preaches--a noted clergyman--
And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to Heaven at last,
I'm going all along!
--Emily Dickinson
I love Emily Dickinson's poetry, and this is probably my favorite, even though I do put in an appearance in church from time to time. I've always felt closest to the Divine Presence, whatever it is, when I'm outside among the wild things.
Visit all the "August Muses" at Sweet Home and Garden Chicago, written by a 'Bama native living in the City of Broad Shoulders.
7 comments:
Thank you, David, that was lovely. I appreciate your contribution to Garden Bloggers' Muse Day.
David, great selection!
Emily Dickinson is a favorite of mine as well.
nice, David!
Beautiful poem! I am a big church attender but I often feel like spending Sunday mornings in the woods instead. It's always a holy place.
Thanks, everyone, for visiting.
Carolyn Gail--Thank you for starting Muse Day. I've really enjoyed reading everyone's contributions.
Gloria--I think what I like about Emily is that her poems are accessible, but definitely not shallow. She packs a lot of depth in a few lines.
Gina--Thanks for visiting. I loved your poem--that was funny!
Cloudscome--Welcome to my blog. I think Quaker Christianity is where I feel most comfortable. I worked at a Quaker camp in college, and have never been able to shake their influence.
WHAT WE CALL IT
Some face their death in wars abroad,
I face mine here at home--
It is imaginary, toward
Which every thought must come.
Yet in another, further sense,
It has been left behind,
As like a screed in somnolence
Closed off behind a blind.
My duty I must here perform:
It would be dereliction
To go into the war-zone´s harm,
Per heaven´s interdiction.
And yet, events of far away
Breed in me endless sorrow,
That I may not, as festive, gay,
Play like there´s no tomorrow.
Tomorrow has been stretched upon
Its frame as any canvas,
But not for painting--as though done,
And we, its merest envoys
Pass through the vacuous gallery
While footsteps clack and echo,
Drawing a meager salary
And calling it art deco.
I have been here a couple of times, and I'm always quite impressed. Not sure if you have heard or have any interest, but there is a poetry contest that has a top prize of $10,000 and other prizes. Just click my name for the site. Whatever you do, just keep writing...
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