Tuesday
Jul142015
Tuesday, July 14, 2015 at 04:44AM
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O v e r a n d A b o v e
Quaker Cemetery
Camden, South Carolina
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They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.
= Ernest Dowson =
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Happy Tuesday
Monday
Jul132015
The indolent half-voluptuous silence
Monday, July 13, 2015 at 04:44AM
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J u l y S k y
From the Pool
Columbia, South Carolina
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The fervent heat, but so much more endurable in this pure air -- the white and pink pond-blossoms, with great heart-shaped leaves; the glassy waters of the creek, the banks, with dense bushery, and the picturesque beeches and shade and turf; the tremulous, reedy call of some bird from recesses, breaking the warm, indolent, half-voluptuous silence; an occasional wasp, hornet, honey-bee or bumble (they hover near my hands or face, yet annoy me not, nor I them, as they appear to examine, find nothing, and away they go) -- the vast space of the sky overhead so clear, and the buzzard up there sailing his slow whirl in majestic spirals and discs; just over the surface of the pond, two large slate-color'd dragon-flies, with wings of lace, circling and darting and occasionally balancing themselves quite still, their wings quivering all the time, (are they not showing off their amusement?) -- the pond itself, with the sword-shaped calamus; the water snakes -- occasionally a flitting blackbird, with red dabs on his shoulders, as he darts slantingly by -- the sounds that bring out the solitude, warmth, light and shade -- the quawk of some pond duck -- (the crickets and grasshoppers are mute in the noon heat, but I hear the song of the first cicadas;) -- then at some distance the rattle and whirr of a reaping machine as the horses draw it on a rapid walk through a rye field on the opposite side of the creek -- (what was the yellow or light-brown bird, large as a young hen, with short neck and long-stretch'd legs I just saw, in flapping and awkward flight over there through the trees?) -- the prevailing delicate, yet palpable, spicy, grassy, clovery perfume to my nostrils; and over all, encircling all, to my sight and soul, the free space of the sky, transparent and blue -- and hovering there in the west, a mass of white-gray fleecy clouds the sailors call "shoals of mackerel" -- the sky, with silver swirls like locks of toss'd hair, spreading, expanding -- a vast voiceless, formless simulacrum -- yet may-be the most real reality and formulator of everything -- who knows?
= Walt Whitman =
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Happy Monday
Sunday
Jul122015
Vast beyond all measure
Sunday, July 12, 2015 at 04:44AM
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R e s e r v o i r
Quaker Cemetery
Camden, South Carolina
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How deep the Father's love for us
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure.
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure.
How great the pain of searing loss
The Father turns His face away
As wounds which mar the chosen One
Bring many sons to glory.
The Father turns His face away
As wounds which mar the chosen One
Bring many sons to glory.
Behold the Man upon a cross
My sin upon His shoulders
Ashamed I hear my mocking voice
Call out among the scoffers.
My sin upon His shoulders
Ashamed I hear my mocking voice
Call out among the scoffers.
It was my sin that held Him there
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I know that it is finished.
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I know that it is finished.
I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection.
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection.
Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart:
His wounds have paid my ransom.
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart:
His wounds have paid my ransom.
= Stuart Townend =
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Behold, what manner of love
the Father hath bestowed upon us,
that we should be called the sons of God:
therefore the world knoweth us not,
because it knew him not.
I John 3:1
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Happy Sunday
Saturday
Jul112015
The flower of the soul
Saturday, July 11, 2015 at 04:44AM
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H e r o e s P r o v e d
Quaker Cemetery :: Little Arlington
Camden, South Carolina
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This is a Blossom of the Brain --
A small -- italic Seed
Lodged by Design or Happening
The Spirit fructified --
Shy as the Wind of his Chambers
Swift as a Freshet's Tongue
So of the Flower of the Soul
Its process is unknown.
When it is found, a few rejoice
The Wise convey it Home
Carefully cherishing the spot
If other Flower become.
When it is lost, that Day shall be
The Funeral of God,
Upon his Breast, a closing Soul
The Flower of our Lord.
= Emily Dickinson =
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Happy Saturday
Friday
Jul102015
The ground feels the same
Friday, July 10, 2015 at 04:44AM
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O n e M o r e N i g h t
Sunset :: July 9, 2015
Columbia, South Carolina
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They say there's a place where dreams have all gone
They never said where, but I think I know
It's miles through the night, just over the dawn
On the road that will take me home
I know in my bones I've been here before
The ground feels the same, though the land's been torn
I've a long way to go, the stars tell me so
On this road that will take me home
Love waits for me 'round the bend
Leads me endlessly on
Surely sorrows will find their end
And all our troubles will be gone
And I'll know what I've lost, and all that I've won
When the road finally takes me home
And when I pass by, don't lead me astray
Don't try to stop me, don't stand in my way
I'm bound for the hills where cool waters flow
On this road that will take me home
Love waits for me 'round the bend
Leads me endlessly on
Surely sorrows shall find their end
And all our troubles will be gone
And we'll know what we've lost, and all that we've won
When this road finally takes me home
I'm going home
I'm going home
I'm going home
= Fahl / Isaacs / Patscha =
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Happy Friday