The days go out with shouting
It is too early for white boughs, too late
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks
A rich and deepening red. The willow tree
Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks
The lean bush crouching hints old royalty,
Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows
Soon ’twill leap up and show the world a rose.
The days go out with shouting; nights are loud;
Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold;
The moon’s a sword of keen, barbaric gold,
Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.
A victory just as perfect
when Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric"
I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:
to be completely alive every moment
in spite of the inevitable.
we can't cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us
it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours.
Therefore the less gone
More than life to me
Hear my humble cry
While on others Thou art calling
Do not pass me by.
Find a sweet relief
Kneeling there in deep contrition
Help my unbelief.
Would I seek Thy face
Heal my wounded, broken spirit
Save me by Thy grace.
More than life to me
Whom have I on earth beside Thee?
Whom in Heav’n but Thee?
Hear my humble cry
While on others Thou art calling
Do not pass me by.