If I can but help you

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W i n   P l a c e   S h o w

The Parish Church of St. Helena

Beaufort, South Carolina

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Let not the roses lie
Too thickly tangled round my tomb,
Lest fleecy clouds that skim the summer sky,
Flinging their faint soft shadows, pass it by,
And know not over whom.

And let not footsteps come
Too frequent round that nook of rest;
Should I -- who knoweth? -- not be deaf, though dumb,
Bird's idle pipe, or bee's laborious hum,
Would suit me, listening, best.

And, pray you, do not hew
Words to provoke a smile or sneer;
But only carve -- at least if they be true --
These simple words, or some such, and as few,
"He whom we loved lies here.''

And if you only could
Find out some quite sequestered slope
That, girt behind with undeciduous wood,
In front o'erlooks the ocean -- then I should
Die with a calmer hope.

And if you will but so
This last request of mine fulfil,
I rest your debtor for the final throw
And if I can but help you where I go,
Be sure, fond friends, I will.

= Alfred Austin =

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Happy Birthday

Linda Jean Sandifer Greene

1940-2013

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Happy Monday

I can see a pathway through

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I   K n o w   A n d   I   K n o w   T h a t   I   K n o w

Magnolia Cemetery

Augusta, Georgia

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I am dwelling on the mountain

Where the golden sunlight gleams

O’er a land whose wondrous beauty
Far exceeds my fondest dreams
Where the air is pure, ethereal
Laden with the breath of flow’rs
They are blooming by the fountain
’Neath the amaranthine bow’rs.

Is not this the land of Beulah?

Blessed, blessed land of light

Where the flowers bloom forever

And the sun is always bright.

I can see far down the mountain

Where I wandered weary years
Often hindered in my journey
By the ghosts of doubts and fears
Broken vows and disappointments
Thickly sprinkled all the way
But the Spirit led, unerring
To the land I hold today.

I am drinking at the fountain

Where I ever would abide
For I’ve tasted life’s pure river
And my soul is satisfied
There’s no thirsting for life’s pleasures
Nor adorning, rich and gay
For I’ve found a richer treasure
One that fadeth not away.

Tell me not of heavy crosses

Nor of burdens hard to bear
For I’ve found this great salvation
Makes each burden light appear
And I love to follow Jesus
Gladly counting all but dross
Worldly honors all forsaking
For the glory of the cross.

Oh the cross has wondrous glory

Oft I’ve proved this to be true
When I’m in the way so narrow
I can see a pathway through
And how sweetly Jesus whispers
“Take the cross, thou need’st not fear
For I’ve tried the way before thee”
And the glory lingers near.

Is not this the land of Beulah?

Blessed, blessed land of light

Where the flowers bloom forever

And the sun is always bright.

= attr. to William Hunter =

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Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken;

neither shall thy land any more be termed Desolate;

but thou shalt be called Hephzi-bah, and thy land Beulah:

for the LORD delighteth in thee,

and thy land shall be married.

= Isaiah 62:4 =

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Happy Sunday

Just long enough to taste

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G o l d e n   E y e

Monument Square

Camden, South Carolina

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Let Us play Yesterday --

I -- the Girl at school --

You -- and Eternity -- the

Untold Tale --

Easing my famine

At my Lexicon --

Logarithm -- had I -- for Drink --

'Twas a dry Wine --

Somewhat different -- must be --

Dreams tint the Sleep --

Cunning Reds of Morning

Make the Blind -- leap --

Still at the Egg-life --

Chafing the Shell --

When you troubled the Ellipse --

And the Bird fell --

Manacles be dim -- they say --

To the new Free --

Liberty -- Commoner --

Never could -- to me --

'Twas my last gratitude

When I slept -- at night --

'Twas the first Miracle

Let in -- with Light --

Can the Lark resume the Shell --

Easier -- for the Sky --

Wouldn't Bonds hurt more

Than Yesterday?

Wouldn't Dungeons sorer grate

On the Man -- free --

Just long enough to taste --

Then -- doomed new --

God of the Manacle

As of the Free --

Take not my Liberty

Away from Me --

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday

If we were roses, too

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W e   C a n n a   A n d   W e   W i l l

Canna Lily Seed Pods

Columbia, South Carolina

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In heaven it is always autumn. The leaves are always near
to falling there but never fall, and pairs of souls out walking
heaven's paths no longer feel the weight of years upon them.
Safe in heaven's calm, they take each other's arm,
the light shining through them, all joy and terror gone.
But we are far from heaven here, in a garden ragged and unkept
as Eden would be with the walls knocked down, the paths littered
with the unswept leaves of many years, bright keepsakes
for children of the Fall. The light is gold, the sun pulling
the long shadow soul out of each thing, disclosing an outcome.
The last roses of the year nod their frail heads,
like listeners listening to all that's said, to ask,
What brought us here? What seed? What rain? What light?
What forced us upward through dark earth? What made us bloom?
What wind shall take us soon, sweeping the garden bare?
Their voiceless voices hang there, as ours might,
if we were roses, too. Their beds are blanketed with leaves,
tended by an absent gardener whose life is elsewhere.
It is the last of many last days. Is it enough?
To rest in this moment? To turn our faces to the sun?
To watch the lineaments of a world passing?
To feel the metal of a black iron chair, cool and eternal,
press against our skin? To apprehend a chill as clouds
pass overhead, turning us to shivering shade and shadow?
And then to be restored, small miracle, the sun shining brightly
as before? We go on, you leading the way, a figure
leaning on a cane that leaves its mark on the earth.
My friend, you have led me farther than I have ever been.
To a garden in autumn. To a heaven of impermanence
where the final falling off is slow, a slow and radiant happening.
The light is gold. And while we're here, I think it must be heaven.

= Elizabeth Spires =

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Happy Friday

The need for other hands

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W a t c h   M e   D a n c e

Late Summer Hummer

Columbia, South Carolina

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Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

= Galway Kinnell =

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Happy Thursday