The rippling silver streaks flow free
With trim of lacy froth,
To tie rich gifts of meadow gems
In yards of jade green cloth.
Marianne McFarland McNeil
|Like the star,
That shines afar,
And without rest,
Let each man wheel with steady sway
Round the task that rules the day,
And do his best.
|Millstones of old,
contain memories from our past.
To the chosen few,
to preserve for future generations,
the knowledge decoded,
of our histories,
Over the borders, an offense without pardon,
Breaking the branches and crawling below,
Out through the breach in the wall of the garden,
Down by the banks of the river, we go.
Here is the mill with the humming of thunder,
Here is the weir with the wonder of foam,
Here is the sluice with the race running under,
Marvelous places, though handy to home!
Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,
Stiller the note of the birds on the hill;
Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller
Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.
Years may go by and the wheel in the river
Will, as it sheels for us, children, today,
Wheel and keep roaring and foaming forever
Long after the boys are all gone and away.
Home from the Indies and home from the ocean,
Heroes and soldiers, we shall come home;
Still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion,
Turning and churning that river to foam.
You, with the bean that I gave when we quarreled,
I, with your marble of Saturday last,
Grown to adulthood and gaily apparelled,
Here we shall meet and remember the past.
Robert Louis Stevenson
|The night is almost here.
There's room for just
one deeper shade of purple
to be spread between the layers
of the darkness and the light;
time for one last farewell glance
at the silhouette that was today.
Please let it show me
before it goes.
Not as much to please my senses
as to reassure my soul.