On summer evenings,
I search the desert sky
for the New Jerusalem.
Somewhere in the
stubborn vastness,
an exquisite light trembles
in the darkness
and Heaven’s compass
conveys me
gently
through the beautiful,
impoverished night.
Michael James Fitzgerald
Evening
creeps over me
like that dream I
can’t forget.
I spot the loner,
an easy shot,
a hungry,
ragged survivor,
doing the
sagebrush waltz
with a cottontail.
Beneath an
insistent ceiling
of stars,
I drop my rifle
and weep.
Michael James Fitzgerald
Defeat, my Defeat, my solitude and my aloofness;
You are dearer to me than a thousand triumphs,
And sweeter to my heart than all world-glory.
Defeat, my Defeat, my self-knowledge and my defiance,
Through you I know that I am yet young and swift of foot
And not to be trapped by withering laurels.
And in you I have found aloneness
And the joy of being shunned and scorned.
Defeat, my Defeat, my shining sword and shield,
In your eyes I have read
That to be enthroned is to be enslaved,
And to be understood is to be leveled down,
And to be grasped is but to reach one’s fullness
And like a ripe fruit to fall and be consumed.
Defeat, my Defeat, my bold companion,
You shall hear my songs and my cries and my silences,
And none but you shall speak to me of the beating of wings,
And urging of seas,
And of mountains that burn in the night,
And you alone shall climb my steep and rocky soul.
Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage,
You and I shall laugh together with the storm,
And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,
And we shall stand in the sun with a will,
And we shall be dangerous.
What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Video from RedFrost Motivation. Many other excellent videos there.
John Tavener’s arrangement of “The Lamb,” a poem written by William Blake in the late 18th century, touched me deeply this Christmas season. See lyrics below. This is the Choir of King’s College, Cambridge singing Tavener’s arrangement in 2014.
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
William Blake was an English Romantic poet and painter who lived from 1757 until 1827. This poem was first published in Songs of Innocence in 1789.
[First posted in May 2010. Thanks to Paul S. for sharing a link to a 2008 recording of King’s Choir. ]
There was a girl
by a stream
who wrote a book
of possibilities.
She left her heart
on every page.
She painted the world
with a palette of stars
and a canvas of
earth and sky.
And she sang a secret hymn
to the trees and the flowers
and the birds—
a song only she could sing—
and the stars heard
her song, a song
pure in heart.
And Heaven was
very near to her,
the home of her
dearest Friends,
and she loved
every living thing
and knew all their
names by heart.
Michael James Fitzgerald
To the tune of “Jingle Bells.”
Dashing down the aisles,
with a three-wheeled shopping cart.
I always wait too long.
It isn’t very smart.
Cash registers ring,
Making wallets light.
Oh what a thrill it is to be
shopping late tonight.
Oh, I feel bad, my family’s mad,
I think I’ve lost my mind.
Too late to shop on Amazon
I’m always way behind. Hey!
Full of doubt, all stressed out
The time has slipped away.
What a drag it is to shop
the brick-and-mortar way.
Michael James Fitzgerald
Like birds
they flew
beyond my sight,
summoned by
the ache of my
invisible winter,
where shivering trees
dream alone
in the childless night.
Fly, my dear ones,
sing your
beautiful songs,
dance brilliantly
to the tune
of the stars,
each of your names
are written in the
book of light.
Michael James Fitzgerald
I don’t;
Nor listen to a naughty joke—
I don’t.
They made it plain I must not wink
At pretty girls, or even think
About intoxicating drink—
I don’t.
To dance and flirt is very wrong—
I don’t.
Wild youths chase women, wine and song—
I don’t.
I kiss no girls, not even one—
I do not know how it is done—
You wouldn’t think I had much fun—
I DON’T.
Author Unknown
From “I Don’t,” Goldendale [Washington] Sentinel, October 24, 1918, page 1. (Cited here.)
I remember the
bright, sullen days,
when, familiar as blood,
he slipped effortlessly
through razor thin
blades of deceit.
They warned us,
young keepers
of the garden, but
as you might remember,
we refused their
preternatural gambit.
By summoning hiss
he conjured fears and
hot, sulfuric tears,
turning our
pyre of passion into
a smoldering disaster.
Then feigning injury
and taking sudden,
terrified leave,
the slithering seraph
fled beyond,
without us.
Until we meet again,
foe-friend,
may searing
eternal light
chase you far,
far away.
Michael James Fitzgerald
