BEHOLD, THE GRAVE OF A WICKED MAN
Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.
There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.
“No flowers for him,” he said.
The maid wept:
“Ah, I loved him.”
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
“No flowers for him.”
Now, this is it —
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?
-Stephen Crane
RARITIES
Beauty, and grace, and wit are rare;
And even intelligence:
But lovelier than hawthorn seen in May,
Or mistletoe berries on Innocent’s Day
The face that, open as heaven, doth wear —
With kindness for its sunshine there —
Good nature and good sense.
-Walter de la Mare
Thanks to Stephen Pentz for giving me this “bonus poem” earlier this year.
Sconzani reports a hawthorn, also known as the May-tree, blooming right now: Earthstar
AT COMMON DAWN
At common dawn there is a voice of bird
So sweet, ’tis kin to pain,
For love of earthly life it needs be heard,
And lets not sleep again.
This bird I did one time at midnight hear
In wet November wood
Say to himself his lyric faint and clear
As one at daybreak should.
He ceased; the covert breathed no other sound,
Nor moody answer made;
But all the world at beauty’s worship found,
Was waking in the glade.
-Vivian Locke Ellis
THE STOCK MARKET LOSES FLUIDITY
I’ll show you what’s really liquid—it’s this sunlight pouring down
from the west, from the great glass jar of the sky. The creek playing
its little tune, running over the stones. The descant of syllables
in the mockingbird’s song. For not a single hickory nut
banked by the squirrels will gain any interest.
Not a grain of wheat in the wallet of a chipmunk’s cheek
will increase in worth. The bear’s fat layer is its IRA.
Here in the woods, it’s autumn’s great investment portfolio; look,
everything’s turned the color of money: copper, brass, gold.
-Barbara Crooker
Gladsome Lights 