"The Way Through the Woods"

Random Poetry List LXIV

They shut the road through the woods
   Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
   And now you would never know
There was once a path through the woods
   Before they planted the trees,
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
   And the thin anemones.
   Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
   And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
   Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ring'd pools
   Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods
   Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet
   And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
   Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
   As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods ...
But there is no road through the woods.

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

Originally e-mailed on Thursday, August 09, 2001 @ 8:54 PM.

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Wed. 08/09/06 07:43:52 AM
Categorized as Literary & Random Poetry List.

Boot Murtha

A campaign organized by Vets For The Truth to redeploy John Murtha.

Diana Irey was on Sean Hannity's radio show and on the Hannity & Colmes TV show last Friday.

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Wed. 08/09/06 07:34:21 AM
Categorized as WorldWideWeb Stuff.

God's Curse

The first curse of the Almighty on those who deny Him is to deprive them of their sense of humor.

A line from a former mentor of John Cardinal Wright, quoted by him in "Priesthood, Humanism, and the Cross" in Resonare Christum, Volume III, p. 100.

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Wed. 08/09/06 07:16:40 AM
Categorized as Political & Religious & Social/Cultural.

"Lilac Blossoms"

Random Poetry List LXIII

We mark the playing-time of sun and rain,
Until the rain too heavily upon us
Leans, and the sun stamps down upon our lustres,
And then our trees stand in their greennesses
No different from the privets in the hedges,
And we who made a pleasaunce at the door-step,
And, whether by the ash-heap or the spring-well
Growing, were ever fresh and ever radiant,
And fragrant more than grass is —
We, we are gone without a word that praised us —
You did not know how short the playing-time!

Padraic Colum (Irish, 1881-1972)

Originally e-mailed on Wednesday, August 09, 2000 @ 6:44 PM.

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Wed. 08/09/06 07:03:48 AM
Categorized as Literary & Random Poetry List.