God's Grandeur

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;	5
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;	10
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.

October

October

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost –

For the grape’s sake along the wall.

-- Robert Frost

God’s World

God’s World

O World, I cannot hold thee close enough

Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!

Thy mists that roll and rise.

Thy wood, this autumn day, that ache and sag.

And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag

To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff.

World, World, I cannot get thee close enough.

Long have I known a glory in it all,

But never knew I this:

Here such a passion is

As stretcheth me apart – Lord I do fear

Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year;

My soul is all but out of me – let fall

No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

I'm not teaching this quarter, alas, but if I were, we would be reading some autumn poems. I'll share them with you instead. My Mom first shared this poem with me and it has become one of my favorites. We are having mornings just like this these days.

Right now the children are picking up by hand each and every yard leaf and putting them in the trash. I didn't set them to this task, but it is keeping them busy and happy, so I'll not intervene.