Friday, October 31, 2014

My Lady's Presence Makes The Roses Red


My lady's presence makes the roses red,
Because to see her lips they blush for shame.

~ Henry Constable

Painting: Goddess Of Summer by Zula Kenyon

As A Globed Fruit


A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit.

~ Archibald MacLeish

Thursday, October 30, 2014

قارئة الفنجان


فكرت ونجمت كثيراً
لكني لم أقرأ أبداً
فنجاناً يشبه فنجانك
فكرت ونجمت كثيراً
لكني لم أعرف أبداً
أحزاناً تشبه أحزانك

~ نزار قباني

Coffee Spoons


I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

~ T. S. Eliot

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

A Red, Red Rose


O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June.
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.

~ Robert Burns

Monday, October 27, 2014

The Human Heart Is Like A Ship


The human heart is like a ship on a stormy sea driven about by winds blowing from all four corners of heaven.

~ Martin Luther King

Sunday, October 26, 2014

If You Have One Teapot


If you have one teapot
And can brew your tea in it
That will do quite well.
How much does he lack himself
Who must have a lot of things?

~ Sen no Rikyū

Teach Us To Care And Not To Care


Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

~ T. S. Eliot

Photo: T. S. Eliot - Cambridge, MA, 1956 - by John Leongard

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Every Morning Was A Cheerful Invitation


Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself.

~ Henry David Thoreau

Painting: Matin à Villeneuve by Henri Biva

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Bring Me The Sunset In A Cup


Bring me the sunset in a cup.

~ Emily Dickinson

Digging



The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

~ Seamus Heaney

Painting: A Man Digging Potatoes by Thomas Frederick Mason Sheard

When To Her Lute Corinna Sings



When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings.

~ Thomas Campion

Painting: The Lute Player by Caravaggio