The God of love my Shepherd is,
and he that doth me feed;
while he is mine and I am his,
what can I want or need?
He leads me to the tender grass,
where I both feed and rest;
then to the streams that gently pass,
in both I have the best.
Or if I stray, he doth convert,
and bring my mind in frame,
and all this not for my desert,
but for his holy Name.
Yea, in death’s shady black abode
well may I walk, not fear;
for thou art with me, and thy rod
to guide, thy staff to bear.
Surely thy sweet and wondrous love
shall measure all my days;
and as it never shall remove,
so neither shall my praise.
The Temple (1633)
*Partially quoted in Kidner’s Commentary on the Psalms
*Listen to hymn
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You broke open my heart
with your blessing.
Francesca Battistelli, “You’re Here“
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I dream’d in a dream I saw a city invincible to the attacks of the
whole of the rest of the earth –
I dream’d that was the new city of Friends –
nothing was greater there than the quality of robust love, it led the rest –
it was seen every hour in the actions of the men of that city,
and in all their looks and words.
Leaves of Grass (Part 66: “I Dreamed a Dream”)
quoted in “Blue Bloods”
Season 1, Episode 4 “Officer Down”
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The moon rises as Shizu rises from her couch,
still in the shadow of her husband
who puts her to work early at his vegetable stand.
The mountains take the light.
Her calligraphy, the dark brush stroke
with which she frees herself,
lies in loose sheets on her drawing table.
The tide recedes, the tectonic plates
grind into the flesh of the peninsula.
She is one grain of sand
in the rippling ground well –
a fan opening and closing.
Ordinary Words (1999)
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Oh! Kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas!
You really are beautiful! Pearls,
harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins! All
the stuff they’ve always talked about
still makes a poem a surprise!
These things are with us every day
even on beachheads and biers. They
do have meaning. They’re as strong as rocks.
Frank O’Hara (1950)
poet and curator of the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA)
Seen in the Nelson Gallery at the Exhibition “Make”
under “Alice Blue,” an acrylic painting Robert Arneson
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We might have given birth to a butterfly
With the daily news
Printed in blood on its wings
Mina Loy (1915-17)
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I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread,
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor,
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wondering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
William Butler Yeats (1897/1906)
Posted in The Daily Poems | Tagged The Song of Wandering Aengus, Yeats | 1 Comment »