Poem of the Day

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

Christina Rossetti

It could be said that God’s foot is so vast
that this entire earth is but a
field on His
toe,

and all the forests in this world
came from the same root of just
a single hair
of His.

What then is not a sanctuary?
Where can I not kneel
and pray at a shrine
made holy by His
presence?

- Catherine of Siena.

From “Love Poems From God” by Daniel Ladinsky.
Copyright © 1999 by Daniel Ladinsky. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Enough of thought, philosopher!
Too long hast thou been dreaming
Unlightened, in this chamber drear,
While summer’s sun is beaming!
Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain
Concludes thy musings once again?

“Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
Without identity.
And never care how rain may steep,
Or snow may cover me!
No promised heaven, these wild desires
Could all, or half fulfil;
No threatened hell, with quenchless fires,
Subdue this quenchless will!”

“So said I, and still say the same;
Still, to my death, will say–
Three gods, within this little frame,
Are warring night; and day;
Heaven could not hold them all, and yet
They all are held in me;
And must be mine till I forget
My present entity!
Oh, for the time, when in my breast
Their struggles will be o’er!
Oh, for the day, when I shall rest,
And never suffer more!”

“I saw a spirit, standing, man,
Where thou dost stand–an hour ago,
And round his feet three rivers ran,
Of equal depth, and equal flow–
A golden stream–and one like blood;
And one like sapphire seemed to be;
But, where they joined their triple flood
It tumbled in an inky sea
The spirit sent his dazzling gaze
Down through that ocean’s gloomy night;
Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze,
The glad deep sparkled wide and bright–
White as the sun, far, far more fair
Than its divided sources were!”

“And even for that spirit, seer,
I’ve watched and sought my life-time long;
Sought him in heaven, hell, earth, and air,
An endless search, and always wrong.
Had I but seen his glorious eye
ONCE light the clouds that wilder me;
I ne’er had raised this coward cry
To cease to think, and cease to be;

I ne’er had called oblivion blest,
Nor stretching eager hands to death,
Implored to change for senseless rest
This sentient soul, this living breath–
Oh, let me die–that power and will
Their cruel strife may close;
And conquered good, and conquering ill
Be lost in one repose!”

Emily Bronte

For years, to the red wine, my heart was bound
The Tavern became alive with my prayer and my sound.
See the Old Magi’s goodness, with us, the drunks,
Saw whatever we did, in everyone beauty had found.
Wash away all our knowledge with red wine,
Firmaments, themselves, the knowing minds hound.
Seek that from idols, O knowing heart,
Said the one whose insights, his knowledge crowned.
My heart, like a compass, goes round and round,
I’m lost in that circle, with foot firmly on the ground.
Minstrel did what he did from pain of Love,
Lashes of wise-of-the-world in their bloody tears have drowned.
With joy my heart bloomed, like that flower by the stream
Under the shade of that tall spruce, myself, I found.
My colorful wise Master, in my dealings with the black robes,
My meanness checked and bound, else my stories would astound.
Hafiz’s cloudy heart in this trade was not spent,
This merchant saw and heard every hidden sight and sound.

- Hafiz (Ghazal 203)

Translation by: Shariar Shariar (1)

I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was ‘ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,–
“Guess now who holds thee!”–”Death,” I said, But, there,
The silver answer rang, “Not Death, but Love.”

- Elizabeth Browning

In the depth of my soul there is
A wordless song – a song that lives
In the seed of my heart.
It refuses to melt with ink on
Parchment; it engulfs my affection
In a transparent cloak and flows,
But not upon my lips.

How can I sigh it? I fear it may
Mingle with earthly ether;
To whom shall I sing it? It dwells
In the house of my soul, in fear of
Harsh ears.

When I look into my inner eyes
I see the shadow of its shadow;
When I touch my fingertips
I feel its vibrations.

The deeds of my hands heed its
Presence as a lake must reflect
The glittering stars; my tears
Reveal it, as bright drops of dew
Reveal the secret of a withering rose.

It is a song composed by contemplation,
And published by silence,
And shunned by clamor,
And folded by truth,
And repeated by dreams,
And understood by love,
And hidden by awakening,
And sung by the soul.

It is the song of love;
What Cain or Esau could sing it?

It is more fragrant than jasmine;
What voice could enslave it?

It is heartbound, as a virgin’s secret;
What string could quiver it?

Who dares unite the roar of the sea
And the singing of the nightingale?
Who dares compare the shrieking tempest
To the sigh of an infant?
Who dares speak aloud the words
Intended for the heart to speak?
What human dares sing in voice
The song of God?

- Khalil Gibran

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

- William Shakespeare

In the summoning voice of one long-known, well-loved,
But nameless to the unremembering mind,
It led to rapture back the truant heart.
The immortal cry ravished the captive ear.
Then, lowering its imperious mystery,
It sank to a whisper circling round the soul.
It seemed the yearning of a lonely flute
That roamed along the shores of memory
And filled the eyes with tears of longing joy.
A cricket’s rash and fiery single note,
It marked with shrill melody night’s moonless hush
And beat upon a nerve of mystic sleep
Its high insistent magical reveille.
A jingling silver laugh of anklet bells
Travelled the roads of a solitary heart;
Its dance solaced an eternal loneliness:
An old forgotten sweetness sobbing came.
Or from a far harmonious distance heard
The tinkling pace of a long caravan
It seemed at times, or a vast forest’s hymn,
The solemn reminder of a temple gong,
A bee-croon honey-drunk in summer isles
Ardent with ecstasy in a slumbrous noon,
Or the far anthem of a pilgrim sea.

- Sri Aurobindo

Excerpt Savitri, Book II Canto XIV

Last night the gypsies came -
Nobody knows from where.
Where they’ve gone to nobody knows,
And nobody seems to care!

Between the trees on the old swamp road
I saw them round their fire:
Tattered children and dogs that barked
As the flames leaped high and higher;
There were black-eyed girls in scarlet shawls,
Old folk wrinkled with years,
Men with handkerchiefs round their throats
And silver loops in their ears.
Ragged and red like maple leaves
When frost comes in the Fall,
The gypsies stayed but a single night;
In the morning gone were all -
Never a shaggy gypsy dog,
Never a gypsy child;
Only a burnt-out gypsy fire
Where danced that band so wild.

All gone and away,
Who knows where?
Only the wind that sweeps
Maple branches bare.

by Rachel Field

I sipped the sap of each sane pleasure;
I exulted in the crushed beauty of sextillion stars;
I made a bonfire of all sorrows and basked in the glory blaze;
I quaffed the questing love of all hearts;
I mingled paternal, maternal, and fraternal love together,
And drank the solacing draught;
I squeezed the scriptures for drops of peace;
I wrung poems from the winepress of Nature;
I lifted gems from the mine of thoughts;
I stole the sweetness from the honeycomb of innocent joys;
I read, I smiled, I worked, I planned, I throbbed, I aspired;
But naught was sufficient.
Only nightmares of incompleteness,
Ever receding will-o’-the wisps of promised happiness,
Haunted and hastened my heart.
But when I cast all dreams away,
I found the deep sanctuary of peace,
And my soul sang: “God alone! God alone!”

- Paramahanasa Yogananda