THE SECRET GARDEN OF VERSES
Of style, of form,
Of literary ways,
I pray to Thee,
Jehovah, O’ Ancient of Days.
Cryptic of form,
Its content hidden,
Blinded by its greatness,
I come forth bidden.
Open to me, what has
Heretofore been shrouded.
Allow me entrance to
The secret garden of verses.
Grant me to drink,
Of Thy sweet and wonderful nectar.
First to read and then to write,
Of trials, tribulation and of blight.
Open to me the secret files,
Clearly show the foundation bare.
Open plainly literature for me to see,
Thy pearls, Thy emeralds, Thy shining sea.
Of style, of form,
Of literary ways,
I pray to Thee,
Jehovah, O’ Ancient of Days.
Cryptic of form,
Its content hidden,
Blinded by its greatness,
I come forth bidden.
Open to me, what has
Heretofore been shrouded.
Allow me entrance to
The secret garden of verses.
Grant me to drink,
Of Thy sweet and wonderful nectar.
First to read and then to write,
Of trials, tribulation and of blight.
Open to me the secret files,
Clearly show the foundation bare.
Open plainly literature for me to see,
Thy pearls, Thy emeralds, Thy shining sea.
ABOUT VERSE
If lines inspired,
Come to me,
Let me pen them,
Thine eye to see.
The verse, you see,
By it, I’m told,
Its gift is wisdom,
Can’t be sold.
Open thy ear,
Prepare thy heart,
Truth be thine always,
Ever to impart.
'Tis principle then,
To direct thy aim,
For principles unchanging,
Ever the same.
If lines inspired,
Come to me,
Let me pen them,
Thine eye to see.
The verse, you see,
By it, I’m told,
Its gift is wisdom,
Can’t be sold.
Open thy ear,
Prepare thy heart,
Truth be thine always,
Ever to impart.
'Tis principle then,
To direct thy aim,
For principles unchanging,
Ever the same.
ABOUT POETRY
Sometimes I like a poem
When it’s easily read,
When its solid wood
Is readily understood.
But, if a poem comes before me,
That’s mysterious in its dress,
And I delve to seek its treasure,
Its valued worth to truly measure,
Sometimes, I come up with empty pockets,
Its substance void of pleasure, meaningless.
It makes me feel a little bit fooled,
And still a truant in poetry, unschooled.
But, if a poem comes before me
Plain, laid bare, its meaning clear,
Then I am delighted with my find,
And wish to keep it near,
To read again and again, silently,
And aloud for my friends to hear.
Sometimes I like a poem
When it’s easily read,
When its solid wood
Is readily understood.
But, if a poem comes before me,
That’s mysterious in its dress,
And I delve to seek its treasure,
Its valued worth to truly measure,
Sometimes, I come up with empty pockets,
Its substance void of pleasure, meaningless.
It makes me feel a little bit fooled,
And still a truant in poetry, unschooled.
But, if a poem comes before me
Plain, laid bare, its meaning clear,
Then I am delighted with my find,
And wish to keep it near,
To read again and again, silently,
And aloud for my friends to hear.
DERRY WOODS AT FROST’S FARM
The lovely trees of grace provide
A show while on the wind they ride.
They wave, “Come in, come over here,
Come by the pasture spring, draw near.”
The spring is brown from mud within,
Filled by heaven’s rains to the brim.
Meadow grass leans along the breeze
That leads the eyes to shady trees.
The pasture’s here with pasture grass
And by the woods a meadow path.
No horse, nor dog, nor calf is found,
And neither are the chicks around.
Frost was a gift and so did he
Leave more than splendid poetry.
His life well lived, with record kept,
Into our hearts his words have crept.
I know his wish is coming true,
The young do read his words anew.
We love his verse for what it is,
“Come out, come in,” the words are his.
Visit his farm and see for yourself,
What woods these woods he walked, what wealth.
Derry woods for the eyes of you,
I’m walking over, “You Come Too.”
WORDS OF POWER
In the clearing we gathered round
The students and the folks from town
To honor Robert Frost, the hour
By digging earth and breaking ground.
Stocked and stored with words of power
His thoughts set down would storm and shower
And charm the land with Breadloafian light
Across the woods his work would flower.
He made it a point to study and write
The results were exquisite, sheer delight.
His talents were solid silver refined,
Frost, Bard Superb, of Literary might.
Many an autograph that day he signed
Beneath the wood that was heavily pined.
His wit was splendid and his words well rhymed
His life and work were of the rarest kind.
The lovely trees of grace provide
A show while on the wind they ride.
They wave, “Come in, come over here,
Come by the pasture spring, draw near.”
The spring is brown from mud within,
Filled by heaven’s rains to the brim.
Meadow grass leans along the breeze
That leads the eyes to shady trees.
The pasture’s here with pasture grass
And by the woods a meadow path.
No horse, nor dog, nor calf is found,
And neither are the chicks around.
Frost was a gift and so did he
Leave more than splendid poetry.
His life well lived, with record kept,
Into our hearts his words have crept.
I know his wish is coming true,
The young do read his words anew.
We love his verse for what it is,
“Come out, come in,” the words are his.
Visit his farm and see for yourself,
What woods these woods he walked, what wealth.
Derry woods for the eyes of you,
I’m walking over, “You Come Too.”
WORDS OF POWER
In the clearing we gathered round
The students and the folks from town
To honor Robert Frost, the hour
By digging earth and breaking ground.
Stocked and stored with words of power
His thoughts set down would storm and shower
And charm the land with Breadloafian light
Across the woods his work would flower.
He made it a point to study and write
The results were exquisite, sheer delight.
His talents were solid silver refined,
Frost, Bard Superb, of Literary might.
Many an autograph that day he signed
Beneath the wood that was heavily pined.
His wit was splendid and his words well rhymed
His life and work were of the rarest kind.