Father

December 4, 2014 Joe AuBuchon

—A friend of mine has just lost her father,

Father

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
1855 – 1919

He never made a fortune, or a noise
In the world where men are seeking after fame;
But he had a healthy brood of girls and boys
Who loved the very ground on which he trod.
They thought him just a little short of God;
Oh you should have heard the way they said his name –
‘Father.’

There seemed to be a loving little prayer
In their voices, even when they called him ‘Dad.’
Though the man was never heard of anywhere,
As a hero, yet you somehow understood
He was doing well his part and making good;
And you knew it, by the way his children had
Of saying ‘Father.’

He gave them neither eminence nor wealth,
But he gave them blood untainted with a vice,
And the opulence of undiluted health.
He was honest, and unpurchable and kind;
He was clean in heart, and body, and in mind.
So he made them heirs to riches without price –
This father.

He never preached or scolded; and the rod –
Well, he used it as a turning pole in play.
But he showed the tender sympathy of God
To his children in their troubles, and their joys.
He was always chum and comrade with his boys,
And his daughters – oh, you ought to hear them say
‘Father.’

Now I think of all achievements ’tis the least
To perpetuate the species; it is done
By the insect and the serpent, and the beast.
But the man who keeps his body, and his thought,
WORTH bestowing on an offspring love-begot,
Then the highest earthly glory he has won,
When in pride a grown-up daughter or a son
Says ‘That’s Father.’

as I lost mine on Christmas Eve, 1972.—

The Rainy Day

December 3, 2014 Joe AuBuchon

The Rainy Day

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
1807 – 1882

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

The Rain

December 2, 2014 Joe AuBuchon

The Rain

By James Whitcomb Riley

The rain! the rain! the rain!
It gushed from the skies and streamed
Like awful tears; and the sick man thought
How pitiful it seemed!
And he turned his face away,
And stared at the wall again,
His hopes nigh dead and his heart worn out.
O the rain! the rain! the rain!

II.

The rain! the rain! the rain!
And the broad stream brimmed the shores;
And ever the river crept over the reeds
And the roots of the sycamores:
A corpse swirled by in a drift
Where the boat had snapt its chain –
And a hoarse-voiced mother shrieked and raved.
O the rain! the rain! the rain!

III.

The rain! the rain! the rain! –
Pouring, with never a pause,
Over the fields and the green byways –
How beautiful it was!
And the new-made man and wife
Stood at the window-pane
Like two glad children kept from school. –
O the rain! the rain! the rain!

Sunrise On The Coast

November 27, 2014 Joe AuBuchon

Sunrise On The Coast

By Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)
1864 – 1941

Grey dawn on the sand-hills, the night wind has drifted
All night from the rollers a scent of the sea;
With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted,
At the call of the morning they scatter and flee.

Like mariners calling the roll of their number
The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep.
And far overhead, sinking softly to slumber,
Worn out by their watching the stars fall asleep.

To eastward, where rests the broad dome of the skies on
The sea-line, stirs softly the curtain of night;
And far from behind the enshrouded horizon
Comes the voice of a God saying “Let there be light.”

And lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender,
It glows ruby-red where ’twas now ashen-grey;
And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour,
Behold, ’tis that marvel, the birth of a day!

—And on this beautiful day a Happy Thanksgiving to you all.— A

The Satyr And My Muse

November 26, 2014 Joe AuBuchon

The Satyr And My Muse

By Friedrich Schiller
1759 – 1805

An aged satyr sought
Around my Muse to pass,
Attempting to pay court,
And eyed her fondly through his glass.

By Phoebus’ golden torch,
By Luna’s pallid light,
Around her temple’s porch
Crept the unhappy sharp-eared wight;

And warbled many a lay,
Her beauty’s praise to sing,
And fiercely scraped away
On his discordant fiddle-string.

With tears, too, swelled his eyes,
As large as nuts, or larger;
He gasped forth heavy sighs,
Like music from Silenus’ charger.

The Muse sat still, and played
Within her grotto fair,
And peevishly surveyed
Signor Adonis Goatsfoot there.

“Who ever would kiss thee,
Thou ugly, dirty dunce?
Wouldst thou a gallant be,
As Midas was Apollo once?

“Speak out, old horned boor
What charms canst thou display?
Thou’rt swarthy as a Moor,
And shaggy as a beast of prey.

“I’m by a bard adored
In far Teutonia’s land;
To him, who strikes the chord,
I’m linked in firm and loving band.”

She spoke, and straightway fled
The spoiler, he pursued her,
And, by his passion led,
Soon caught her, shouted, and thus wooed her:

“Thou prudish one, stay, stay!
And hearken unto me!
Thy poet, I dare say,
Repents the pledge he gave thee.

“Behold this pretty thing,
No merit would I claim,
Its weight I often fling
On many a clown’s back, to his shame.

“His sharpness it increases,
And spices his discourse,
Instilling learned theses,
When mounted on his hobby-horse

“The best of songs are known,
Thanks to this heavy whip
Yet fool’s blood ’tis alone
We see beneath its lashes drip.

“This lash, then, shall be his,
If thou’lt give me a smack;
Then thou mayest hasten, miss,
Upon thy German sweetheart’s track.”

The Muse, with purpose sly,
Ere long agreed to yield
The satyr said good-by,
And now the lash I wield!

And I won’t drop it here,
Believe in what I say!
The kisses of one’s dear
One does not lightly throw away.

They kindle raptures sweet,
But fools ne’er know their flame!
The gentle Muse will kneel at honor’s feet,
But cudgels those who mar her fame.