Macarius The Monk
IN the old days, while yet the Church was young,
And men believed that praise of God was sung
In curbing self as well as singing psalms,
There lived a monk, Macarius by name,
A holy man, to whom the faithful came
With hungry hearts to hear the wondrous Word.
In sight of gushing springs and sheltering palms,
He dwelt within the desert: from the marsh
He drank the brackish water, and his food
Was dates and roots,—and all his rule was harsh,
For pampered flesh in' those days warred with good.
From those who came in scores a few there were
Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer,
And these remained and took the hermit's vow.
A dozen saints there grew to be; and now
Macarius, happy, lived in larger care.
He taught his brethren all the lore he knew,
And as they learned, his pious rigors grew.
His whole intent was on the spirit's goal:
He taught them silence—words disturb the soul;
He warned of joys, and bade them pray for sorrow,
And be prepared to-day for death to-morrow;
To know that human life alone was given
To prove the souls of those who merit heaven;
He bade the twelve in all things be as brothers,
And die to self, to live and work for others.
'For so,'' he said, 'we save our love and labors,
And each one gives his own and takes his neighbor's.'
Thus long he taught, and while they silent heard,
He prayed for fruitful soil to hold the Word.
One day, beside the marsh they' labored long,—
For worldly work makes sweeter sacred song,—
And when the cruel sun made hot the sand,
And Afric's gnats the sweltering face and hand
Tormenting stung, a passing traveler stood
And watched the workers by the reeking flood.
Macarius, nigh with heat and toil was faint;
The traveler saw, and to the suffering saint
A bunch of luscious grapes in pity threw.
Most sweet and fresh and fair they were to view,
A generous cluster, bursting-rich with wine,
Macarius longed to taste. ' The fruit is mine,'
He said, and sighed; 'but I, who daily teach,
Feel now the bond to practice as I preach.'
He gave the cluster to the nearest one,
And with his heavy toil went patient on.
As one athirst will greet a flowing brim,
The tempting fruit made moist the mouth of him
Who took the gift; but in the yearning eye
Rose brighter light: to one whose lip was dry
He gave the grapes, and bent him to his spade.
And he who took, unknown to any other,
The sweet refreshment handed to a brother.
And so, from each to each, till round was made
The circuit wholly—when the grapes at last,
Untouched and tempting, to Macarius passed.
'Now God be thanked! ' he cried, and ceased his toil;
'The seed was good, but better was the soil.
My brothers, join with me to bless the day.'
But, ere they knelt, he threw the grapes away.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Blessing
THE MASTER He was hungry:
‘Shall we not dine,’ said He,
‘On the good fruit amongst the leaves
Of this delightful tree?’
But oh! the fig-tree bore no fruit.
‘Wither,’ He bade it, ‘to the root,
For thus deceiving me.’
The Master He was hungry.
He plucked the grains so red
Of wheat that grew beside the way,
And He was bravely fed.
‘For this,’ He said, ‘I guerdon thee,
Through all the years, a type to be
Of Christ, the Living Bread.’
The Master He was thirsty.
He raised His hand on high,
And crushed the good red grapes that grew
The nearest to the sky.
‘And as thou gavest me drink of thine,
So must I pour my blood, O Vine,
When I for man shall die.’
The Master He was passing
From men He held so dear.
The feast with bread and wine was made;
The Friday Cross was near.
‘Droop not!’ He spoke, and blessed their food:
‘The broken Body and the Blood
Sustain you year by year.’
And corn and wine thenceforth have stood
His symbols everywhere.
poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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The Mother Exultant
Joy! Joy! Joy!
The hills are glad,
The valleys re-echo with merriment,
In my heart is the sound of laughter,
And my feet dance to the time of it;
Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder,
Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days,
For this is the hour of the vintage,
When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard.
Look, little son, look:
The grapes are translucent and ripe,
They are heavy and fragrant with juice
They wait for the hands of the vintagers;
For a long time the grapes were not,
And were in the womb of the earth,
Then out of the heavens came the rain,
The sun sent down his warmth from the sky,
At the touch of life, life stirred,
And the earth brought forth her fruits in due season.
I was a maid and alone,
When, behold, there came to me a vision;
My heart cried out within me,
And the voice was the voice of God.
Yea, a virgin I dreamed of love,
And was troubled and sore afraid,
I wept and was glad,
For the word of my heart named me blesse'd,
My soul exhalted the might of creation.
I was a maid and alone,
When, behold, my lover came to me,
My belove'd held me in his arms.
Joy! Joy! Joy!
Now is the vision fulfilled;
I have conceived,
I have carried in my womb,
I have brought forth
The life of the world;
Out of my joy and my pain,
Out of the fulness of my living
Hath my son gained his life.
Look, little son, look:
The grapes are ripe for gathering;
The fresh, deep earth is in them,
And clean water from the clouds.
And golden, golden sun is in the heart of the grapes.
Look, little son, look:
The earth, your mother,
And the touch of life who is your father,
They have provided food for you
That you also may live.
The vineyards are planted on the hillside,
They are the vineyards of my belove'd,
He chose a favorable spot,
His hands prepared the soil for the planting;
He set out the young vines
And cared for them till the time of their bearing.
Nopw is his labour fulfilled who worked with God.
The fruit of the vineyard is ripe,
The vintagers laugh in the sun,
They sing while they gather the grapes,
For the vintage is a good one,
The wine vats are pressed down and running over.
Joy! Joy! Joy!
Now is the wonder accomplished;
Out of the heat of the living grape
Hath the hand of my belove'd
Wrung the wine of the dream of life.
Belove'd,
My little son's father,
Together we have given life,
And the vision of life;
Shall we not rejoice
Who have made eternal
The days of our living.
Look, little son, look:
The grapes glow with rich juice;
The juice of the grape hath in it
The substance of the earth,
And the air's breath;
It hath in it the soul of the vintage.
Put forth your hand, little son,
And take for yourself the life
That your father and your mother
Have provided for you.
Joy! Joy! Joy!
The halls are glad,
The valleys re-echo with merriment,
In my heart is the sound of laughter,
And my feet dance to the time of it;
Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder,
Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days,
For this is the hour of vintage,
When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard.
1905
poem by Adelaide Crapsey
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The Poet and his Song
A SONG is but a little thing,
And yet what joy it is to sing!
In hours of toil it gives me zest,
And when at eve I long for rest;
When cows come home along the bars,
And in the fold I hear the bell,
As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars,
I sing my song, and all is well.
There are no ears to hear my lays,
No lips to lift a word of praise;
But still, with faith unfaltering,
I live and laugh and love and sing.
What matters yon unheeding throng?
They cannot feel my spirit's spell,
Since life is sweet and love is long,
I sing my song, and all is well.
My days are never days of ease;
I till my ground and prune my trees.
When ripened gold is all the plain,
I put my sickle to the grain.
I labor hard, and toil and sweat,
While others dream within the dell;
But even while my brow is wet,
I sing my song, and all is well.
Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot,
My garden makes a desert spot;
Sometimes a blight upon the tree
Takes all my fruit away from me;
And then with throes of bitter pain
Rebellious passions rise and swell;
But - life is more than fruit or grain,
And so I sing, and all is well.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Christmas
Mother, when christmas comes once more,
I do not wish that you
Should buy sweet things for me again,
As you were used to do:
The taste of cakes and sugar-plums
Is pleasant to me yet,
And temptingly the gay shops look,
With their fresh stores outset.
But I have learn'd, dear mother,
That the poor and wretched slave
Must toil to win their sweetness,
From the cradle to the grave.
And when he faints with weariness
Beneath the torrid sun,
The keen lash urges on his toil,
Until the day is done.
But when the holy angels’ hymn,
On Judea's plains afar,
Peal'd sweetly on the shepherds’ ear,
'Neath Bethlehem's wondrous star,
They sung of glory to our God,—
“Peace and good will to men,”—
For Christ, the Saviour of the world,
Was born amidst them then.
And is it for His glory, men
Are made to toil,
With weary limbs and breaking hearts,
Upon another's soil?
That they are taught not of his law,
To know his holy will,
And that He hates the deed of sin,
And loves the righteous still?
And is it peace and love to men,
To bind them with the chain,
And sell them like the beasts that feed
Upon the grassy plain?
To tear their flesh with scourgings rude,
And from the aching heart,
The ties to which it fondliest clings,
For evermore to part?
And 't is because of all this sin, my mother,
That I shun
To taste the tempting sweets for which
Such wickedness is done.
If men to men will be unjust, if slavery must be,
Mother, the chain must not be worn; the scourge
be plied for me.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Original Sin of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden
The devil knew that Eve was weak;
So chose to tempt the lady first;
A Liar by nature, Satan,
It asked Eve tell what God had bid.
Poor Eve knew not the wily snake,
And the Tempter's evil design;
She blurted out the truth God said;
‘They could eat fruits of every tree.
But not the one, God had forbade,
For, death befell the one who ate.'
But Satan told innocent Eve,
It wasn't the truth what God had said.
By eating fruit of ‘knowledge' tree,
One came to know the good from bad!
Your eyes open, you'll be like Gods,
And never die as God had said.
Poor Eve believed the charming words
Uttered by mouth of wily snake!
The tree looked good, so would its fruit;
She thought the snake had told the truth!
The apple looked so enticing
That Eve decided to taste it.
She longed for the wisdom it brought,
And so decided to eat it.
She ate some fruits and took one to
The sleeping Adam; made him eat!
Adam also ate the fruit brought;
They realized they were naked!
Eve was the first to fall in sin
And succumbed to the temptation;
She did not stop with her folly
But made her husband do the same!
The moment, they had eaten then,
Their nakedness, they realized;
They made loin-cloths out of fig leaves
to hide their nudity from God.
They hid amidst the garden trees,
But God called them in a loud voice;
Adam threw the blame upon Eve,
And ate the fruit because she gave!
When God asked Eve, she threw the blame
Upon the snake who tempted her;
Thus was the original sin
Committed by our first parents!
The Tempter knew how to deceive
The lady first, through her the man;
To make the man first eat the fruit
Was perhaps not an easier thing!
And so, the crafty devil lied;
The woman Eve in him believed;
They committed the first big sin,
For now, the Liar seemed to win!
‘The snake became accursed of all
Bellying its way all through its life;
And eat dust as long as it lived.' -
The punishment pronounced by God!
When God had asked both Adam, Eve,
If they disobeyed His command,
They tried to blame the next for it,
Persisting in their lie to God.
Eve would bear children with great pain;
And yearn for her husband all life;
Adam would have to till the soil,
And get food-crops by sweat and toil!
As Adam put the blame on Eve;
As though he knew not God's command;
They weren't aware of God's wisdom,
And hence were banished from Eden!
Had they accepted their fault then,
Perhaps God could have forgiven;
And mankind could have still been saved,
From exile from Eden Garden!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-7-12
poem by John Celes
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Son Of The Soil
Black, strong tatooed by the sun.
He toils and never tires.
He is the son of the soil.
Forget all these fake wana be's! You see today
wanting to be everything they see on tv.
he is the Son of the soil, raised up in the language of the ancetrals.
Taught to hunter and respect the traditions.
Raised up in the secret sacred things of the land.
Spilt his blood in the soil at the riverside at the age of 13.
He knew where his destiny lay at the age of 16.
Had his first encounter at 18.
She was a true daughter of the soil breed well by the women of the land.
Son of the soil taught by the elders the ways of women.
Son of the soil, taught by nature the way to survive.
Son of the soil, taught to endure by the woman he shares his purity with.
Son of the soil,
arise and toil for your destiny calls.
Toil to protect the weak,
to safeguard the rites,
to up root all menace and vallians from the west.
Son of the soil its your time to stand and be heard.
poem by Tigana Chileshe
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Home, Sweet Home
The childhood home wherein children, we stayed;
The cottage old in which we ate and prayed;
The humble garden, on our own, we laid;
The roof that leaked in rain, though rent was paid!
The tranquil place where parents gave us love;
The wonderful compound, where we worked, ‘wow! ’
The trees and plants that grew by heaven’s grace;
The sun, moon, rain, at which we loved to gaze!
That was the lovely place, in which we lived;
The home we kept quite clean and chores were shared;
Our parents slogged for us and deeply cared;
We sometimes fought although amity ruled!
Our father’s strictness taught us good conduct;
Our mother’s fondness disciplined our mind;
The help we rendered, made us feel the warmth;
Home, sweet home, was great despite some faults!
Home, sweet home, brings memories evergreen;
Comfortable, our mother’s house, had been;
Those days were most pleasant, despite our toil;
We lost our hearts upon that very soil!
poem by John Celes
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Answers
What is the end of each man's toil,
Brother, O Brother?
A handful of dust in a bit of soil-
His name forgotten as centuries roll,
Though blazoned to-day on Glory's scroll;
For the lordliest work of brain or hand
Is only an imprint made on sand;
When the tidal wave sweeps over the shore
It is there no more,
Brother, my Brother.
Then what is the use of striving at all,
Brother, O Brother?
Because each effort or great or small
Is a step on the long, long road that leads
To the Kingdom of Growth on the River of Deeds:
And that is the kingdom no man can gain
Till he uses his hand and his mind and brain,
And when he has used them and learned control
He finds his soul,
Brother, my Brother.
And after he finds it, what is the end,
Brother, O Brother?
Upward ever its course and trend;
For this is the purpose and aim and plan
To seek in the soul for the Super-man-
The man who is conscious that Heaven is near-
A bulletin bearer from There to Here,
Finding God dwells in the spirit within
Where He ever has been,
Brother, my Brother.
And what will the God-man do when He comes,
Brother, O Brother?
He will better the world or in courts or slums,
He will do in gladness his nearest duty:
He will teach the religion of love and beauty
In field or factory, mine or mart,
While He tells the world of the larger part
And the wider life that is yet to be
When spirit is free,
Brother, my Brother.
When spirit is free, then where will it go,
Brother, O Brother?
Its uttermost summit no man may know,
For it goes up to God in His holy Tower
To gather more knowledge and force and power;
Like a ray of the sun it shall shine again
To brighten new planets and races of men.
Life had no beginning, life has no end,
Brother and friend-
Brother, my Brother.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Dedicated To Dr. W. H. Sheppard
[The returned missionary, who spent twenty years in Africa.]
On, on to the darkest continent,
As the Adriatic sailed,
In Eighteen Hundred and Ninety,
Many sad good-byes were wailed.
When two brave sons left their homes,
Their kindred, yea their blood,
To wade in Africa's unknown,
And overwhelming flood.
A caucasian and a negro,
United heart and soul,
Bound for Ethiopia's soil,
Yea Africa's distant goal.
As from the New York shore
The steamer slowly starts,
Sheppard and Lapsley bade good-bye
To sad but anxious hearts.
On, on, as the steamer glides,
'Mid the rippling water's whirl,
On to the wild and savage land,
The darkest in the world.
Yet, in that darkened land
Were millions, yea unfed,
Who never had been told
Of Christ the living bread.
But God had sent a message,
To these men so brave,
To go in Ethiopia's land,
And try these souls to save.
Gladly they heeded His command,
To go 'mid danger and strife,
And work in that distant land,
Yes, at the cost of life.
And so in Ethiopia's wild,
These two men so brave,
Prayed for Ethiopia's child,
Struggling a soul to save.
For weeks, yes, months they struggled,
Working day and night,
Until at last, how happy,—
There came a ray of light.
One soul had come to Christ,
One made to understand,
The blessed Savior's voice,
And heed to His command.
These leaders true and brave,
Prayed to Him on high a prayer,
To thank Him for this blessing,
And for His tender care.
But ere many months had passed.
There came a sad, sad day,
A cloud o'er Africa's land was cast,
For one had passed away.
A leader now was gone,
One whom they did love,
Rev. Lapsley had been called
To that home above.
His comrade also missed him,
For he was left alone,
To dwell in Ethiopia's land,
Afar from friends and home.
A work he had left unfinished,
Which he had resolved to do,
But Sheppard decided by God's aid
To carry the work on through.
So he started out one day,
With Africa's savage band,
Determined to make his way
To the Forbidden Land.*
Months they spent on the way,
To carry a ray of light
To Heathen who knew no day,
In a land where all was night.
After toiling daily,
With Ethiopia's sons,
Many were brought to Christ,
A victors crown was won.
They built a house of worship,
And toiled day after day,
Soon Ethiopia's sons
Had learned the narrow way.
They, too, began to preach,
And teach their fellowmen,
And for these blessings great
Their prayers did upward blend.
And in this land so dark,
Where never had been light,
The lame, in Christ, were made to walk.
The blind were given sight.
To Sheppard they gave great praise,
He'd ventured on their soil,
And Ethiopia's sons had raised
Thro' years of earnest toil.
For twenty years he struggled,
In Africa's darkened land,
Giving them the light
As they heeded his command.
Way off in Africa's land,
Let us in fancy look,
To see a heathen band,
Who'd never seen a book,—
Now preaching Christ and teaching,
With minds all free and bright,
All Hail to thee, oh Sheppard,
Who carried them the light.
A great work thou hast done,
To thee we give great praise,
Many laurels thou hast won
For thy remaining days.
poem by Maggie Pogue Johnson
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In my other life ~ ~ ~ Song Lyric's
In my other life, I marched troops in formations
I manned the gun and turned them into men
In my other life, I had so many wayward women
They broke me down and made me, what I am
They showed me roads that men seldom travel
They taught me things can work only if, you try
That losing could mean your really winning
They showed me sorrow, and taught me, how to cry
In my other life, I consumed minds recreations
I made peace with myself, these insecurities, could not stand
In my other life, I lived with incarcerations
They broke me down and made me, what I am
They showed me roads that men seldom travel
They taught me things can work only if, you try
That losing could mean your really winning
They showed me sorrow, and taught me, how to cry
In my other life, I worked hard to make a living
I gave up my recklessness, and vowed never, to give in
In my other life, I was married and had children
There broke me down and made me, what I am
They showed me roads that men seldom travel
They taught me things can work only if, you try
That losing could mean your really winning
They showed me sorrow, and taught me, how to cry
In my other life, I was drawn to the Truth and His resurrection
I confessed my sins, by faith believed and made Him, my Lord
In my other life, I learned to die to self and surrender
Conviction broke me down; the Blood made me, what I am
He showed me a narrow road men seldom travel
He gave me grace to change, in the Sweet, by and by
That losing could mean your really winning
He showed me His love, the price He paid, the reason why
He showed me His love, the price He paid, the reason why
Words & Music by Gene Gamble/Two-G’s Music © 1995
poem by Gene Gamble
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Happy May Day, 2012!
All workers need a day their own,
To talk and rest and have some fun;
May Day is one in every town
For labourers, when shutters are down.
Who will not praise the ones who toil?
Who can live without tillers of soil?
The ones who slog must celebrate,
And think about their future days!
The world must pay a decent sum
To all who sweat and labour hard;
The toilers must not remain dumb,
But air their troubles like a bard.
Too many strikes, protests are bad;
Work struck turn nations poorer still;
But love of work, brethren, not wad,
Can make a task easy uphill!
And pray, you must to patron saints -
St. Joseph, Philip, James, others;
They work miracles for workers
Who love God, work and their brothers!
"Happy May Day,2012! "
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-5-12
poem by John Celes
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The Singing Of The Magnificat
A LEGEND
IN midst of wide green pasture-lands, cut through
By lines of alders bordering deep-banked streams,
Where bulrushes and yellow iris grew,
And rest and peace, and all the flowers of dreams,
The Abbey stood--so still, it seemed a part
Of the marsh-country's almost pulseless heart.
Where grey-green willows fringed the stream and pool,
The lazy meek-faced cattle strayed to graze,
Sheep in the meadows cropped the grasses cool,
And silver fish shone through the watery ways,
And many a load of fruit and load of corn
Into the Abbey storehouses was borne.
Yet though so much they had of life's good things,
The monks but held them as a sacred trust,
Lent from the storehouse of the King of kings
Till they, His stewards, should crumble back to dust.
'Not as our own,' they said, 'but as the Lord's,
All that the stream yields, or the land affords.'
And all the villages and hamlets near
Knew the monks' wealth, and how their wealth was spent.
In tribulation, sickness, want, or fear,
First to the Abbey all the peasants went,
Certain to find a welcome, and to be
Helped in the hour of their extremity.
When plague or sickness smote the people sore,
The Brothers prayed beside the dying bed,
And nursed the sick back into health once more,
And through the horror and the danger said:
'How good is God, Who has such love for us,
He lets us tend His suffering children thus!'
They in their simple ways and works were glad:
Yet all men must have sorrows of their own.
And so a bitter grief the Brothers had,
Nor mourned for others' heaviness alone.
This was the secret of their sorrowing,
That not a monk in all the house could sing!
Was it the damp air from the lovely marsh,
Or strain of scarcely intermitted prayer,
That made their voices, when they sang, as harsh
As any frog's that croaks in evening air--
That made less music in their hymns to lie
Than in the hoarsest wild-fowl's hoarsest cry?
If love could sweeten voice to sing a song,
Theirs had been sweetest song was ever sung:
But their hearts' music reached their lips all wrong,
The soul's intent foiled by the traitorous tongue
That marred the chapel's peace, and seemed to scare
The rapt devotion lingering in the air.
The birds that in the chapel built their nests,
And in the stone-work found their small lives fair,
Flew thence with hurled wings and fluttering breasts
When rang the bell to call the monks to prayer.
'Why will they sing,' they twittered, 'why at all?
In heaven their silence must be festival!'
The brothers prayed with penance and with tears
That God would let them give some little part
Out for the solace of their own sad ears
Of all the music crowded in their heart.
Their nature and the marsh-air had their way,
And still they sang more vilely every day.
And all their prayers and fasts availing not
To give them voices sweet, their souls' desire,
The Abbot said, 'Gifts He did not allot
God at our hands will not again require;
The love He gives us He will ask again
In love to Him and to our fellow-men.
'Praise Him we must, and since we cannot praise
As we would choose, we praise Him as we can.
In heaven we shall be taught the angels' ways
Of singing--we afford to wait a span.
In singing, as in toil, do ye your best;
God will adjust the balance--do the rest!'
But one good Brother, anxious to remove
This, the reproach now laid on them so long,
Rejected counsel, and for very love
Besought a Brother, skilled in art of song,
To come to them--his cloister far to leave--
And sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve.
So when each brown monk duly sought his place,
By two and two, slow pacing to the choir,
Shrined in his dark oak stall, the strange monk's face
Shone with a light as of devotion's fire,
Good, young and fair, his seemed a form wherein
Pure beauty left no room at all for sin.
And when the time for singing it had come,
'Magnificat,' face raised, and voice, he sang:
Each in his stall the monks stood glad and dumb,
As through the chancel's dusk his voice outrang,
Pure, clear, and perfect--as the thrushes sing
Their first impulsive welcome of the spring.
At the first notes the Abbot's heart spoke low:
'Oh God, accept this singing, seeing we,
Had we the power, would ever praise Thee so--
Would ever, Lord, Thou know'st, sing thus for Thee;
Thus in our hearts Thy hymns are ever sung,
As he Thou blessest sings them with his tongue.'
But as the voice rose higher, and more sweet,
The Abbot's heart said, 'Thou hast heard us grieve,
And sent an angel from beside Thy feet,
To sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve;
To ease our ache of soul, and let us see
How we some day in heaven shall sing to Thee.'
Through the cold Christmas night the hymn rang out,
In perfect cadence, clear as sunlit rain--
Such heavenly music that the birds without
Beat their warm wings against the window pane,
Scattering the frosted crystal snow outspread
Upon the stone-lace and the window-lead.
The white moon through the window seemed to gaze
On the pure face and eyes the singer raised;
The storm-wind hushed the clamour of its ways,
God seemed to stoop to hear Himself thus praised,
And breathless all the Brothers stood, and still
Reached longing souls out to the music's thrill.
Old years came back, and half-remembered hours,
Dreams of delight that never was to be,
Mothers' remembered kiss, the funeral flowers
Laid on the grave of life's felicity;
An infinite dear passion of regret
Swept through their hearts, and left their eyelids wet.
The birds beat ever at the window, till
They broke the pane, and so could entrance win;
Their slender feet clung to the window-sill,
And though with them the bitter air came in,
The monks were glad that the birds too should hear,
Since to God's creatures all, His praise is dear.
The lovely music waxed and waned, and sank,
And brought less conscious sadness in its train,
Unrecognised despair that thinks to thank
God for a joy renounced, a chosen pain--
And deems that peace which is but stifled life
Dulled by a too-prolonged unfruitful strife.
When, service done, the Brothers gathered round
To thank the singer--modest-eyed, said he:
'Not mine the grace, if grace indeed abound;
God gave the power, if any power there be;
If I in hymn or psalm clear voice can raise,
As His the gift, so His be all the praise!'
That night--the Abbot lying on his bed--
A sudden flood of radiance on him fell,
Poured from the crucifix above his head,
And cast a stream of light across his cell--
And in the fullest fervour of the light
An Angel stood, glittering, and great, and white.
His wings of thousand rainbow clouds seemed made,
A thousand lamps of love shone in his eyes,
The light of dawn upon his brows was laid,
Odours of thousand flowers of Paradise
Filled all the cell, and through the heart there stirred
A sense of music that could not be heard.
The Angel spoke--his voice was low and sweet
As the sea's murmur on low-lying shore--
Or whisper of the wind in ripened wheat:
'Brother,' he said, 'the God we both adore
Has sent me down to ask, is all not right?--
Why was Magnificat not sung to-night?'
Tranced in the joy the Angel's presence brought,
The Abbot answered: 'All these weary years
We have sung our best--but always have we thought
Our voices were unworthy heavenly ears;
And so to-night we found a clearer tongue,
And by it the Magnificat was sung.'
The Angel answered, 'All these happy years
In heaven has your Magnificat been heard;
This night alone, the angels' listening ears
Of all its music caught no single word.
Say, who is he whose goodness is not strong
Enough to bear the burden of his song?'
The Abbot named his name. 'Ah, why,' he cried,
'Have angels heard not what we found so dear?'
'Only pure hearts,' the Angel's voice replied,
'Can carry human songs up to God's ear;
To-night in heaven was missed the sweetest praise
That ever rises from earth's mud-stained maze.
'The monk who sang Magnificat is filled
With lust of praise, and with hypocrisy;
He sings for earth--in heaven his notes are stilled
By muffling weight of deadening vanity;
His heart is chained to earth, and cannot bear
His singing higher than the listening air!
'From purest hearts most perfect music springs,
And while you mourned your voices were not sweet,
Marred by the accident of earthly things,--
In heaven, God, listening, judged your song complete.
The sweetest of earth's music came from you,
The music of a noble life and true!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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St. Anthony of Padua
A son of noble parents rich
Of Portuguese lineage
His Baptism name Ferdinand
Grew up fifteen of age
He never cared for lucre
He renounced worldly things
To follow Christ seemed greater
‘The Lord and King of Kings! ’
He loved the habit friars wore
Of St, Assisi clan
So, left the Augustinian door
To be a hermit man
He read the Holy Scriptures well
And preached and taught, they tell
His memory was indeed swell
Although he had turned ill!
The Lord gave him the gift of the gab
To Anthony, now named
His erudite speeches would stab
heretic’s hearts unashamed
He worked miracles so often
He found lost things quickly
He sermonised to fish even
Although he had ‘dropsy’!
He loved the poor brethren so much
He taunted crime doers
With hands of miracle a touch
He made them church goers!
His love of Jesus was too great
He loved a martyr’s fate
Poison didn’t work when he ate
His life was clean a slate
And when he died, most children cried
‘The Holy father’s dead! ’
All on their own, most church bells tolled
In Padua, people said
The hermit was made saint too soon
A year after his death
His earthly life was all a boon,
Until his very last, breath!
They say that baby Jesus came
And climbed upon his hand
He had a stick with live lilies
An icon of the land!
poem by John Celes
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The Hermit of Thebaid
O strong, upwelling prayers of faith,
From inmost founts of life ye start,-
The spirit's pulse, the vital breath
Of soul and heart!
From pastoral toil, from traffic's din,
Alone, in crowds, at home, abroad,
Unheard of man, ye enter in
The ear of God.
Ye brook no forced and measured tasks,
Nor weary rote, nor formal chains;
The simple heart, that freely asks
In love, obtains.
For man the living temple is
The mercy-seat and cherubim,
And all the holy mysteries,
He bears with him.
And most avails the prayer of love,
Which, wordless, shapes itself in needs,
And wearies Heaven for naught above
Our common needs.
Which brings to God's all-perfect will
That trust of His undoubting child
Whereby all seeming good and ill
Are reconciled.
And, seeking not for special signs
Of favor, is content to fall
Within the providence which shines
And rains on all.
Alone, the Thebaid hermit leaned
At noontime o'er the sacred word.
Was it an angel or a fiend
Whose voice be heard?
It broke the desert's hush of awe,
A human utterance, sweet and mild;
And, looking up, the hermit saw
A little child.
A child, with wonder-widened eyes,
O'erawed and troubled by the sight
Of hot, red sands, and brazen skies,
And anchorite.
''What dost thou here, poor man? No shade
Of cool, green palms, nor grass, nor well,
Nor corn, nor vines.' The hermit said
'With God I dwell.
'Alone with Him in this great calm,
I live not by the outward sense;
My Nile his love, my sheltering palm
His providence.'
The child gazed round him. 'Does God live
Here only?-where the desert's rim
Is green with corn, at morn and eve,
We pray to Him.
'My brother tills beside the Nile
His little field; beneath the leaves
My sisters sit and spin, the while
My mother weaves.
'And when the millet's ripe heads fall,
And all the bean-field hangs in pod,
My mother smiles, and, says that all
Are gifts from God.'
Adown the hermit's wasted cheeks
Glistened the flow of human tears;
'Dear Lord!' he said, 'Thy angel speaks,
Thy servant hears.'
Within his arms the child he took,
And thought of home and life with men;
And all his pilgrim feet forsook
Returned again.
The palmy shadows cool and long,
The eyes that smiled through lavish locks,
Home's cradle-hymn and harvest-song,
And bleat of flocks.
'O child!' he said, 'thou teachest me
There is no place where God is not;
That love will make, where'er it be,
A holy spot.'
He rose from off the desert sand,
And, leaning on his staff of thorn,
Went with the young child hand in hand,
Like night with morn.
They crossed the desert's burning line,
And heard the palm-tree's rustling fan,
The Nile-bird's cry, the low of kine,
And voice of man.
Unquestioning, his childish guide
He followed, as the small hand led
To where a woman, gentle-eyed,
Her distaff fed.
She rose, she clasped her truant boy,
She thanked the stranger with her eyes;
The hermit gazed in doubt and joy
And dumb surprise.
And to!-with sudden warmth and light
A tender memory thrilled his frame;
New-born, the world-lost anchorite
A man became.
'O sister of El Zara's race,
Behold me!-had we not one mother?'
She gazed into the stranger's face
'Thou art my brother!'
'And when to share our evening meal,
She calls the stranger at the door,
She says God fills the hands that deal
Food to the poor.'
'O kin of blood! Thy life of use
And patient trust is more than mine;
And wiser than the gray recluse
This child of thine.
'For, taught of him whom God hath sent,
That toil is praise, and love is prayer,
I come, life's cares and pains content
With thee to share.'
Even as his foot the threshold crossed,
The hermit's better life began;
Its holiest saint the Thebaid lost,
And found a man!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Teacher’s Day,2011 in India
Remember all your teachers who taught you
in school and college, right from childhood days;
Revere your teachers in all things you do;
Pray God should keep them happy most, always!
They put their heart and soul to train us up;
They helped us drink ken with ease from life’s cup!
Remind yourself the toil that teachers gave;
If not for them, would we now well behave?
Recapitulate good things that teachers did;
Recollect moments ashamed, when you hid;
Realize the role each one of them well played;
Recognize their mettle, prowess, love, aid!
Recount their help they offered you in need;
Reflect on advice good, they tried to seed;
Refill your heart and mind with joy, O man!
Repay their kindness to them if you can.
What noble sacrifices teachers made!
Efforts to train us, students, will not fade;
Despite their hard-work, life gave them raw deal;
Our teachers made us wholesome and thus feel!
Dedicated to all my beloved teachers
who made me what I am, today!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 4-09-’11
poem by John Celes
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One Day A Hungry Fox
One day, a hungry fox,
Saw a high vineyard.
It was full of sweet grapes,
He might not have, he feared.
They were hanging in such
A height, that he jumped
And jumped, but couldn't get.
He had to remain starved,
Again he jumped, and jumped,
And went on jumping ever.
But all his efforts were in vain,
He failed to touch that cluster.
Being upset, he got angry
As he wasted his hour.
Before leaving out of pain,
He said--Grapes are very sour!
poem by Nilakshi Das
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In Memoriam
“He asked life of thee, and thou gavest him a long life, even for ever and ever.”
Life—length of days—the time to work and strive
In his Lord's vineyard; to bring heavenly light
Into the drear, dark places of the earth,
And make them fair and fruitful in His sight.
Life—it seem'd all so bright and beautiful once!
It lay spread out before his kindling eyes,
A land of sunny hills, in white mist veil'd,
Of sweet green valleys under summer skies.
Such tender light and tender shadows there!
No dazzling blaze, no savage blots of gloom,
No keen-cut outline of the barren cliff,
No glaring waste,—but all one gentle bloom
Of happy, innocent hope,—a morning tint
Of pearly grey and gold, with just a shade
Of bright cloud-colour, giving life to it,—
He saw not then the havoc death had made.
But soon the white mist melted in the heat
Of noonday, and the wasted fields lay bare—
Vineyard of Eden—like a bright face, scarred
With sin and shame and weariness and care.
And his vague aspiration took a shape.
“Grant me, dear Lord, if it seem good to Thee,
To labour here, with manhood's utter strength,—
O Lord, good Lord, intrust this work to me!
“Let me have time to toil—a long, long day—
To dig and delve and root out wasteful weeds,
To cut down briars and thorns, and help to plough
Furrows where angels may sow heavenly seeds.
“Give me to foster, with my faith and love,
Frail, early flowers, that fear to droop and fade!
Father, I will not shrink for bleeding hands,
For heat nor cold—I do not feel afraid!”
His voice was heard—his will accepted. God
Gave deep and true fulfilment to his prayer,—
Life—life eternal, which should nevermore
The taint of death, or sin, or sorrow bear!
Oh pray, ye blind ones, as the beggar pray'd
When He of Nazareth pass'd by! Oh pray
With simple faith and worship,—fear ye not
God's gracious ear will deafly turn away.
Ye know He bids us to tell out our wants,
Knowing them all; give up to Him your will,
And trust Him—trust Him. In his wondrous love
He deigns the lowliest longing to fulfil.
Ay, and with that fulfilment which we ne'er
Shall grasp or fathom—till we come to see
Our strange, mysterious human life unveil'd
In the clear daylight of eternity.
The beggar ask'd for sight—Christ answer'd him,
For his faith's sake, and gave him sight indeed.
Just so his silent hands and darken'd eyes
Were lifted once, for grace of “life” to plead.
And God fulfilled his prayer as utterly!
He gave him life—the life of saints above,
Beyond all earthly dreaming sweet and glad—
An endless life in His eternal love!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Roussalka
A LEGEND OF THE WATER-SPRITE
In forest depths, beside a mere,
A monk once made his habitation ;
Absorbed in penances severe,
In fast and prayer he sought salvation.
Already by his own poor spade
His grave was hollowed to receive him,
And every day the good saint prayed
That Heaven from earth would soon relieve him.
One summer's eve, the hermit poor,
At prayer within his narrow room,
Looked out beyond his humble door
And saw the forest wrapped in gloom ;
Night-mists were rising from the mere,
Between the clouds the moon 'gan peep;
The monk unto the pool drew near
And gazed into its waters deep.
He saw himself—drew back perturbed
By fears he ne'er had known before ;
For, lo, the waters were disturbed,
Then suddenly grew calm once more ;
'While fitful as a twilight shade,
Than virgin snow more purely white,
From out the pool appeared a maid
Approaching in the silver light.
She shook the bright drops from her hair
And gazed upon the anchorite ;
To look upon her form so fair
The good monk trembled with affright.
And he beheld her from afar
With head and hand strange signals make,
Then swifter than a shooting star
Dive back into the silent lake.
All night the hermit could not sleep,
All day in agony he prayed ;
But still he could not choose but keep
The image of that wondrous maid
Before him. So, when day did wane,
And overhead the moon was bright,
He watched, and saw her come again
In all her beauty, dazzling white.
She beckoned to him where he stood,
And gave him greeting glad and free.
She played and splashed about the flood,
She laughed and danced in childish glee,
As softly to the monk she cried :
' Come hither, monk, and join me here!'
Then suddenly she dipped to hide
Her beauty in the darkling mere.
The third day came—grown mad with love,
The hermit sought th' enchanted shore
Ere yet night's veil was drawn above,
And waited for the maid once more.
Dawn broke—the monk had disappeared . . .
And now the frightened children say
He haunts the pool: and lo! his beard
Floats on the water night and day.
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Game Of Flower And Rain
I thought you were cloud
But came down as a rain
In my life made a flood
Kissed my petals wetly
Been suffering long drought
Took my pistil in mouth
Made my world too high
Completely plucked me
Made me feel taste sweet
Pollinated my wish- bed
Uprooted from the roots
To dace down with your tune
Breaths were thick and heavy
While smashed my pod-lips
I knelt down to taste
But you pushed me down
To steal well stored honey
I fully bloomed after the game
Taught by the thirsty rain.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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I have some green grapes at their best
I have some green grapes at their best
And I am waiting for you to pass by
For these grapes are of such great taste
It is the truth so I swear and so I sigh
They were raised upon mountains high
where the wind softly blow
and a herd of wild horses feeds nigh
on tall grass blades rooted grow
So this is why my grapes are so sweet
The mountain spring by them lead
Tall reeds guard the gates
To keep out the ugly crow’s gait
Quietly my green grapes wait
For the clock sounds the hour late
What makes you hesitate?
What makes you not keep your date?
Therefore my grapes are so sad
And I am waiting not have gone yet to bed
But here I hear approaching steps from the south
My green grapes are full of hopes for your mouth
But still I am so lonely and sad
Since to bring flowers you forbade
May be next year you change your mind
And to my request you be more kind
And I will bring you flowers from the bowers
Wet with rain of rainbow showers
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