En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The song that Mary sang

In the stillness of the dawn,
in the stillness of the dusk,
then, my heart is most alive,
there, my soul is most at peace.

In the freshness of the morning,
in the coolness of the eve,
the Lord God walks in every garden;
be still, so to know Him there.

All day long I tend my garden;
there, this evening, God may walk;
I may see Him; I may not - but
yet I meet Him in my work.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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In the spirit of Rumi - 80 - Meditation

To the Lord, my Beloved, I said,
my Beloved: often I pray to You,
but more often, I confess,
it is to ask from You;
less often, to thank You or to praise You…

teach me, then, about meditation,
which men say to be a way
to be near You,
even beyond thanks or praise…

the Lord, my Beloved, said,
O you whom I love dearly as Myself,
whose praise and thanks are dear to Me
in ways that only I may know…
such is My nature, and is that of yours,
that only meditation may teach you meditation…

but this is all I ask of you:
that twice a day – and best,
at dawn and dusk, which are
the times I can be known to walk
in My garden of the world,
in the stillness of the morning,
in the stillness of the evening,
when My nature wakes or sleeps in peace…

that twice a day, you spend some time
saying – as if it were only once, and always once –
My name for you; your name for Me;
this will be our time of love;
this will be My test of your true love for Me:

and if at any time, your thoughts
stray away from Me, wandering in
the byways of the world –
that will not diminish My eternal love for you;
it will only mean, that you have forgotten
for the time not being, My love for you –

but if you truly love Me, then you will return
as a straying son returns,
and if you truly love Me,
you will then, know My love’s increase..

this will be our daily time together,
you and I; that is all I ask of you;

yet if, in all the other hours of the day,
I seem to you to stay
so much the nearer to you, close to you –
then that is but the mark of My love for you,
O you whom I love dearly as Myself;

so, together, let us speak each other’s name,
as lovers always shall.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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November 28,2007 is the International Day of Stillness: A Poem for the day

'Stillness is my beloved teacher.
From her, I learn new things every day.'
I said to Stillness,
How can you teach me so well?

Stillness said,
By being with you always.
I said to Stillness,
How can you teach me so much?

Stillness said,
Because you have much within you;
I, but a mirror for your mind;
I, but a mirror for your heart.

I said to Stillness,
O my beloved teacher, will you
promise me you will never leave me?

Stillness said,
I cannot leave you;
though you can leave me..
but what is stillness without a companion?
I said to Stillness,
Is your work hard?

Stillness said,
I have the most wonderful task that I could wish for:
I sit with babies while they smile;
I sit with children in the classroom
as they delight to learn;

I sit with the angry and disturbed,
and watch them grow to peace;
I sit with the sad and lonely and bereaved
and watch them rediscover happiness and joy;
I sit with kings and queens and rulers
while they find wisdom and mercy;

I sit with governments and committees
while they find reason and justice;
I sit with artists and scientists,
and watch them find new things outside themselves,
and find new things within themselves;

I sit with those who pray or meditate,
as they find God in themselves;
I sit at the feet of saints
while they become perfection;

I walk in the gardens of the dawn,
I walk in the gardens of the dusk;
in the deep of the night, I watch;
I fly with birds, in the silence of the air;
I watch the animals as they explore the earth;
I listen to the growing of the trees and plants;
I listen to the opening of the flowers;

Said Stillness,
I am the friend and the companion of all;
who would not love to share my life with me?
I said to Stillness,
May I never leave you.
And Stillness looked me in the eye,
and Stillness smiled at me:
‘I am born with every creature born
to be their friend for life.’

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Evening Stillness

A lonely evening on a lakeside
I stole a chunk of stillness.
Carried it through a clinking city
Stored it in the heart’s corner
Where no noise could touch it!
The stillness has grown a goliath -
Endures night’s coolness and day’s warmth
Camouflages the thunder inside….
No more the evening stillness on a lakeside!

poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Stillness: a Poem for the International Day of Stillness, November 28

'Stillness is my beloved teacher.
From her, I learn new things every day.'

I said to Stillness,
how can you teach me so well?

Stillness said,
By being with you always.

I said to Stillness,
How can you teach me so much?

Stillness said,
Because you have much within you;
I, but a mirror for your mind;
I, but a mirror for your heart.

I said to Stillness,
O my beloved teacher, will you
promise me you will never leave me?

Stillness said,
I cannot leave you;
though you can leave me..
but what is stillness without a companion?

I said to Stillness,
Is your work hard?

Stillness said,
I have the most wonderful task that I could wish for:

I sit with babies while they smile;

I sit with children in the classroom
as they delight to learn;

I sit with the angry and disturbed,
And watch them grow to peace;

I sit with the sad and lonely and bereaved
and watch them rediscover happiness and joy;

I sit with kings and queens and rulers
while they find wisdom and mercy;

I sit with governments and committees
while they find reason and justice;

I sit with artists and scientists,
and watch them find new things outside themselves,
and find new things within themselves;

I sit with those who pray or meditate,
and watch them find God in themselves;

I sit at the feet of saints
while they become perfection;

I fly with birds, in the silence of the air;
I watch the animals as they explore the earth;
I hear the growing of the trees and plants;
I listen to the opening of the flowers;

I walk in the gardens of the dawn;
I walk in the gardens of the dusk;
in the deep of the night, I watch.

Said Stillness,
I am the friend and the companion of all;
who would not love to share my life with me?

I said to Stillness,
may I never leave you.

And Stillness looked me in the eye,
and Stillness smiled at me:

‘I am born with every creature born
to be their friend for life.’

*
(With acknowledgements to Iain Trousdell of New Zealand, whose poem quoted from in the first two lines inspired this extension..)

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sonnet 04

A garden so well watered before morn
Is hotly up, that not the swart sun's blaze
Down beating with unmitigated rays,
Nor arid winds from scorching places borne,
Shall quite prevail to make it bare and shorn
Of its green beauty -- shall not quite prevail
That all its morning freshness shall exhale,
Till evening and the evening dews return --
A blessing such as this our hearts might reap,
The freshness of the garden they might share,
Through the long day a heavenly freshness keep,
If, knowing how the day and day's glare
Must beat upon them, we would largely steep
And water them betimes with dews of prayer.

poem by Richard Chenevix Trench
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In the Garden, With My Father

It is spring.
As in my garden, I stand.
In the garden -
My father is there;
... though long since gone...
He IS there.
I tend to the weeds,
The veggies and flowers...
He is there.

I never understood him
(as I should have, could have) ...
Until now,
Here, in the garden.
Where I, like he, work the soil.
I've come just recently
(these last few years)
To enjoy and love my garden so.
- I am not as surprised afterall, as I would have thought,
To find him here.
Here, in the garden.
He loved his garden very much.......
I - at that early age of restless youth - had no use
For such slow moving things.

But now, I see, and myself move, at a much slower pace.
Therefore, it is him I am here and now able to see,
In the garden.
Watching it all grow, so peacefully.

It is somewhat sad, that now,
When I can no longer tell him,
I understand.
For I have come to find... I love the garden too,
Just as much as he;
And we both always will.
My father - standing in the garden -
I now know.
After all these long years.
And I've missed him so;
But, how wonderful to find,
He IS here...
In the garden, our garden,
Always, with me.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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0046 The Measured Life

Here in the garden at the break of day,
the air’s been washed with holy water overnight,
and it’s so peaceful, as if nature at this hour
replays Creation’s dawn; takes a heartfelt pause
before it launches, first itself, then us,
into the business of the day and, so it seems,
to lose ourselves somewhere inside ourselves.

Sitting here, I meditate upon the silence and the stillness
at this thought-free hour of dawn; as if I and nature both
share that sweet mystery that movement, action,
arise from stillness, remain behind it all the day…

To measure out the use of this fine world –
to live, neither too little nor too much;
to be both actor and the watcher of all this,
sitting in delight at one’s own play…

And in the kitchen of the spirit,
where rolling-pins and herbs live lives of metaphor,
weigh out with balance, measure in the jug of life
the usage of this world;
in these scales, balance gold;
the gold that's earned, the gold that's given out;
from this jug, pours pure joy.

This evening, bruised and battered by the day
that I allowed to, worldly, use me thus,
I shall return to this same garden seat
showered and refreshed
by spirit’s bathing - mercy, grace –
to find again that peace which never left
this seat of love

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Garden

My heart is a garden tired with autumn,
Heaped with bending asters and dahlias heavy and dark,
In the hazy sunshine, the garden remembers April,
The drench of rains and a snow-drop quick and clear as a spark;

Daffodils blowing in the cold wind of morning,
And golden tulips, goblets holding the rain --
The garden will be hushed with snow, forgotten soon, forgotten --
After the stillness, will spring come again?

poem by Sara Teasdale
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About The Sheltered Garden Ground

ABOUT the sheltered garden ground
The trees stand strangely still.
The vale ne'er seemed so deep before,
Nor yet so high the hill.

An awful sense of quietness,
A fulness of repose,
Breathes from the dewy garden-lawns,
The silent garden rows.

As the hoof-beats of a troop of horse
Heard far across a plain,
A nearer knowledge of great thoughts
Thrills vaguely through my brain.

I lean my head upon my arm,
My heart's too full to think;
Like the roar of seas, upon my heart
Doth the morning stillness sink.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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In the spirit of Rumi - 36 - The rose told me

In the garden,
I look at a rose and wonder

Is this rose
laughing with God?
Is it God’s smile, and message, to the earth?
Does it tell
Of God’s goodness, truth, and beauty?
Of God’s stillness? Peace? and silence?

Or if you gazed at it long enough
and carefully enough,
perhaps with a laugh or smile,
in stillness, peace, and silence,
would it tell you everything
that God would have you know?

* * *

For even if you are
a cynic, locked into your own mind
by your own key
and say, oh, it’s just
savage, ruthless nature, competing
with all the other flowers, for the bees –
for nothing but its own selfish ends -
you must admit
that Whoever allowed, invented, made, decreed
the laws for the construction of
such complex, simple beauty (which a bee may never know?)
is pretty cool.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Untitled: O the Dwelling

O the dwelling in the stillness of the dusking garden,

When the eyes of the sister round and dark opened in the brother,

The purple of their broken mouths

Melted in the coolness of the evening.

Heart-breaking hour.

September ripened the golden pear. Sweetness of incense

And the dahlia burns at the old fence

Say! where were we, when we passed by on small black boat

In the evening,

The crane passed over. The freezing arms

Held black embraced, and inside blood ran.

And around our temples moist blue. Poor little child.

Deeply a dark race ponders out of knowing eyes.

poem by Georg Trakl
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Do Not The

do not the leaves love the tree
even as they fall...
and moths love the flame
into which they die?
and shadows in the night
love the stillness,
as they lay down to meet the dawn?
so love then is a series of deaths,
and each funeral has a face...
it is in the stillness when breath is taken,
that we learn to touch
with the eyes of body and soul!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Stillness Of Heart

I'm out here on the street
There's no one left to meet
The things that were so sweet
No longer move my feet
But I keep trying
I keep on trying

All that I want is
Stillness of heart
So I can start
To find my way
Out of the dark
And into your heart

I got more than I can eat
A life that can't be beat
Yet still I feel this heat
I'm feeling incomplete
What am I buying?
My soul is crying

All that I want is
Stillness of heart
So I can start
To find my way
Out of the dark
And into your heart

Where's the love?
What is this world we live in?
Where's the love ?
We've got to keep on giving
Where's the love ?
What happened to forgiving ?
Anyone ?

All that I want is
Stillness of heart
So I can start
To find my way
Out of the dark
And into your heart

song performed by by Lenny Kravitz from Lenny
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stillnes Of Heart

Thanks to Davide for these lyrics.
I'm out here on the street
There's no one left to meet
The things that were so sweet
No longer move my feet
But I keep trying
I keep on trying
All that I want is
Stillness of heart
So I can start
To find my way
Out of the dark
And into your heart
I got more than I can eat
A life that can't be beat
Yet still I feel this heat
I'm feeling incomplete
What am I buying?
My soul is crying
All that I want is
Stillness of heart
So I can start
To find my way
Out of the dark
And into your heart
Where's the love?
What is this world we live in?
Where's the love ?
We've got to keep on giving
Where's the love ?
What happened to forgiving ?
Anyone ?
All that I want is
Stillness of heart
So I can start
To find my way
Out of the dark
And into your heart

song performed by by Lenny Kravitz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Same Old Obsession

I come to this garden
I come here to rest
Early each day upon risin
I think of my lost love
From over the sea
And sometimes Ive wondered
If she thinks of me
I long to recall every kiss, every kind word
I miss her so much I could die
But the creatures of evil
Have captured her heart
And that same old obsession
Still keeps us apart
Theres peace in the garden
Theres peace in the air
Peace in the sound of the river
Theres peace in the meadow
The sun shines like gold
And if she were with me
Thered be peace in my soul
I long to return to the place, I remember
The taste of her lips close to mine
I could do much better
If I could be strong
Come into my garden
But leave me alone
I come to this garden
I come here to rest
Just as the night comes stealin
Someone is weeping
Shes calling my name
Deep in the garden
Deep in my brain
I long to recall every kiss, every kind word
I miss her so much I could die
But the creatures of evil
Have captured her heart
And that same old obsession
Still keeps us apart
But the creatures of evil
Have captured her heart
And that same old obsession
Still keeps us apart

song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vanaprasthiya

Their grandchild’s silken first hair
brushed with tender love;
their own hair, grey or white or gone;

household handed over to
their son, daughter, or
their spouse; now,

to find again themselves, to be themselves;
free, they walk the morning air of freedom
towards the woods; upon the way,
meet others of their age.

Trees - as every child knows
and old men may remember;
old women see through their own children's eyes -
listen with such silent wisdom,
that among the trees,
all become wise.

And so they, the honoured aged,
meet, acknowledge, greet,
speak as many words as truth may draw;
meditate; then, open eyes and every sense
teach, this is what a temple is;
this is what you are.

Evening stillness; then they return
to the hearth and warmth of family; as
a great grove of ancient, fresh-leafed trees
where in stillness soul meets nature
and finds truth arise.

*

[With thanks to Sunil Bhattacharya for some hints of history]

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Psalm

Stillness; as if blind people sank down by autumnal wall,

Listening with rotten temples to the flight of the ravens;

Golden stillness of autumn, the countenance of the father in the flickering sun

At evening the old village decays in the peace of brown oaks,

The red hammering of the smithy, a pounding heart.

Stillness; in slow hands the maid hides the hyacinthine forehead

Under fluttering sunflowers. Fear and silence

Of extinguishing eyes fulfills the dusking room, the halting steps

Of old women, the escape of the purple mouth which slowly expires in the darkness.

Taciturn evening in vine. From the low rafters

A nocturnal moth fell, nymph buried into bluish sleep.

In the courtyard the farm boy slaughters a lamb, the sweet smell of the blood

Clouds our foreheads, the dark coolness of the fountain.

The gloom of dying asters regrets, golden voices in the wind.

When it becomes night you look at me from moldered eyes,

In blue stillness your cheeks decayed to dust.

So quietly a weed's fire expires, the black hamlet in the ground falls silent

As if the cross climbed down the blue hill of Calvary,

The silent earth ejected its dead.

poem by Georg Trakl
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Renunciation

ROSE of the desert of my heart,
Moon of the night that is my soul,
Thou can'st not know how sweet thou art,
Nor what wild tides thy beams control.

For all thy heart a garden is,
Thy soul is like a dawn of May.
And garden and dawn might both be his,
Who from them both must turn away.

Oh, garden of the Spring's delight!
Oh, dewy dawn of perfect noon!
I will not pluck thy roses white
Or warm thy May-time into June.

I can but bless thee, moon and rose,
And journey far and very far
To where the night no moonbeam shows,
To where no happy roses are!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Room

Whitewashed or panelled, filled with books, with light,
With flowers, with trifles sacred to the heart,
And work so pure and sweet that morning-dew
Might settle there and feel itself at home
As though 'mid garden fragrance; while the carol
Of birds streams through the window joyously,
Mistaking that abode of peace and love
For their own woodland haunts! And in that room
A woman's dainty hands ever at work,
A woman's loving heart ever awake
For others' happiness, a woman's thought
Alive in tender memories that embalm
The past in mute forgiveness. Enter then
As 'twere a sanctuary, lay aside
Thy load of care, and yield thy weary soul
To the deep sense of comfort reigning there.
Not many words--nay, not a single word--
Need tremble through the stillness, not a sigh
With untoward avowal break the peace
That folds thee to its heart and asks no question.
Such perfect peace pervades a room like this,
'Twould seem the raging storm, the roaring sea,
Might lay themselves to rest upon its threshold.
The ghosts that haunt it come in guise of angels,
With rosy finger-tips laid on their lips,
To hush our voices to the whispered tones
Of children's prayers. Enter, thou weary wanderer,
Enter! and have no fear, for pain and anguish
Have long been wept away, and have but left
Their precious perfume and the healing balm
Of self-forgetfulness to comfort thee!

poem by Carmen Sylva
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Walk on the Snow

It feels cold inside
when people cannot break the stillness
when human tongues revolve
around cars, TV and food
when the painful silence
is deep deep in the human heart.

I walk out of this coldness inside
away from the comforts and heating
installations in the house
away from the speed and heat of a car.

I simply walk on the field
looking at the vast space of emptiness
treading on the snow,
the snow that has
covered the grasses.

It gives me a deep sense of joy
that the walk to turn away
from coldness inside
becomes a walk with the Lord.
I walk with God on the snow.

Cars pass me by
Houses stand in the stillness
of their comforts.

I continue walking until
my exposed ears, hands and feet ache.
I walk with God on the snow
and I understand why people
fear the cold.

The Lord himself walks with me
on the snow and on the cold inside me
on the snow that covers the gound
on the snow that hurts and frightens.

But such a time of journeying
with God on the snow
becomes a cleansing and a healing
just as from the ground
the green will be reborn in spring.

poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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