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The Humble Man Prays

"A man who is truly humble cannot despair, because in the humble man there is no longer any such thing as self-pity." Thomas Merton

I am like this window
streaked with rain,
obscured by
blowing dust,
neglected
yet holding firm
against the wind.

I know
that some fine, clear day
you'll open
the door,
wipe my sins away
and clean at last
I'll dissolve
into your light.

poem by Steven Federle
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The Proud Man

The humble man receives praise the way a clean window takes
the light of the sun.' Thomas Merton
-
The proud man
is like a dirty window.

He cannot permit to pass
the morning's glory;

whereas the humble man
dissolves in the light
of the rising sun

like a freshly scrubbed window.

poem by Steven Federle
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The Masked Face

I found me in a great surging space,
At either end a door,
And I said: "What is this giddying place,
With no firm-fixéd floor,
That I knew not of before?"
"It is Life," said a mask-clad face.

I asked: "But how do I come here,
Who never wished to come;
Can the light and air be made more clear,
The floor more quietsome,
And the doors set wide? They numb
Fast-locked, and fill with fear."

The mask put on a bleak smile then,
And said, "O vassal-wight,
There once complained a goosequill pen
To the scribe of the Infinite
Of the words it had to write
Because they were past its ken."

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Fragment

At last I entered a long dark gallery,
Catacomb-lined; and ranged at the side
Were the bodies of men from far and wide
Who, motion past, were nevertheless not dead.

"The sense of waiting here strikes strong;
Everyone's waiting, waiting, it seems to me;
What are you waiting for so long? --
What is to happen?" I said.

"O we are waiting for one called God," said they,
"(Though by some the Will, or Force, or Laws;
And, vaguely, by some, the Ultimate Cause;)
Waiting for him to see us before we are clay.
Yes; waiting, waiting, for God to know it." ...

"To know what?" questioned I.
"To know how things have been going on earth and below it:
It is clear he must know some day."
I thereon asked them why.
"Since he made us humble pioneers
Of himself in consciousness of Life's tears,
It needs no mighty prophecy
To tell that what he could mindlessly show
His creatures, he himself will know.

"By some still close-cowled mystery
We have reached feeling faster than he,
But he will overtake us anon,
If the world goes on."

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Four Winds

"Four winds blowing through the sky,
You have seen poor maidens die,
Tell me then what I shall do
That my lover may be true."
Said the wind from out the south,
"Lay no kiss upon his mouth,"
And the wind from out the west,
"Wound the heart within his breast,"
And the wind from out the east,
"Send him empty from the feast,"
And the wind from out the north,
"In the tempest thrust him forth;
When thou art more cruel than he,
Then will Love be kind to thee."

poem by Sara Teasdale
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Hymn 87

God dwells with the humble and penitent.

Isa. 47:15,16.

Thus saith the high and lofty One:
"I sit upon my holy throne;
My name is God, I dwell on high,
Dwell in my own eternity.

"But I descend to worlds below,
On earth I have a mansion too;
The humble spirit and contrite
Is an abode of my delight.

"The humble soul my words revive,
I bid the mourning sinner live,
Heal all the broken hearts I find,
And ease the sorrows of the mind.

["When I contend against their sin,
I make them know how vile they've been;
But should my wrath for ever smoke,
Their souls would sink beneath my stroke."]

O may thy pard'ning grace be nigh,
Lest we should faint, despair, and die!
Thus shall our better thoughts approve
The methods of thy chast'ning love.

poem by Isaac Watts
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Vain Words

Humble, surely, mine ambition;
It is merely to construct
Some occasion or condition
When I may say "usufruct."

Ernest am I and assiduous;
Yet I'm certain that I shan't amount
To a lot till I use "viduous,"
"Indiscerptible," and "tantamount."

poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Lead "me" to "me

What is this place?
Where have I reached?
I stand infront
The mirror,
As a stranger
Stares back at me.
Do I know her?
Have we met before?
Why do I see in her traces of' me'?
Or is this…
The new ‘me"?
Do I like her?
Brazen she stands…
Her hair wind swept,
Her eyes, wild
No longer windows
To the divinity of her soul.
But her smile has
Traces of "me".
That strange
Devil in "me".
As I shudder in peril,
Where have I reached?
Its miles and miles of mist,
Paths untread,
Lonely beings.
But…
Its this mysterious "me"
Which terrifies my soul.
Did I ever want to be
"her"?
Do I have a choice?
Is it too late to decide,
Revert, run back?
Where did I lose the "me"
I was so proud about?
Pray, give me your magic hand
Do lead "me to"me"…
For without "you" holding "me"
I remain not even "me"
Daddy…
your little 'ai'is all lost
Please lead "me" to "me"….

poem by Anjali Kakati
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In the night

In the night
Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
And the peaks looked toward God alone.
"O Master that movest the wind with a finger,
Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
Grant that we may run swiftly across the world
To huddle in worship at Thy feet."

In the morning
A noise of men at work came the clear blue miles,
And the little black cities were apparent.
"O Master that knowest the meaning of raindrops,
Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,
That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun."

In the evening
The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.
"O Master,
Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds,
Thou hast made us humble, idle futile peaks.
Thou only needest eternal patience;
We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord --
Humble, idle, futile peaks."

In the night
Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
And the peaks looked toward God alone.

poem by Stephen Crane
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Wraith

"Thin Rain, whom are you haunting,
That you haunt my door?"
—Surely it is not I she's wanting;
Someone living here before—
"Nobody's in the house but me:
You may come in if you like and see."

Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,—
Have you seen her, any of you?—
Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind,
And the garden showing through?

Glimmering eyes,—and silent, mostly,
Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr,
Asking something, asking it over,
If you get a sound from her.—

Ever see her, any of you?—
Strangest thing I've ever known,—
Every night since I moved in,
And I came to be alone.

"Thin Rain, hush with your knocking!
You may not come in!
This is I that you hear rocking;
Nobody's with me, nor has been!"

Curious, how she tried the window,—
Odd, the way she tries the door,—
Wonder just what sort of people
Could have had this house before . . .

poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Thomas

Thomas knocked the secret code on the door
and immediately it swung open,
all of his friends were talking simultaneously.
"Thomas! Thomas, Mary spoke the truth,
He lives." But Thomas did not believe them.

"Unless I see the marks in His hands
and stick my fingers in his wounds,
I will not believe that He is living."
Only a week later while the group was gathered

Jesus appeared among them and said:
"Peace to you, " turning to Thomas
He said to him: "Take your fingers
and investigate my hands. Push
your hand into my side."

Thomas exclaimed: "My Master and my God! "
"You believe what your eyes have seen,
but blessed are those who believe
and hath not seen."

Thomas did never doubt Jesus again
and while visiting Calamina in India
Thomas destroyed an image of the sun god
that the people their were worshiping.

The priests caused their king to arrest him
and Thomas was sentenced
to be burned with red hot metal plates
and then to be cast

into a burning oven
but to their astonishment the fire
did not harm him and he was still
alive and well inside the oven

and in great anger the priests
of the sun god grabbed spears,
throwing them into Thomas
until they killed him.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No

Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."

poem by Michael Drayton
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Pity Me, Loo!

On the sunset borders of the mountains I stray,
Of a dear home dreaming 'yond the snow peaks far away,
While the bubbling brook beside me goes dancing along,
As it seeks the "Golden Gate" of the ocean blue;
And a lone bird murmurs in the bush-top his song--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

Tra la la la, la la la la
From mate to mate the carol rings:
Tra la la la, la la la la!
la la la la
A thousand valleys through;
Yet the lone bird sorrows as he plaintively sings--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

'Neath the rocks I'm treading there are treasures of gold,
But by far more precious is my own native mold.
Nevermore, in search of Beauty need Fancy take wings:
Here is beauty, here is grandeur, at ev'ry view;
Yet my heart grows heavy, and the lone bird still sings--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

In the green-clad valley where the wayward brook mends
There are homes most charming--there are warmhearted friends.
Lovely dell! it seems an Eden, afloat in mid-air,
As if God had sent from Heaven a creation new;
But its charm is broken, for my heart is not there--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

poem by Henry Clay Work
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At Lulworth Cove a Century Back

Had I but lived a hundred years ago
I might have gone, as I have gone this year,
By Warmwell Cross on to a Cove I know,
And Time have placed his finger on me there:

"You see that man?" -- I might have looked, and said,
"O yes: I see him. One that boat has brought
Which dropped down Channel round Saint Alban's Head.
So commonplace a youth calls not my thought."

"You see that man?" -- "Why yes; I told you; yes:
Of an idling town-sort; thin; hair brown in hue;
And as the evening light scants less and less
He looks up at a star, as many do."

"You see that man?" -- "Nay, leave me!" then I plead,
"I have fifteen miles to vamp across the lea,
And it grows dark, and I am weary-kneed:
I have said the third time; yes, that man I see!"

"Good. That man goes to Rome -- to death, despair;
And no one notes him now but you and I:
A hundred years, and the world will follow him there,
And bend with reverence where his ashes lie."

poem by Thomas Hardy
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The Shag

"What is that great bird, sister, tell me,
Perched high on the top of the crag?"
"'T is the cormorant, dear little brother;
The fishermen call it the shag."

"But what does it there, sister, tell me,
Sitting lonely against the black sky?"
"It has settled to rest, little brother;
It hears the wild gale wailing high."

"But I am afraid of it, sister,
For over the sea and the land
It gazes, so black and so silent!"
"Little brother, hold fast to my hand."

"Oh, what was that, sister? The thunder?
Did the shag bring the storm and the cloud,
The wind and the rain and the lightning?"
"Little brother, the thunder roars loud.

"Run fast, for the rain sweeps the ocean;
Look! over the light-house it streams;
And the lightning leaps red, and above us
The gulls fill the air with their screams."

O'er the beach, o'er the rocks, running swiftly,
The little white cottage they gain;
And safely they watch from the window
The dance and the rush of the rain.

But the shag kept his place on the headland,
And when the brief storm had gone by,
He shook his loose plumes, and they saw him
Rise splendid and strong in the sky.

Clinging fast to the gown of his sister,
The little boy laughed as he flew;
"He is gone with the wind and the lightning!
And -- I am not frightened, -- are you?"

poem by Celia Thaxter
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There was one I met upon the road

There was one I met upon the road
Who looked at me with kind eyes.
He said, "Show me of your wares."
And this I did,
Holding forth one.
He said, "It is a sin."
Then held I forth another;
He said, "It is a sin."
Then held I forth another;
He said, "It is a sin."
And so to the end;
Always he said, "It is a sin."
And, finally, I cried out,
"But I have none other."
Then did he look at me
With kinder eyes.
"Poor soul!" he said.

poem by Stephen Crane
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You Remember Ellen

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she bless'd her humble lot,
When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot.
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,
Till William, at length, in sadness said,
"We must seek our fortune on other plains;" --
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

They roam'd a long and a weary way,
Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,
When now, at close of one stormy day,
They see a proud castle among the trees.
"To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there;
The wind blows cold, the hour is late;"
So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,
And the porter bow'd, as they passd the gate.

"Now, welcome, Lady," exclaim'd the youth, --
"This castle is thine, and these dark woods all!"
She believed him crazed, but his words were truth,
For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall!
And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves
What William the stranger woo'd and wed;
And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,
Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.

poem by Thomas Moore
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Do Not Gaze into the Night

"We do not see the Blinding One in black emptiness. He speaks to us gently; His light is one fullness and one Wisdom." Thomas Merton

Do not gaze into the night.

He is not in the cold wind
tearing at tender leaves.

No, nor does He live
on the mountain of thunder

nor on the crashing shore
where the surf pounds
time on rocks as old
rhythm itself;

You'll not
find Him
in the piercing cries
of the children
of Syria;

but in your own
brilliant darkness
washed clean
by your tears

there you will find Him:
gentle, and full,
and wise.

poem by Steven Federle
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The Egg-Shell

The wind took off with the sunset--
The fog came up with the tide,
When the Witch of the North took an Egg-shell
With a little Blue Devil inside.
"Sink," she said, "or swim," she said,
"It's all you will get from me.
And that is the finish of him!" she said
And the Egg-shell went to sea.

The wind fell dead with the midnight--
The fog shut down like a sheet,
When the Witch of the North heard the Egg-shell
Feeling by hand for a fleet.
"Get!" she said, "or you're gone," she said.,
But the little Blue Devil said "No!
"The sights are just coming on," he said,
And he let the Whitehead go.

The wind got up with the morning--
The fog blew off with the rain,
When the Witch of the North saw the Egg-shell
And the little Blue Devil again.
"Did you swim?" she said. "Did you sink?" she said,
And the little Blue Devil replied:
"For myself I swam, but I think," he said,
"There's somebody sinking outside."

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Heriot's Ford

"What's that that hirples at my side?"
The foe that you must fight, my lord.
"That rides as fast as I can ride?"
The shadow of your might, my lord.

"Then wheel my horse against the foe!"
He's down and overpast, my lord.
You war against the sunset-glow,
The judgment follows fast, my lord!

"Oh, who will stay the sun's descent?"
King Joshua he is dead, my lord.
"I need an hour to repent!"
'Tis what our sister said, my lord.

"Oh, do not slay me in my sins!"
You're safe awhile with us, my lord.
"Nay, kill me ere my fear begins!"
We would not serve you thus, my lord.

"Where is the doom that I must face?"
Three little leagues away, my lord.
"Then mend the horses' laggard pace!"
We need them for next day, my lord.

"Next day--next day! Unloose my cords!"
Our sister needed none, my lord.
You had no mind to face our swords,
And--where can cowards run, my lord?

"You would not kill the soul alive?"
'Twas thus our sister cried, my lord.
"I dare not die with none to shrive."
But so our sister died, my lord.

"Then wipe the sweat from brow and cheek."
It runnels forth afresh, my lord.
"Uphold me--for the flesh is weak."
You've finished with the Flesh, my lord!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Sorceress!

I asked her, "Is Aladdin's lamp
Hidden anywhere?"
"Look into your heart," she said,
"Aladdin's lamp is there."

She took my heart with glowing hands.
It burned to dust and air
And smoke and rolling thistledown
Blowing everywhere.

"Follow the thistledown," she said,
"Till doomsday, if you dare,
Over the hills and far away.
Aladdin's lamp is there."

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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