No, the MamaM has something different to post. Some Frost for the chickelit. A poem she came upon today that put her in mind of the pollo.
Choose Something Like a Star
by Robert Frost - 1947
O Star (the fairest one in sight), We grant your loftiness the right To some obscurity of cloud -- It will not do to say of night, Since dark is what brings out your light. Some mystery becomes the proud. But to be wholly taciturn In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn By heart and when alone repeat. Say something! And it says "I burn." But say with what degree of heat. Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade. Use language we can comprehend. Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid, But does tell something in the end. And steadfast as Keats' Eremite, Not even stooping from its sphere, It asks a little of us here. It asks of us a certain height, So when at times the mob is swayed To carry praise or blame too far, We may choose something like a star To stay our minds on and be staid.
The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia.
But we were England's, still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weak. Until we found out that it was ourselves We were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outright (The deed of gift was many deeds of war) To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced, Such as she was, such as she would become.
One of Frost's great lines, IMO. Of course you don't have to see an image but I always see ridge after ridge of an Appalachian chain, say the Great Smoky Mountains, paling into the distance.
I hate Sarah Jessica Parker, Robin Williams, Tim Robbins, Susan Saradon, the BJ Hunnicut guy, brussel sprouts, the Boston Red Sox, commies and well, lawyers.
12 comments:
Isn't it about time for another Warren Report then?
An ideal time for a Warren Report?
No, the MamaM has something different to post. Some Frost for the chickelit. A poem she came upon today that put her in mind of the pollo.
Choose Something Like a Star
by Robert Frost - 1947
O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud --
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says "I burn."
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.
Nuts...Chickelit got there First!
But the poem is still good...Consider it MamaM's valentine for chickens.
Play nice - as if!
Where and when are you opening your second store?
"Secret agent man. Secret Agent man. They've given you a number and taken away your name."
...With every move he makes another chance he takes...
That was mighty sweet of you to post that Frost poem MamaM. I thank you
The land was ours before we were the land's.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia.
But we were England's, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak.
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.
To the land vaguely realizing westward...
One of Frost's great lines, IMO. Of course you don't have to see an image but I always see ridge after ridge of an Appalachian chain, say the Great Smoky Mountains, paling into the distance.
As a corrective to my last post: Trooper's saying be nice doesn't mean we have to be fucking staid! Sheesh.
nice doesn't mean we have to be fucking staid!
Burn with flare
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