nature

Thinking Out Loud: There’s Always Some Beauty Nearby

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In July, 1942, Anne Frank’s parents received a summons from the Nazi’s to report to a labor camp. Instead, they went to a secret annex to hide from Nazi’s. Thirteen year old Anne Frank remained there until her arrest on August 4, 1944, deported and eventually killed. Anne Frank maintained a diary while in the secret annex. The following excerpt is taken from Anne Frank’s diary.

“I’ve found that there is always some beauty left — in nature, sunshine, freedom, in yourself; these can all help you.” ~ Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl

NOTE: I went for a walk this evening. The sun was beginning to set. A beautiful sunset was beginning to form. A short distance later I saw a neighbors yard with gold and purple pansies (It’s January and in south Texas we have flowers year round). A mockingbird was sitting on a low tree branch  keeping an eye on me. And a friend sent me a photo of her snow covered yard. It was all beautiful. Anne Frank was right, There is always some beauty left. It’s up to us to slow our minds down and discover what was always there. They help to get us centered and bring a sense of peace.

The Stars Are Mansions Built By Nature’s Hand ~ A Poem by William Wordsworth

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The Stars Are Mansions Built By Nature’s Hand

William Wordsworth

THE stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand,
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest
Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest;
Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand,
A habitation marvellously planned,
For life to occupy in love and rest;
All that we see–is dome, or vault, or nest,
Or fortress, reared at Nature’s sage command.
Glad thought for every season! but the Spring
Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart,
‘Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring;
And while the youthful year’s prolific art–
Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower–was fashioning
Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part.

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I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud ~ A Poem by William Wordsworth

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I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

William Wordsworth

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

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Today’s Poem: Contentment by Oliver Wendell Holmes

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Contentment by Oliver Wendell Holmes

“Man wants but little here below.”

LITTLE I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own;
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;–
If Nature can subsist on three,
Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice;–
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;–
Give me a mortgage here and there,–
Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share,–
I only ask that Fortune send
A little more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,–
But only near St. James;
I’m very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator’s chair.

Jewels are baubles; ‘t is a sin
To care for such unfruitful things;–
One good-sized diamond in a pin,–
Some, not so large, in rings,–
A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me;–I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire;
(Good, heavy silks are never dear;) –
I own perhaps I might desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere,–
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait–two forty-five–
Suits me; I do not care;–
Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians aud Raphaels three or four,–
I love so much their style and tone,
One Turner, and no more,
(A landscape,–foreground golden dirt,–
The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few,–some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;–
Some little luxury there
Of red morocco’s gilded gleam
And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,–such things as these,
Which others often show for pride,
I value for their power to please,
And selfish churls deride;–
One Stradivarius, I confess,
Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth’s wasteful tricks I will not learn,
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;–
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?
Give grasping pomp its double share,–
I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas’ golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,–
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!

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Full Moon – A Poem by Tu Fu

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Full Moon by Tu Fu

Above the tower — a lone, twice-sized moon.
On the cold river passing night-filled homes,
It scatters restless gold across the waves.
On mats, it shines richer than silken gauze.

Empty peaks, silence: among sparse stars,
Not yet flawed, it drifts. Pine and cinnamon
Spreading in my old garden . . . All light,
All ten thousand miles at once in its light!

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Today’s Inspiring Photo: Build Peace Wherever You Are

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A smile is the beginning of peace. – Mother Teresa

The Early Morning, A Poem by Hilaire Belloc

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The Early Morning by Hilaire Belloc

The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:
The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.
The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.
My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.

A Seed – A Poem by William Allingham

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A Seed 

William Allingham

See how a Seed, which Autumn flung down,
And through the Winter neglected lay,
Uncoils two little green leaves and two brown,
With tiny root taking hold on the clay
As, lifting and strengthening day by day,
It pushes red branchless, sprouts new leaves,
And cell after cell the Power in it weaves
Out of the storehouse of soil and clime,
To fashion a Tree in due course of time;
Tree with rough bark and boughs’ expansion,
Where the Crow can build his mansion,
Or a Man, in some new May,
Lie under whispering leaves and say,
“Are the ills of one’s life so very bad
When a Green Tree makes me deliciously glad?”
As I do now. But where shall I be
When this little Seed is a tall green Tree?

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To Morning ~ A Poem by William Blake

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To Morning 

William Blake

O holy virgin! clad in purest white,
Unlock heav’n’s golden gates, and issue forth;
Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light
Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring
The honey’d dew that cometh on waking day.
O radiant morning, salute the sun
Rous’d like a huntsman to the chase, and with
Thy buskin’d feet appear upon our hills.

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Today’s Inspiring Photo: Embrace Life’s Beauty, It’s All Around You

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