A Shropshire Lad: XXXII
By A. E. Housman
From far, from eve and morning
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me
Blew hither: here am I.
Now—for a breath I tarry
Nor yet disperse apart—
Take my hand quick and tell me
What have you in your heart.
Speak now, and I will answer;
How shall I help you, say;
Ere to the wind’s twelve quarters
I take my endless way.
Whew! It’s March and a burst of spring sunshine today betrayed the nearly foot of fresh snow of the past week, melting it rapidly. March is the month of muddy foot prints on kitchen floors in Minnesota. The earth comes out of its frozen slumber wet and slimy, attaching itself to everything with which it comes into contact, reminding us that the ubiquitous stubbornness of clay and organic matter is the very stuff from which new life springs. The beauty of spring flowers doesn’t come from April showers, it comes from the black muck that holds the nutrients that feed beauty.
It’s time to move on into more playful fare in this blog. I used the month of February to stray into history and politics, probably wearing everyone out, temporarily avoiding the true reason for starting this blog; the exploration of poetry as a mirror by which love is reflected. Love is a complicated thing. I’m lucky. I have had good role models for love my entire life, by those around me and those that have been gracious enough to love me. I hope love continues to teach this old dog a few more new tricks.
Fourteen Lines 