Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.
Poetry: Coleridge – On Donne’s Poetry
With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots,Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots;Rhyme's sturdy cripple, fancy's maze and clue,Wit's forge and fire-blast, meaning's press and screw. Here we find two brilliant poets wrapped into one poem. This poem is both highly amusing to me and quite intriguing. The more I look at, the more I love …
Poetry: Milton – On Shakespeare
What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,The labor of an age in pilèd stones,Or that his hallowed relics should be hidUnder a star-ypointing pyramid?Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame,What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?Thou in our wonder and astonishmentHast built thyself a live-long monument.For whilst to th’ shame of …
One year of Where the Moss Grows Old
To be fair, I'm celebrating this first anniversary a little bit late. But Holy Week took precedence! But even without a new baby and one of the highlights of the Church Year, this date sort of snuck up on me. I had been thinking about my book as I've been writing poetry over the last …
Poetry: Keble – Good Friday
"Wash me, and dry these bitter tears, O let my heart no further roam, ’Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears. Long since—O call Thy wanderer home; To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side, Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide."