Saturday, March 8, 2014

Saturday, March 8, 2014


Sad is my lot; among the shining spheres 
Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night, 
And ever, in my never-ending flight, 
Add woes to woes, and count up tears on tears. 
Young wives’ and new-born infants’ hapless biers 
Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight; 
Fresh griefs abhor my fresh returning light; 
Pain and remorse and want fill up my years. 
My happier children’s farther-piercing eyes 
Into the blessed solvent future climb, 
And knit the threads of joy and hope and warning; 
But I, the ancient mother, am not wise, 
And, shut within the blind obscure of time, 
Roll on from morn to night, and on from night to morning.

— William Roscoe (born March 8, 1753)

Prayer From Correspondences

O thou Spirit of Truth; visit our minds once more!
Give us to read, in letters of light, the language celestial,
Written all over the earth — written all over the sky:
Thus may we bring our hearts at length to know our Creator,
Seeing in all things around types of the Infinite Mind.

Christopher Pearse Cranch (born March 8, 1813)

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