Saturday, March 8, 2014

Earth

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)