Thursday, October 20, 2011

Morning post

This post is special for me because this is the first one written from my new home. 
In the darkness of the early morning, looking at the trains speeding past my balcony, seeing the blur of  the lights from the bogies, I stood wondering where those trains were heading to, the cities they would pass, the places and people it would come across. I thought of  those people who had to catch the early morning train to get to work or perhaps back home. In the darkness the world was slowly coming to life, facing each days story as it unfolded itself.
Being in the mood to embark on an inner journey myself,  I set out to read some poems, and here are some poems that caught my attention this morning. Tell me, what do you think?

What better way than to begin with this one,

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 by William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

And I liked this one too,

by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
    Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
    From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
    A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
    You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
   Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
   They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
   Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
   Yea, beds for all who come.

Or these, that carry the the soft tread of Dreams.

by Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

I enjoyed reading these poems that I found here and now, as I type two kites soar into the morning sky, rising high above our world in an effortless glide.
Have a great morning!:)
A small request to all those who pass this way, I would love to read what you think. So, friends, do write your comments for me.   

1 comment:

  1. I sit/stand in my garden and watch the many planes in the sky and wonder where they are going and who is in them, just like you with the trains.


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