Saturday, April 25, 2015

Poem of the Week

In light of the spring season, I thought I would post a poem about the dawn of spring by Louisa May Alcott:

TO THE FIRST ROBIN

by: Louisa May Alcott (1832-1888)

Welcome, welcome, little stranger,
Fear no harm, and fear no danger;
We are glad to see you here,
For you sing "Sweet Spring is near."
 
Now the white snow melts away;
Now the flowers blossom gay:
Come dear bird and build your nest,
For we love our robin best.




Saturday, April 18, 2015

Louisa May Alcott

I was looking over some quotes by Louisa May Alcott the other day--the wonderful author who wrote Little Women, Little Men, Jo's Boys, and many other great works.  I think it is important to listen and consider yesterday's classic writers, because they gave so much to the world of literature.  Where would I be had I not read Little Women, Black Beauty, or the tales of Huckleberry Finn when I was child?  Truly, my imagination would not have been stretched, and my love of books would not be where it is today.

I love some of her very stark quotes, such as:  "I like good strong words that mean something..."  Those that have critiqued and edited my work have demonstrated this quote, because they will alter certain words within my writing.  I confess that this has always bothered me, because the word they would change it to would be the synonym of the word I had already written.  However, their word was usually better, because it was stronger.  And it powerfully clarified what I was trying to say.  So as Alcott already stated, stronger words are better.

And one of her best quotes that I read was:  "I'd rather take coffee than compliments just now."  :)  



Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Poem of the Week



The Letter
by Charlotte Bronte

What is she writing? Watch her now,
How fast her fingers move!
How eagerly her youthful brow
Is bent in thought above!
Her long curls, drooping, shade the light,
She puts them quick aside,
Nor knows that band of crystals bright,
Her hasty touch untied.
It slips adown her silken dress,
Falls glittering at her feet;
Unmarked it falls, for she no less
Pursues her labour sweet.


The very loveliest hour that shines,
Is in that deep blue sky;
The golden sun of June declines,
It has not caught her eye.
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate,
The white road, far away,
In vain for her light footsteps wait,
She comes not forth to-day.
There is an open door of glass
Close by that lady's chair,
From thence, to slopes of messy grass,
Descends a marble stair.


Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom
Around the threshold grow;
Their leaves and blossoms shade the room
From that sun's deepening glow.
Why does she not a moment glance
Between the clustering flowers,
And mark in heaven the radiant dance
Of evening's rosy hours?
O look again! Still fixed her eye,
Unsmiling, earnest, still,
And fast her pen and fingers fly,
Urged by her eager will.


Her soul is in th'absorbing task;
To whom, then, doth she write?
Nay, watch her still more closely, ask
Her own eyes' serious light;
Where do they turn, as now her pen
Hangs o'er th'unfinished line?
Whence fell the tearful gleam that then
Did in their dark spheres shine?
The summer-parlour looks so dark,
When from that sky you turn,
And from th'expanse of that green park,
You scarce may aught discern.


Yet, o'er the piles of porcelain rare,
O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase,
Sloped, as if leaning on the air,
One picture meets the gaze.
'Tis there she turns; you may not see
Distinct, what form defines
The clouded mass of mystery
Yon broad gold frame confines.
But look again; inured to shade
Your eyes now faintly trace
A stalwart form, a massive head,
A firm, determined face.


Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek
A brow high, broad, and white,
Where every furrow seems to speak
Of mind and moral might.
Is that her god? I cannot tell;
Her eye a moment met
Th'impending picture, then it fell
Darkened and dimmed and wet.
A moment more, her task is done,
And sealed the letter lies;
And now, towards the setting sun
She turns her tearful eyes.


Those tears flow over, wonder not,
For by the inscription see
In what a strange and distant spot
Her heart of hearts must be!
Three seas and many a league of land
That letter must pass o'er,
Ere read by him to whose loved hand
'Tis sent from England's shore.
Remote colonial wilds detain
Her husband, loved though stern;
She, 'mid that smiling English scene,
Weeps for his wished return.



Saturday, April 11, 2015

Definitely :)

"You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me."

                                  ~C.S. Lewis~


Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Quote for the Day

"Literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disfranchised. No barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourse of my book-friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness."

                                                                                     ~ Helen Keller ~




Saturday, April 4, 2015

Happy Easter!!



Peter Cottontail

by
Beatrix Potter

 
Here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity, hoppity,
Easter's on its way.
Bringin' every girl and boy Baskets full of Easter joy,
Things to make your Easter bright and gay.
He's got jelly beans for Tommy,
Colored eggs for sister Sue,
There's an orchid for your Mommy
And an Easter bonnet, too.
Oh, here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity, hoppity,
Happy Easter day.
Here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Look at him stop,
And listen to him say:
"Try to do the things you should."
Maybe if you're extra good,
He'll roll lots of Easter eggs your way.
You'll wake up on Easter morning
And you'll know that he was there
When you find those choc'late bunnies
That he's hiding ev'rywhere.
Oh, here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity, hoppity,
Happy Easter day.


Beatrix Potter (1866 -1943) was an English author and illustrator.