The Canticle of Brother Sun

A poem by St. Francis of Assisi:

Most High, Omnipotent, Good Lord,
Thine be the praises, the glory, and the honor and every blessing.

To Thee alone, Most High, do they belong
and no man is worthy to mention Thee.

May Thou be praised, my Lord, with all Thy creatures,
especially mister brother sun,
of whom is the day, and Thou enlightens us through him.

And he is beautiful and radiant with a great splendor,
of Thee, Most High, does he convey the meaning

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for sister moon and the stars,
in heaven Thou has made them clear and precious and beautiful

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for brother wind,
and for the air and the cloudy and the clear weather and every weather, through which to all Thy creatures Thou gives sustenance

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for sister water,
who is very useful and humble and precious and chaste

May Thou be praised, my lord, for brother fire,
through whom Thou illumines the night,
and he is handsome and jocund and robust and strong

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for our sister, mother earth,
who sustains us and governs,
and produces various fruits with colored flowers and green plants

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for those who forgive for the sake of Thy love,
and endure infirmity and tribulation

Blessed those who endure them in peace,
because by Thee, Most High, will they be crowned

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for our sister, bodily death,
whom no man living can escape

Woe to those, who die in mortal sin:
blessed those whom she will find in Thy most holy desires,
because the second death will do them no evil

Praise and bless my Lord,
and give Him thanks and serve Him with great humility!

Tags: poetry, St Francis of Assisi

7 comments May 2nd, 2008

Peace

A poem by Rupert Brooke:

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart’s long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

Tags: poetry, Rupert Brooke

6 comments May 1st, 2008

On Being Human

A poem by C S Lewis:

Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.

The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth’s salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves’ fall and rising sap;

But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.

They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang –can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.

The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf’s billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.

Far richer they! I know the senses’ witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb’d sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.

Tags: C S Lewis, poetry

1 comment April 30th, 2008

To The Bottle I Go

A poem by J R R Tolkien:

Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go
To heal my heart and drown my woe.
Rain may fall and wind may blow,
And many miles be still to go
But under a tall tree I will lie,
And let the clouds go sailing by.

Tags: J R R Tolkien, poetry

2 comments April 29th, 2008

The Ballad of the Anti-Puritan

A poem by G K Chesterton:

They spoke of Progress spiring round,
Of light and Mrs Humphrey Ward–
It is not true to say I frowned,
Or ran about the room and roared;
I might have simply sat and snored–
I rose politely in the club
And said, `I feel a little bored;
Will someone take me to a pub?’

The new world’s wisest did surround
Me; and it pains me to record
I did not think their views profound,
Or their conclusions well assured;
The simple life I can’t afford,
Besides, I do not like the grub–
I want a mash and sausage, `scored’–
Will someone take me to a pub?

I know where Men can still be found,
Anger and clamorous accord,
And virtues growing from the ground,
And fellowship of beer and board,
And song, that is a sturdy cord,
And hope, that is a hardy shrub,
And goodness, that is God’s last word–
Will someone take me to a pub?

Envoi

Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword
To see the sort of knights you dub–
Is that the last of them–O Lord
Will someone take me to a pub?

Tags: G K Chesterton, poetry

1 comment April 28th, 2008

American Crust

A poem by R.S. Gwynn:

We upper-crust must be discussed
In deferential accents.
We want not, waste, exhibit taste,
Possess exquisite tax-sense.
In France’s terror we were there,
Our necks outstretched for ax-mince,
But here our dough’s so long-ago
We’ve mostly been relaxed since.

We middle-crust of course are just
(Between two poles) the middle.
We see the pie up in the sky
And want our slice, but it’ll
Take more than faith (the Profit saith)
For we to solve the riddle.
In short, a lot of us are not
Content with second fiddle.

Us lower-crust are full of lust
For wrestling, beer, and Nascar.
We live on crumbs but spend big sums
To find where bigger bass are.
If you like books we’ll hate your looks
(That’s what we’ll kick your ass for).
Our necks are red—must be inbred.
Who says there ain’t no class war?

HAT TIP: First Things

Tags: poetry, R S Gwynn

April 27th, 2008