Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Memories and Some Sartorial Splendour
Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final end of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood
That nothing walks with aimless feet
That not one life shall be destroyed
Or cast as rubbish to the void
When God hath made the pile complete
That not one worm is cloven in vain
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shriveled in a fruitless fire
Nor but subserves another’s gain.
Behold, we know not anything
I can but trust that good will fall
At last—far off—at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.
So runs my dream; but what am I?
An infant crying in the night;
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language but a cry.
As you must have guessed, that's Christopher and me, his big sister, in the photo above, sometime in the very late 50s. My print is not the original but a copy made when Mom and Dad were sorting through photo files in the approach to Dad's demise -- he was so good about having things in order before he left us. But it's my Mom's schoolteacher printing on the back that identifies the two of us. . . .losses folded into losses, but also joys and blessings and memories. . . . And how can't you love a photo of a red-wheeled turquoise wagon carring a little boy in a shiny green snowsuit?
*Memorizing Poetry is a new project of mine -- trying to aim at one a week, but we'll see how it goes. . .