A Poem for Sunday: I Remember, I Remember by Thomas Hood

Mom says that now she is up there in years (83-years young), she is remembering things from her childhood that she had long forgotten. It is so enjoyable and uplifting to hear stories of her youth during a totally different era…especially since so many in her age range have the opposite problem and can’t remember much. We are truly blessed! This morning she started reciting “I Remember, I Remember,” which she learned in school when she was a girl at school and I thought I would share it with you today. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="500"]A kitchen in an abandoned home in Bodie, California A kitchen in an abandoned home in Bodie, California - Smithsonian Magazine[/caption] I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away. I remember, I remember The roses red and white, The violets and the lily cups— Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, The summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now ‘tis little joy To know I’m farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.

A Poem for Sunday: "Hope" is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson

[caption id="" align="alignnone" width="332"]Hooded Warbler Singing Hooded Warbler Singing by BackpackingBirder, on Flickr[/caption] “Hope” is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all— And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard— And sore must be the storm— That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm— I’ve heard it in the chillest land— And on the strangest Sea— Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb—of Me.