A Poem for Sunday: The Conqueror Worm by Edgar Allan Poe

Image credit: roystudio / 123RF Stock Photo

Image credit: roystudio / 123RF Stock Photo

Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

    A Poem for Sunday: End of Summer by Stanley Kunitz

    Image credit: alesss / 123RF Stock Photo

    End of Summer by Stanley Kunitz

    An agitation of the air,
    A perturbation of the light
    Admonished me the unloved year
    Would turn on its hinge that night.

    I stood in the disenchanted field
    Amid the stubble and the stones
    Amaded, while a small worm lisped to me
    The song of my marrow-bones.

    Blue poured into summer blue,
    A hawk broke from his cloudless tower,
    The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew
    That part of my life was forever over.

    Already the iron door of the North
    Clangs open: birds,leaves,snows
    Order their populations forth,
    And a cruel wind blows.


      A Poem for Sunday: "Where the Sidewalk Ends"


      "Where the Sidewalk Ends" by Shel Silverstein

      There is a place where the sidewalk ends
      And before the street begins,
      And there the grass grows soft and white,
      And there the sun burns crimson bright,
      And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
      To cool in the peppermint wind.

      Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
      And the dark street winds and bends.
      Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
      We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
      And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
      To the place where the sidewalk ends.

      Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
      And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
      For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
      The place where the sidewalk ends.
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