The Gypsy and the Wind (Federico Garcia Lorca Poem)
Playing her parchment moon Precosia comes along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights. The starless silence, fleeing from ...
Playing her parchment moon Precosia comes along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights. The starless silence, fleeing from ...
1903 Lived a woman wonderful, (May the Lord amend her!) Neither simple, kind, nor true, But her Pagan beauty drew ...
Spring quickly growing alive in the water the weeks of rain infusing all the land with color the softness of ...
images, little symbols of our faith, from the very beginning hung reverently, upon the tree amid the lights, saints, the ...
The colors replaced the browns, the yellows, the autumn, earthy harvest decorations giving way, changing to the greens and reds, ...
A circle of wire, of wood, of metal garland of ivy, of fir, of holly, of poinsettias unending love, stages ...
Coming to this place to the sanctuary, the manger bed a journey of Mary, of Joseph, of the shepherds, the ...
The red of His blood, the green of hope, for us of the promise of the sheltered valley our future ...
A Christmas prayer, an Advent prayer, lifted up to your, oh my Lord that your spirit would descend on each ...
The calendar marks the beginning the start of a new season of life a warming of the world, my part ...
in the dimly lit Sanctuary, the Chancel ready for the Choir's rehearsal aglow and adorned pausing to notice the manger, ...
Out back, behind the yard in the brush and scrub at the edge a world unfolds for those willing to ...
Long dormant carpet of grey, of brown parched and pending poised for an awakening showers and warming a bursting of ...
The Oriole sings in the greening grove As if he were half-way waiting, The rosebuds peep from their hoods of ...
The mist has left the greening plain, The dew-drops shine like fairy rain, The coquette rose awakes again Her lovely ...
What scene would I want to be enveloped in more than this one, an ordinary night at the kitchen table, ...
I know a mountain thrilling to the stars, Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow; Glimpsing the golden dawn o'er ...
I I took the clock down from the shelf; "At eight," said I, "I shoot myself." It lacked a minute ...
Across the land a faint blue veil of mist Seems hung; the woods wear yet arrayment sober Till frost shall ...
I Flat as a drum-head stretch the haggard snows; The mighty skies are palisades of light; The stars are blurred; ...
Back, in my fifties, fatter that I was then, I step on the sand, belch down slight horror to walk ...
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