A book of verses underneath the bough, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread-and thou.
A book of verses underneath the bough, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread-and thou.
The customs and fashions of men change like leaves on the bough, some of which go and others come.
The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the prophets two or three berries
In the top of the uppermost bough.
Joseph is a fruitful bough, even a fruitful bough by a well whose branches run over the wall The archers have sorely grieved him, and shot at him, and hated him But his bow abode in strength, and the arms of his hands were made strong by the hands of the mighty God of Jacob (from thence is the shepherd, the stone of Israel) Even by the God of thy father, who shall help thee and by the Almighty, who shall bless thee with blessings of heaven above, blessings of the deep that lieth under, blessings of the breasts, and of the womb The blessings of thy father have prevailed above the blessings of my progenitors unto the utmost bound of the everlasting hills they shall be on the head of Joseph, and on the crown of the head of him that was separate from his brethren.
I sing the first green leaf upon the bough, The tiny kindling flame of emerald fire, The stir amid the roots of reeds, and how The sap will flush the briar.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days-
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide.
All life is figured by them as a Tree. Igdrasil, the Ash-tree of existence, has its roots deep-down in the kingdoms of Death its trunk reaches up heaven-high, spreads its boughs over the whole Universe it is the Tree of Existence. At the foot of it, in the Death-Kingdom, sit the three Fates - the Past, Present and Future watering its roots from the Sacred Well. It's 'bough,' with their buddings and disleafings, - events, things suffered, things done, catastrophes, - stretch through all lands and times. Is not every leaf of it a biography, every fiber there an act or word Its boughs are the Histories of Nations. The rustle of it is the noise of Human Existence, onwards from of old.... I find no similitude so true as this of a Tree. Beautiful altogether beautiful and great.
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.
Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.
Rock-a-bye-baby on the tree top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock, When the bough bend the cradle will fall, Down comes the baby, cradle and all.
Fig tree, how long it's been full meaning for me, the way you almost entirely omit to flower and into the seasonablyresolute fruit uncelebratedly thrust your purest secret. Like the tube of a fountain, your bent bough drives the sap downwards and up and it leaps from its sleep, scarce waking, into the joy of its sweetest achievement.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough; Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse -- and Thou; Beside me singing in the Wilderness --And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories