Campfires, Cabins, and Woods

This morning I am headed off to camp. Every year (since my 7th. grade year) my school has held a camp the first week of school as a time of fellowship, fun, and generally getting all hot and bothered. But the basic premise is that you are all getting all hot and bothered, soaked by the occasional summer rainshower, etc. etc. etc. together. It gives the kids a chance to get to know each other and their teachers in a way that would not be possible simply sitting in a classroom. So, I am going as a counselor for the 7th. grade girls and am looking forward to it.


And so, I leave you with another poem from my little book.


The Song of the Children
by G.K. Chesterton


The World is ours till sunset,
Holly and fire and snow;
And the name of our dead bother
Who loved us long ago.


The grown folk mighty and cunning,
They write his name in gold
But we can tell a little
Of the million tales he told.


He taught them laws and watchwords,
To preach and struggle and pray;
But he taught us deep in the hayfield
The games that angels play.


Had he stayed here for ever.
Their world would be wise as ours -
And the king be cutting the capers
And the priest be picking flowers.


But the dark day came: they gathered:
On their faces we could see
They had taken and slain our brother,
And hanged him on a tree.

Though I've Been Gone...

So, I've been gone for a very long time again. Once I returned from England things got a little bit crazy. Actually, life just happened. So, there.


One book in particular that I bought in Cambridge has been the subject of my attention lately. It is entitled, All Day Long: An anthology of poetry for children. The book was compiled by Pamela Whitlock, and is a wonderful compilation. The poetry is by such authors as Chesterton, Belloc, Frost, Kipling, Tennyson, Wordsworth, Carroll, Yeats, and many, many more. In the introduction to the book, Whitlock states:


It is the moments of excitement that everyday things turn into poetry. Ordinary people like you and me can recognize these moments; here there gone; but try as we do to catch them, they always slip away. It is only the poets, who, in their craftily chosen words and rhythms, can make traps and spring them round some of the best and most elusive things. But we can, by just reading or listening, let out again for ourselves from their lines of excitements that we feared had vanished for ever.


The poems and verses in this book have been chosen because in each there lies - or so it seemed to me - some exciting thing. You may not, when you first come to each entry, always recognize it. Words must mean slightly different things to each one of us, and different emotions fit into different lives. But an anthology is an easy hopscotch ground and you can quickly skip on to something that does excite you. One another day you may come back to the same book and find yourself jumping through it on quite different stones.
Poetry cannot be kept neatly inside a book or even to certain hours of the day. Prey for poets lies about everywhere in all our mowst ordinary days. Any moment an amazement may easily turn up. So this book is arranged in the shape of a whole day...


All Day Long is only the beginning of an anthology. More than anything it could be called a collection of gaps. To fill these you must move swiftly on to more comprehensive, more wisely compiled volumes, and to each poet's own works. To make you want to explore further, to hint at what is to be found, is what this book, may do. You will not like all of it. When you leave it behind, take with you just those poems that have pleased and excited you. It is with these that you will be able to start the only anthology that would have delight breaking out for you on every single page; the one that you make yourself. It could be much bigger and better than this. It could be a most marvelous book. This, then, is only a beginning.


Thus, this book, though I am not interested by everything that this book contains (which I think should not be the case anyway, what we don't like is always a good balance to what we do), this book has enthralled me. So for a little while you will be reading some of the findings from this book. So for tonight, this poem is from The Sleep, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.


Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this -
'He giveth His beloved sleep'?


What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown, to light the brows? -
'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'