Psalm 46 by Dennis Allen Lange

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*See note below the poem after reading it.

2 We shall not fear though earth should shake and shift,
…And though the mountains slide into the sea.
3 The waves may foam and stars, of sudden, drift,
5 But we shall dwell immoveable and free.

6 The kingdoms totter and the nations roar;
9 The bow and spear advance with chariots.
7 But we shall be secure forevermore,
…E’en if we had no walls and lived in huts.

4 The city of God’s dwelling place is fed
…By waters from His river flowing pure.
8 He rains just desolations on the head
…Of sinful men, but makes our safety sure.

1 God is our refuge, strength, to whom we plead;
…A very present help in time of need.

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I’ve written all of Psalms and Proverbs in poetry that rhymes and has rhythm.  The book will be available at Amazon before Christmas.  If you’re interested (and have not already said so),  let me know in the comments.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

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Storm Fear by Robert Frost

When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lower-chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
“Come out! Come out!” –
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length –
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away,
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether ‘tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided.

 

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The Light Of Stars by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

         The Light Of Stars

The night is come, but not too soon;
   And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon
   Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven
   But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given
   To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love?
   The star of love and dreams?
Oh no! from that blue tent above
   A hero’s armor gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
    When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,
    The shield of that red star. 

O star of strength! I see thee stand
   And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
   And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light
   But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
   To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will,
   He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
   And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art,
   That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
   Be resolute and calm. 

Oh, fear not in a world like this,
    And thou shalt know erelong,
Know how sublime a thing it is
   To suffer and be strong.

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The Library by Dennis Lange

The fearless, fair-haired youth go racing by
To beat the sun with their eternal play;
Ignoring all the volumes as they sit
On shelves, made dusty by the ancient day.

But if they pause to look within the door,
Tis brief, for volumes do not speak with rap,
Nor beer commercials with seductiveness.
Instead, they stand or lean, and seem to nap.

Philosophy and history there dwell
As tenants, with a monthly rent long paid
By labor in the decades of the past,
And speak of Time, not black, or white, but grayed.

A smattering of math and arts reside
By politics in its disgraceful cave.
A button brings the turning of a tune –
A play-by-play of athletes in the grave.

Outranking all the facts that dwell within
Is Wisdom, treasured for her pillared strength,
Who, in the living of the testing years,
Spread through the books to fill the width and length.

She lives in leathered lexicons and tracts,
Anthologies of age, experience,
In almanacs beneath the thinning hair
Beside her sacred sister – Common Sense.

Youth shudder at the shaking in a hand;
They wince at wrinkles, see the years as gloom.
They view the silver hair like cobwebs.  Flee!
The tomes of wisdom are too near the tomb.

Library and librarian – the same –
He shuffles down the lane the young ones fly.
Their laughter sounds, as though the race was won,
But they, as yet, have no discerning eye.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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