Poem of the Day

The book of Adrienne Rich poems I got from the library is still sitting here by my computer, unread. Flipping through it, I came across this poem, so here you go.

From a Chapter on Literature
By Adrienne Rich

After the sunlight and the fiery vision
Leading us to a place of running water,
We came into a place by water altered.
Dew ribboned from those trees, the grasses wept
And drowned in their own weeping; vacant mist
Crawled like a snail across the land, and left
A snail’s moist trace; and everything there thriving
Stared through an aqueous half-light, without mirth
And bred by languid cycles, without ardor.

There passion mildewed and corrupted slowly,
Till, feeding hourly on its own corruption,
It had forgotten fire and aspiration,
Becoming sodden with appetite alone.
There in the green-grey thickness of the air
Lived and begat cold spores of intellect,
Till giant mosses of a rimelike aspect
Hung heavily from the boughs to testify
Against all simple sensualities,
Turning them by a touch gross and discolored,
Swelling the warm taut flesh to bloated symbol
By unrelenting watery permeations.

So from promethean hopes we came this far,
This far from lands of sun and racing blood.
Behind us lay the blazing apple tree,
Behind us too the vulture and the rock—
The tragic labor and the heroic doom—
For without passion the rock also crumbles
And the wet twilight scares the bird away.

Since it’s been absolutely pouring here for hours and I have a flood in my bedroom from the back door, I went looking for a poem about rain. This is what I found. When adding today’s poem to the alphabetical lists, I noticed that Longfellow seems to like writing about rain.

Rain in Summer
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!
The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.
In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard’s tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain!
In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
Lifting the yoke encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well-watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man’s spoken word.
Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures, and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.
These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees!
He can behold
Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,—
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers under ground;
And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the Seer,
With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change
From birth to death, from death to birth,
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things, unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning forevermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

Since we talked about Mary Oliver yesterday, I thought I’d post one of hers. The possibilities are endless!

“Just a minute,” said a voice…
By Mary Oliver

“Just a minute,” said a voice in the weeds.
So I stood still
in the day’s exquisite early morning light
and so I didn’t crush with my great feet
any small or unusual thing just happening to pass by
where I was passing by
on my way to the blueberry fields,
and maybe it was the toad
and maybe it was the June beetle
and maybe it was the pink and tender worm
who does his work without limbs or eyes
and does it well
or maybe it was the walking stick, still frail
and walking humbly by, looking for a tree,
or maybe, like Blake’s wondrous meeting, it was
the elves, carrying one of their own
on a rose-petal coffin away, away
into the deep grasses. After awhile
the quaintest voice said, “Thank you.” And then there was silence.
For the rest, I would keep you wondering.

I never know where my inspiration for the PotD will come from. I was at my aunt’s brother and sister-in-law’s house for a fete this afternoon and while speaking with them and a friend (who I was actually telling about my LJ), I learned a little something about Dietrich Bonhoeffer. I went and looked him up and today’s PotD is one of his.

Who Am I?
By Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Who am I? They often tell me I would step from my cell’s confinement calmly, cheerfully, firmly, like a squire from his country house.

Who am I? They often tell me I would talk to my warden freely and friendly and clearly, as though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me I would bear the days of misfortune equably, smilingly, proudly, like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which others tell me, or am I only what I know of myself, restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat, yearning for colours, for flowers, for the voices of birds, thirsting for words of kindness, for neighbourliness, trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation, tossing in expectation of great events, powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance, weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making, faint and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I? This or the other? Am I one person today and tomorrow another? Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others, and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling? Or is it something within me still like a beaten army, fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine. Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am Thine.

Here’s another one from Ten Poems to Last a Lifetime.

For the Sake of Strangers
By Dorianne Laux

No matter what the grief, its weight,
we are obliged to carry it.
We rise and gather momentum, the dull strength
that pushes us through crowds.
And then the young boy gives me directions
so avidly. A woman holds the glass door open,
waiting patiently for my empty body to pass through.
All day it continues, each kindness
reaching toward another—a stranger
singing to no one as I pass on the path, trees
offering their blossoms, a retarded child
who lifts his almond eyes and smiles.
Somehow they always find me, seem even
to be waiting, determined to keep me
from myself, from the thing that calls to me
as it must have once called to them—
this temptation to step off the edge
and fall weightless, away from the world.

I have quite a few poems by Rilke in my file, so here’s one of them.

You darkness, that I come from
By Rainer Maria Rilke

You darkness, that I come from,
I love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes
a circle of light for everyone,
and then no one outside learns of you.

But the darkness pulls in everything:
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how easily it gathers them!—
powers and people—

and it is possible a great energy
is moving near me.

I have faith in nights.

I love this poem. I discovered it through my aunt when we first started discussing poetry at our Friday breakfasts, about two years ago. It provides some food for thought.

An Athenian Reminisces
By Vassar Miller

Yes, I remember Paul, his ugly face
Alive with joy, his stooping shoulders seeming
Straighter somehow as if his words had driven
A rod of iron down his spine. “My friends,
The Unknown God to whom you rear an altar
I now declare!” So, he proceeded to
Domesticate the Mystery. He’s dead
You say, beheaded by that madman Nero.
No doubt he scarcely felt the blade strike through
The bone so padded was he with conviction.
Courageous man! Yet now that I am old
I’m not so sure that one can be as sure
As Paul. At any rate, I’ve never caught
The Unknown God at leisure in His rooms.
Nor spied Him in the middle of His labors,
Although my bruise-bewildered brain would like to.
Whether or not He makes the crooked paths straight,
I’ve had to hack mine out as sorry-best
I might. Christ died for us, Paul taught? How strange
A god should think a man’s requirements so
Excessive. All that I need is space,
Not so much larger, really, than a cat’s
[Or so a deity might measure it]
To ease my cramped limbs in the sun a little.
Well, well, the names of God are beautiful—
Zeus, Hera, Demeter, Mithra, Astarte,
Isis, now Father, Son, and Holy Ghost—
So many screens behind which he eludes us.
And though stout-hearted Pauls may claim the Quarry,
Pet of their pieties, they may as well
Drag home with them a shadow by the neck.

Keeping with the theme of November (in March, of course)…

What People Do
By Naomi Shihab Nye

November    November    November    the days crowd together
like families of leaves    in a dry field
I pick up a round stone    take it to my father
who lies in bed waiting for his heart to mend
and he turns it over and over in his hands

My father is writing me the story of his village
He tells what people did    in another country
before I was born    how his best friend was buried alive
and the boy survived two days in the ground
how my father was lowered into a well on ropes    to discover
clay jars a thousand years old    how each jar held seeds
carob and melon    and the villagers chose secrecy
knowing the British would come with trucks and dig up their town

My father’s handwriting changes from page to page
sometimes a wild scrawl and disconnected letters
sometimes a new serious upward slant

And me    I travel the old roads again and again
wearing a different life in a house surrounded by trees
At night the dropping pecans make little clicks above us
Doors closing

More and more I understand what people do
I appreciate the daily braveries    clean white shirts
morning greetings between old men

Again I see how    once the boat tips    you never forget
the sensation of drowning
even if you sing yourself the familiar songs

Today my face is stone    my eyes are buckets
I walk the streets lowering them into everything
but they come up empty

I would tell my father
    I cannot move one block without you
    I will never recover from your love
yet I stand by his bed saying things I have said before
and he answers    and we go on this way
smoothing the silences
nothing can heal

I went to see V for Vendetta last night so I thought I’d post this poem. There are myriad sources of it online, and I took the text from Wikipedia.

Remember Remember the Fifth of November
Traditional Rhyme, Author Unknown

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
gunpowder, treason and plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
’twas his intent
to blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:
By God’s providence he was catch’d
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!

Roger Housden included this one in Ten Poems to Last a Lifetime and said that Billy Collins is “the most widely read poet in America today”. I have posted one poem of his, which I got from Garrison Keillor’s Good Poems. Perhaps I should read more of his stuff…

My Life
By Billy Collins

Sometimes I see it as a straight line
drawn with a pencil and a ruler
transecting the circle of the world

or as a finger piercing
a smoke ring, casual, inquisitive,

but then the sun will come out
or the phone will ring
and I will cease to wonder

if it is one thing,
a large ball of air and memory,
or many things,
a string of small farming towns,
a dark road winding through them.

Let us say it is a field
I have been hoeing every day,
hoeing and singing,
then going to sleep in one of its furrows,

or now that it is more than half over,
a partially open door,
rain dripping from the eaves.

Like yours, it could be anything,
a nest with one egg,
a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms—
whatever happens to float into view
when I close my eyes

or look out a window
for more than a few minutes,
so that some days I think
it must be everything and nothing at once.

But this morning, sitting up in bed,
wearing my black sweater and my glasses,
the curtains drawn and the windows up,

I am a lake, my poem is an empty boat,
and my life is the breeze that blows
through the whole scene

stirring everything it touches—
the surface of the water, the limp sail,
even the heavy, leafy trees along the shore.

This one’s a bit different than the other one I posted about blackberry picking. I remember berry picking as a child (though we didn’t have blackberries so we’d pick wild strawberries and black caps) and I can’t say I had the same end result as described in this poem. I was struck by the child’s disappointment at the end of the poem.

Blackberry-Picking
By Seamus Heaney

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

I finished Middlesex this morning and came across a reference to the poet Gary Snyder. Since I’d never heard of him, I went and found a poem of his to post.

Civilization
By Gary Snyder

Those are the people who do complicated things.

     they’ll grab us by the thousands
     and put us to work.

World’s going to hell, with all these
     villages and trails.
Wild duck flocks aren’t
     what they used to be.
Aurochs grow rare.

Fetch me my feathers and amber

               *

A small cricket
on the typescript page of
“Kyoto born in spring song”
grooms himself
in time with The Well-Tempered Clavier.
I quit typing and watch him through a glass.
How well articulated! How neat!

Nobody understands the ANIMAL KINGDOM.

               *

When creeks are full
The poems flow
When creeks are down
We heap stones.

I’m reading Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides and this poem was quoted, so I thought I’d post it.

Pied Beauty
By Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow,
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

This is a really short one, but it certainly made an impression on me when I read it.

Self-Pity
By D.H. Lawrence

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.

Here is one of Roger Housden’s Ten Poems to Last a Lifetime.

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
By James Wright

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

I got Ten Poems to Last a Lifetime by Roger Housden from the library. He mentioned Czeslaw Milosz in the notes a couple times, though he didn’t include a full poem of his. Since I was not familiar with Milosz, I went and looked him up. Here’s a selection.

Love
By Czeslaw Milosz

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills—
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn’t matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn’t always understand.

I’m surprised I’ve not posted this before.

She Walks In Beauty
By George Gordon, Lord Byron

She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

I thought it would be best if I didn’t post this on Sunday. (heh)

Prayer of the Selfish Child
By Shel Silverstein

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my toys to break.
So none of the other kids can use ‘em…
Amen.

The trial and execution of Sacco and Vanzetti was a travesty of the American justice system. Today’s poems were written by ESVM in memory of them. She wrote another poem about them also.

Two Sonnets in Memory
Nicola Sacco — Bartolomeo Vanzetti
Executed August 23, 1927
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

I

As men have loved their lovers in times past
And sung their wit, their virtue and their grace,
So have we loved sweet Justice to the last,
That now lies here in an unseemly place.
The child will quit the cradle and grow wise
And stare on beauty till his senses drown;
Yet shall be seen no more by mortal eyes
Such beauty as here walked and here went down.
Like birds that hear the winter crying plain
Her courtiers leave to seek the clement south;
Many have praised her, we alone remain
To break a fist against the lying mouth
Of any man who says this was not so:
Though she be dead now, as indeed we know.

II

Where can the heart be hidden in the ground
And be at peace, and be at peace forever,
Under the world, untroubled by the sound
Of mortal tears, that cease from pouring never?
Well for the heart, by stern compassion harried,
If death be deeper than the churchmen say, –
Gone from this world indeed what’s graveward carried,
And laid to rest indeed what’s laid away.
Anguish enough while yet the indignant breather
Have blood to spurt upon the oppressor’s hand;
Who would eternal be, and hang in ether
A stuffless ghost above his struggling land,
Retching in vain to render up the groan
That is not there, being aching dust’s alone?

I really do love Amy Lowell. She doesn’t sugarcoat things and she’s so wonderful at drawing me into her poems. When I read this one, I really felt like I was there.

I came across this at Sonnet Central.

Immortality
By Matthew Arnold

Foil’d by our fellow men, depress’d, outworn,
We leave the brutal world to take its way,
And, Patience! in another life, we say,
The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne!

And will not, then the immortal armies scorn
The world’s poor routed leavings? or will they,
Who fail’d under the heat of this life’s day,
Support the fervours of the heavenly morn?

No, no! the energy of life may be
Kept on after the grave, but not begun!
And he who flagg’d not in the earthly strife,

From strength to strength advancing—only he,
His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,
Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.

I love this one. So short, so simple, so incredibly cool!

The Old Poets of China
By Mary Oliver

Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

This one was shared by George on the Noelke Reading List.

Love After Love
by Derek Walcott

The time will come
When, with elation,
You will greet yourself arriving
At your own door, in your own mirror,
And each will smile at the other’s welcome,

And say, sit here, Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
To itself, to the stranger who has loved you

All your life, when you ignored
For another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

The photographs, the desperate notes,
Peel your image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

I got a book of Adrienne Rich’s poetry from the library yesterday. Here’s a selection.

Rural Reflections
By Adrienne Rich

This is the grass your feet are planted on.
You paint it orange or you sing it green,
     But you have never found
A way to make the grass mean what you mean.

A cloud can be whatever you intend:
Ostrich or leaning tower or staring eye.
     But you have never found
A cloud sufficient to express the sky.

Get out there with your splendid expertise;
Raymond who cuts the meadow does not less.
     Inhuman nature says:
Inhuman patience is the true success.

Human impatience trips you as you run;
     Stand still and you must lie.
It is the grass that cuts the mower down;
It is the cloud that swallows up the sky.

Thanks to Brontëana for posting a new slew of poems to choose from!

An Elegy
By Patrick Brontë

And is he gone?—and has he left behind,
A mourning widow, to deplore his loss?
And have his little babes no father kind,
   To watch their tender years,
   And daily food procure?
   And must they guileless toss,
Amidst a sea of troubles, cares and fears?
Unpitied, unprotected, must they roam,
   Without a friend, without a home,
And unsupported, all the ills of life endure?
And shall those hopeful boys who once their father’s pride,
Would smiling prattle, by his guardian side,
Be left a prey, to each temptation strong?
And shall sweet Mary, guileless, lovely maid,
Without his sage advice, and tender aid,
   Be left so helpless, and so young?

He’s gone.—He’s gone.—And never shall return;
His bier was slowly carried down that lonely way.—
The humble few, by whom his corse was borne,
In plaintive air, were often heard to say,
   ”He’s dead, and has not left behind,
   One so faithful, one so kind;
   He loved his neighbour,
   Truly served his God,
   And ‘midst his daily labour,
   Walked the heavenly road.”

   This modest eulogy of lowly swains,
   Who lived obscurely, on the rural plains,
Shall have the range, that verses such as mine can give,—
   Their worthy hero, for the transient age,
   Assigned to this my humble page,
Nor unlamented, nor unwept, shall live.

   Scarce known, a furlong from his cot,
   In lowly plight, it was his lot,
   ’Midst honest shifts, to strive for daily bread;
   Yet he was happy, rich, and wise;
   And known, and loved, beyond the skies,
   Where, now, his disembodied soul is fled,
      And crowned with glory reigns,
      Amidst the heavenly host,—
   No longer on a sea of trouble tossed,
      In full seraphic choir,
      It strikes the golden wire,
      In loudest, sweetest strains.

No politician, he, with skilful hand, to guide
      The helm of state,
      With kind auspicious fate,
      Along the foaming tide;
Nor warrior stern, with dauntless heart, to weild
His conquering sword, amidst the bloody field,—
Yet, for his sake, the foe’s intentions fail,
      Whole routed armies fly,—
      Or supplicating, lie,
Around Britannia’s ever-during throne?
Whilst she in stately pomp, does sail,
      The conscious wave,
Wide opening to the foe, a sure, relentless grave,—
And justly claims, the watery world, her own.

   The man was taught of God,
   And walked the heavenly road,
Hence, blest, and blessing, rolled his years away:
      But, now, he’s from us torn,—
And shall his widow, and his orphans mourn,
Without one helping hand to guide them on their way?
      No, God will be their Friend,
      And every comfort lend,
And save them for his sake, that hence is fled.—
      In heaven lives his prayer,
      And shall be answered there,
Although, his mouldering body’s numbered with the dead.

I’ve become a bit sporadic with the PotD because my file has completely dwindled and I haven’t had any time to replenish it. So every day I go on a poem hunt (or not). Hopefully this weekend I’ll have time to relax and read some poetry. If not, I may go on hiatus with the PotD because I don’t want it to feel like a chore for me. I’d rather post a poem because I want to, rather than because I feel I have to, which is what it feels like when I cast around the internet aimlessly every day. That said, here’s one from a book I bought a few months ago.

Primer for the Nuclear Age
By Rita Dove

At the edge of the mariner’s
     map is written: “Beyond
     this point lie Monsters.”

Someone left the light on
     in the pantry—there’s
     a skull in there on the shelf

that talks. Blue eyes
     in the air, blue as
     an idiot’s. Any fear, any

memory will do; and if you’ve
     got a heart at all, someday
     it will kill you.

I’m a bit overwhelmed today so this seemed appropriate.

Woman Work
By Maya Angelou

I’ve got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I’ve got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The cane to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.

Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
‘Til I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.

Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You’re all that I can call my own.