Miracles

The Birds-nest  Sophie Gengembre Anderson

For Every Bird a Nest

by Emily Dickinson

For every Bird a Nest --
Wherefore in timid quest
Some little Wren goes seeking round --

Wherefore when boughs are free --
Households in every tree --
Pilgrim be found?

Perhaps a home too high --
Ah Aristocracy!
The little Wren desires --

Perhaps of twig so fine --
Of twine e'en superfine,
Her pride aspires --

The Lark is not ashamed
To build upon the ground
Her modest house --

Yet who of all the throng
Dancing around the sun
Does so rejoice?

Snowstorm

The Snowstorm  Francisco DeGoya

It sifts from Leaden Sieves

by Emily Dickinson

It sifts from Leaden Sieves —

It powders all the Wood.

It fills with Alabaster Wool

The Wrinkles of the Road —

It makes an Even Face

Of Mountain, and of Plain —

Unbroken Forehead from the East

Unto the East again —

It reaches to the Fence —

It wraps it Rail by Rail

Till it is lost in Fleeces —

It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack - and Stem —

A Summer’s empty Room —

Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,

Recordless, but for them —

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts

As Ankles of a Queen —

Then stills its Artisans — like Ghosts —

Denying they have been —

Vocation

The Thread Spinners  Diego Velazquez

Each Life Converges to some Centre

                   by Emily Dickinson

Each Life Converges to some Centre --
Expressed -- or still --
Exists in every Human Nature
A Goal --

Embodied scarcely to itself -- it may be --
Too fair
For Credibility's presumption
To mar --

Adored with caution -- as a Brittle Heaven --
To reach
Were hopeless, as the Rainbow's Raiment
To touch --

Yet persevered toward -- sure -- for the Distance --
How high --
Unto the Saint's slow diligence --
The Sky --

Ungained -- it may be -- by a Life's low Venture --
But then --
Eternity enable the endeavoring
Again.

Love to Read

Rembrandt's Mother as the Biblical Prophetess Hannah  Rembrandt van Rijn

There is no Frigate like a Book

                                          by Emily Dickinson

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

An Autumn Trinket or Two

Autumn Giuseppe Arcimboldo

Nature XXVII, Autumn
                      by Emily Dickinson
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.