Gentle Silence
In situations such as this, I am generally at a loss for words. Or, if I do have words, they will invariably be the wrong ones. I will say only that I continue to be impressed with the way Joanne handles herself in all the situations she blogs about. (I should also mention that this post is not in anyway for “points” or anything of that nature. It is just for understanding and reflection.)
And, with that, I will close this blog entry with a moment of gentle blog silence bookended by a short prose and a poem.
The Mysteries
The early sunlight filtered through the filmy draperies to where a wondering baby stretched his dimpled hands to catch the rays that lit his face and flesh as dawn lights up a rose. His startled gaze caught and held the dawn of day in rapturous looks that spoke the dawn of Self, for with the morning gleam out came the greater wonder. It was the mystery of Life.
Across a cradle where, sunk in satin pillows, lay a still, pale form as droops a rose from some fierce heat, the evening shadows fell aslant, and spoke of peace. The twilight calm enclosed the world in silence deep as Truth, and on the little face the wondering look had given place to one of sweet repose. It was the mystery of Death.
At head and foot the tapers burned, a golden light that clove the night as Hope the encircling gloom. Across the cot where lay the fair, frail form, his hand reached out to hers and met and clasped in tender, burning touch. Into the eyes of each there came the look that is the light of life; that spoke of self to each, yet told they two were one. It was the mystery to which the mysteries Life and Death bow down–the mystery of Love.
–James Hunt Cook
Life
Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me’s a secret yet.
Life! We’ve been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather,
‘Tis hard to part when friends are dear–
Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning, choose thine own time;
Say not “good-night,” but in some brighter clime
Bid me “good-morning.”
–Mrs. A. L. Barbauld
Thanks for sharing the poem, I loved it.