Poem For December - "How Still, How Happy!" by Emily Brontë

On this first day of Winter:

Portrait of Emily Brontë by her brother Branwell Brontë.

The following are the last three stanza's of Emily Brontë's poem "How Still, How Happy!"  It was originally published December 7, 1838.

It is but thought - full many a night 

The snow shall clothe those hills afar 

And storms shall add a drearier blight 

And winds shall wage a wilder war, 

Before the lark may herald in 

Fresh foliage twined with blossoms fair 

And summer days again begin 

Their glory - haloed crown to wear. 

Yet my heart loves December's smile 

As much as July's golden beam; 

Then let us sit and watch the while 

The blue ice curdling on the stream - 

Nine Requisites For Contentment

"Nine requisites for contented living:
Health enough to make work a pleasure.
Wealth enough to support your needs.
Strength to battle with difficulties and overcome them.
Grace enough to confess your sins and forsake them.
Patience enough to toil until some good is accomplished.
Charity enough to see some good in your neighbor.
Love enough to move you to be useful and helpful to others.
Faith enough to make real the things of God.
Hope enough to remove all anxious fears concerning the future."

--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was a German writer and "Renaissance Man."  His works cover drama, literature, poetry, philosophy, and science.

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And bear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

This is from a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow first published in 1841.  Longfellow said that the poem was inspired by his ancestor Stephen Longfellow, who had been a blacksmith.

A livery stable on 6th Street in Grants Pass next to the Golden Rule building.

Blacksmithing is one of Josephine County's oldest professions.

There is no conclusive evidence, but there may have been blacksmiths as early as 6000 BC.  Surprisingly, it was not an occupation held only by men.  During the Middle Ages there were many women blacksmiths.

Many people think a blacksmith is one who shoes horses, but that is just one small part of the trade.  When European settlers were first establishing themselves in America, blacksmiths were indispensable.  They made farm implements, weapons, nails, and cookware, etc.

In the 1900's blacksmiths were being replaced by machinists, because of the need to make products in greater number and more quickly.

In order to supplement their income, they began shoeing horses.  Later, when automobiles became commonplace, many blacksmiths became auto mechanics.

 

Today, blacksmiths are true artisans.  You can see creations by modern-day blacksmiths everywhere you go.  Fencing around schools and cemeteries, the lampposts downtown, chandeliers, sconces, decorative wall-art in our homes, are but a few of the items they are crafting today.

The blacksmithing profession has been forced to reinvent itself, but those historic skills are still being used today. 

SPRING!

Geese and their goslings on the Illinois River

It's not yet official, but Spring is near!

The following is the first verse from an aptly named poem by the poet and painter, William Blake.

Spring

Sound the flute!
Now 'tis mute!
Birds delight,
Day and night,
Nightingale,
In the dale,
Lark in sky, -
Merrily,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

1757 - 1827

 

An Afternoon In February

A walk at Riverside Park on "An Afternoon In February" brought to mind the poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  It is part of the Belfry Of Bruges And Other Poems collection.  

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;

While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;

Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.

Longfellow, the most popular American poet of his time is probably better remembered for Paul Revere's Ride.  I'm not a huge fan of poetry, but I do enjoy Longfellow's poems.  They flow so beautifully, and I find them easy to understand.

Longfellow spent part of his career as a professor at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine and later at Harvard College in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

In 1854, he retired from teaching, and spent the rest of his life in Cambridge in what was a former headquarters of George Washington.  (The above photo was taken in 1868 by Julia Margaret Cameron.)

As February nears its' end, like many, I can't wait for Spring!

Including this almond tree which is loaded with buds.

A February afternoon in Southern Oregon is a far cry from the climate experienced by Longfellow in Maine and Massachusetts. 

John Dennys - The Secrets of Angling

It is well-known that the best places to fish are on our own "Wild and Scenic" Rogue River, the Illinois River or Lake Selmac.

If you not able to get to one of these fabulous fishing spots today, why not read a poem dedicated to fishing.

It is believed that the poet and fisherman John Dennys wrote the first fishing poem.  It was entitled "The Secrets of Angling," and was first published in 1613.

The first few lines go like this:


Of angling and the art thereof I sing
What kind of tools it doth behove to have
And with what pleasing bayt a man may bring
The fish to bite within the watry wave.
A work of thanks to such as in a thing
Of harmless pleasure have regard to save
Their dearest soules from sinne and may intend
Of pretious time some part thereon to spend.

Google has a digitized version of Dennys' work.  You can even save it as a PDF to read at your leisure.

The Secrets of Angling - John Dennys