Did someone say roses?  Here is my favorite love/rose poem.

Xoxoxo stan

The Ivy Crown

                               William Carlos Williams

The whole process is a lie,

       
 unless,

            crowned by excess,

It break forcefully,

        one way or another,

            from its confinement—

or find a deeper
 well.

        Antony and Cleopatra

            were right;

they have shown

        the way. I love you

            or I do not live

at all.

Daffodil time

         is past. This is

              summer,
 summer!

the heart says,

         and not even the full of it.

              No doubts

are permitted—

         though they will
 come

              and may

before our time

         overwhelm us.

              We are only mortal

but being
 mortal

         can defy our fate.

              We may

by an outside chance

         even win! We do not

              look to see

jonquils and violets

         come again

              but there are,

still,

         the roses!

Romance has no part in it.

         The business of love is

              cruelty which,

by our
 wills,

         we transform

              to live together.

It has its seasons,

         for and against,

              whatever the heart

fumbles in the dark

         to assert

              toward the end of May.

Just as the nature of briars

         is to tear flesh,

              I have proceeded

through them.

         Keep

              the briars out,

they say.

         You cannot live

              and keep free of

briars.

Children pick
 flowers.

         Let them.

              Though having them

in hand

         they have no further use for them

              but leave them crumpled

at the curb's edge.

At our age the imagination

         across the sorry facts

              lifts us

to make roses

         stand before thorns.

              Sure

love is cruel

         and selfish

              and totally obtuse—

at least, blinded by the light,

         young love is.

              But we are older,

I to love

         and you to be loved,

              we have,

no matter how,

         by our wills survived

              to keep

the jeweled prize

         always

              at our finger tips.

We will it so

         and so it is

              past all accident.

Mary, As if I didn’t want to be there so much already, you give us a fortune-teller version of Clayton’s report of the film party—now I can just about imagine the whole thing, from trowel to verse! Love to all,
A

From: Mary Collins <mmcollins50@yahoo.com>
Reply-To: <weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org>
Date: Sun, 13 Mar 2011 19:58:45 -0700 (PDT)
To: <weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org>
Subject: Re: [Weeklong-l] Tuesday

Oh, how I want to be there. All the East Coasters are there in spirit.
Will someone please recite Gertrude Stein's:
The World is Round (excerpt)
Gertrude Stein <http://www.poetrysociety.org/psa/poetry/poets/gertrude_stein/>
 I am Rose my eyes are blue
I am Rose and who are you
I am Rose and when I sing
I am Rose like anything

and also, from Ms. Stein,

• "When I said.

A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.And then later made that into a ring I made poetry and what did I do I caressed completely caressed and addressed a noun." (Lectures in America)and
"Civilization begins with a rose. A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. It continues with blooming and it fastens clearly upon excellent examples." (As Fine as Melanctha)

And I am thinking of Sonnet 18, too:
Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Finally, the long but oh-so-beautiful "Ode," whose last four lines are perfect:
Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
  
William Wordsworth. 1770–1850
  
536. Ode
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
  
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
   The earth, and every common sight,
           To me did seem
   Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.         5
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
       Turn wheresoe'er I may,
           By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

        The rainbow comes and goes,  10
        And lovely is the rose;
       The moon doth with delight
   Look round her when the heavens are bare;
       Waters on a starry night
       Are beautiful and fair;  15
    The sunshine is a glorious birth;
   But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
   And while the young lambs bound  20
        As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
       And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;  25
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
       And all the earth is gay;
           Land and sea  30
    Give themselves up to jollity,
     And with the heart of May
   Doth every beast keep holiday;—
         Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy  35
    Shepherd-boy!

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
   Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
   My heart is at your festival,  40
      My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
       O evil day! if I were sullen
       While Earth herself is adorning,
           This sweet May-morning,  45
        And the children are culling
           On every side,
       In a thousand valleys far and wide,
       Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:—  50
        I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
       —But there's a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
         The pansy at my feet  55
          Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,  60
        Hath had elsewhere its setting,
         And cometh from afar:
       Not in entire forgetfulness,
       And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come  65
        From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
       Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,  70
        He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
   Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
     And by the vision splendid
     Is on his way attended;  75
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a mother's mind,  80
        And no unworthy aim,
   The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her Inmate Man,
   Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.  85
 
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!  90
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art;
   A wedding or a festival,
   A mourning or a funeral;  95
        And this hath now his heart,
   And unto this he frames his song:
       Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
       But it will not be long 100
        Ere this be thrown aside,
       And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 105
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
       As if his whole vocation
       Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
       Thy soul's immensity; 110
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
       Mighty prophet! Seer blest! 115
        On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave, 120
A presence which is not to be put by;
         To whom the grave
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
       Of day or the warm light,
A place of thought where we in waiting lie; 125
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 130
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

        O joy! that in our embers
       Is something that doth live, 135
        That nature yet remembers
       What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest— 140
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—
       Not for these I raise
       The song of thanks and praise; 145
    But for those obstinate questionings
   Of sense and outward things,
   Fallings from us, vanishings;
   Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realized, 150
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
       But for those first affections,
       Those shadowy recollections,
     Which, be they what they may, 155
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 160
            To perish never:
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
           Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 165
    Hence in a season of calm weather
       Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
       Which brought us hither,
   Can in a moment travel thither, 170
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
       And let the young lambs bound
       As to the tabor's sound! 175
We in thought will join your throng,
     Ye that pipe and ye that play,
     Ye that through your hearts to-day
     Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright 180
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
   Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
     We will grieve not, rather find
     Strength in what remains behind; 185
      In the primal sympathy
     Which having been must ever be;
     In the soothing thoughts that spring
     Out of human suffering;
     In the faith that looks through death, 190
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves ,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish'd one delight 195
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
           Is lovely yet; 200
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 205
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

 







 


 
 <http://www.philomobile.com/main>

From: Clay Stromberger <cstromberger@mail.utexas.edu>
To: weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org
Sent: Sun, March 13, 2011 10:19:04 PM
Subject: Re: [Weeklong-l] Tuesday

Augie, Emma and I will be there, ready to follow the instructions of those who actually know what they are doing in a garden.  

cs




On Mar 13, 2011, at 8:56 PM, Jeff Larsen wrote:

> Will and I are planning to be there and will bring a few implements of destruction.  Would it make sense to try to put in a watering system of buried garden hose or PVC?  
>
>                                          Love, Jeff
> --- On Sun, 3/13/11, Maggie Megaw <maggie@bizaffairs.com> wrote:
>
>> From: Maggie Megaw <maggie@bizaffairs.com>
>> Subject: [Weeklong-l] Tuesday
>> To: weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org
>> Date: Sunday, March 13, 2011, 7:08 PM
>> Thought we should touch base about
>> Tuesday--who's going, what we need in terms of shovels,
>> watering cans, and so on. Doc, shall we each come equipped
>> with the above and shall we each bring a bag of potting
>> soil?  You said before that you would get the rose
>> bushes--is that right?  Let us know--I can bring tools
>> and can run errands tomorrow.
>> Xxxmaggie
>>
>> Maggie Megaw
>> Business Affairs Inc
>> 2415 Main Street
>> Santa Monica , CA 90405
>>
>> _______________________________________________
>> Weeklong-l mailing list
>> Weeklong-l@lists.wikimedia.org
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>>
>
> _______________________________________________
> Weeklong-l mailing list
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Clayton Stromberger    
Outreach Coordinator, UT Shakespeare at Winedale
College of Liberal Arts , University of Texas at Austin
www.shakespeare-winedale.org <http://www.shakespeare-winedale.org>
cell:  512-363-6864
UT Sh. at W. office:  512-471-4726








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