Journal entry by Al Negstad — a minute ago
First we visited Joanne, Trygve and I. Sweeping the grass clippings away from her marker reminded me of the many times we did that on her parent's, grandparent's and aunt's graves before Memorial Day, leaving cut flowers, too. Joanne, like her mother Myrtle, loved flowers though Joanne did not have her mother's touch at flower arranging. The cemetery in which Joanne rests is well cared for and that's a comfort. The route between condo and Little House has evolved into two thirds county roads, the two thirds as we approach the Little House. There are several routes from which to choose, but I keep going back to this one with few towns and little traffic. It's not unusual to drive ten miles without meeting a vehicle. Trygve is so content in his crate in the back that when I stopped at the Little House he had to be coaxed out. He now sleeps beside me with his head hanging off this dog bed.
Every day the Writer's Almanac appears in my inbox. It felt like a 'grand design' after yesterday's post when this poem by William Blake was included. "Can I see a falling tear And not my sorrows share,..." Joanne's death, I'm convinced, has increased my sensitivity to the pain of others. Yes, yes, long overdue I know.
On Another’s Sorrow
by William Blake
Every day the Writer's Almanac appears in my inbox. It felt like a 'grand design' after yesterday's post when this poem by William Blake was included. "Can I see a falling tear And not my sorrows share,..." Joanne's death, I'm convinced, has increased my sensitivity to the pain of others. Yes, yes, long overdue I know.
On Another’s Sorrow
by William Blake
Can I see anothers woe,
And not be in sorrow too.
Can I see anothers grief,
And not seek for kind relief.
And not be in sorrow too.
Can I see anothers grief,
And not seek for kind relief.
Can I see a falling tear
And not feel my sorrows share,
Can a father see his child,
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd.
And not feel my sorrows share,
Can a father see his child,
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd.
Can a mother sit and hear,
An infant groan an infant fear—
No no never can it be.
Never never can it be.
An infant groan an infant fear—
No no never can it be.
Never never can it be.
And can he who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small birds grief & care
Hear the woes that infants bear—
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small birds grief & care
Hear the woes that infants bear—
And not sit beside the nest
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near
Weeping tear on infants tear.
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near
Weeping tear on infants tear.
And not sit both night & day,
Wiping all our tears away.
O! no never can it be.
Never never can it be.
Wiping all our tears away.
O! no never can it be.
Never never can it be.
He doth give his joy to all.
He becomes an infant small.
He becomes a man of woe
He doth feel the sorrow too.
He becomes an infant small.
He becomes a man of woe
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not, thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy maker is not by.
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy maker is not near.
And thy maker is not by.
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy maker is not near.
O! he gives to us his joy,
That our grief he may destroy
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan.
That our grief he may destroy
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan.
"On Another's Sorrow" by William Blake, public domain. From Writer's Almanac.
Takk for alt,
Al
No comments:
Post a Comment