My wife and I were midway through our walk through our neighborhood park, and I thought the home-brewed stout I had in my pocket would have to wait for another day. But out of the corner of my eye I saw Chris. We called out, waved, and I ran over to him. I delivered the stout a little sheepishly (you would too, if you were delivering one you made to an Irishman who knows a good stout) . It has become a bit of a tradition.
Handshakes, laughs, and many thank you's later, we parted, but I heard a faint, "Mark...!" We stopped. Chris ran up to us and hurriedly put in my hand a poem he said his sister had sent him - with his reply below. We did not read it until we got home. It had started to snow...
A SOUL'S DESTROYER.
WHAT IS THIS LIFE, FULL OF CARE
WE HAVE NO TIME TO STAND AND STARE :
NO TIME TO STAND BENEATH THE BOUGHS
AND STAND AS LONG AS SHEEP AND COWS
NO TIME TO SEE, WHEN WOODS WE PASS,
WHERE SQUIRREL'S, THEIR NUTS AND GRASS.
NO TIME TO SEE IN BROAD DAYLIGHT,
STREAMS FULL OF STARS, LIKE SKIES AT NIGHT.
NO TIME TO TURN AT BEAUTY'S GLANCE
AND WATCH HER FEET, HOW THEY DANCE.
NO TIME TO WAIT TILL HER MOUTH CAN,
ENRICH THAT SMILE HER EYES BEGAN.
A POOR LIFE THIS, IF, FULL OF CARE
WE HAVE NO TIME TO STAND AND STARE.
WM. DAVIES 1871-1940.
We do indeed have time,
to stand and stare and thank
our god for all we see.
It is the same in any
age, if we but realize
that all we see is passing
and has no permanence.
The comment is so Chris, the ultimate Irish philosopher and nature lover. Added by hand with a manual typewriter, I'm pretty sure. If there were ever a time to think about this, it would be now.
It's snowing at the moment in Seattle - hard - on Christmas. Unbelievable.
It's snowing here, too. But not hard. Tiny flecks hang in the air all around, uncertain about where they'll come to be. It covers up the old we've taken for granted these last many weeks. New again, and time for another round. Merry Christmas, Mark.
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