Saturday Morning Words + Coffee

Clare Harner - Immortality

5 min · 6. jan. 2024
episode Clare Harner - Immortality cover

Description

Reading Clare Harner's Immortality, a beautiful poem for a eulogy. Other authors have tried to pass it off as their own, so I talk about that, too. Do not stand           By my grave, and weep.      I am not there,           I do not sleep— I am the thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints in snow I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle, autumn rain. As you awake with morning’s hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush Of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the day transcending night.      Do not stand           By my grave, and cry—      I am not there,           I did not die.

Comments

0

Be the first to comment

Sign up now and become a member of the Saturday Morning Words + Coffee community!

Get Started

1 month for 9 kr.

Then 99 kr. / month · Cancel anytime.

  • Podcasts kun på Podimo
  • 20 lydbogstimer pr. måned
  • Gratis podcasts

All episodes

38 episodes

episode Robert Frost - Old Man's Winter Night artwork

Robert Frost - Old Man's Winter Night

Taking a look at Robert Frost's Old Man's Winter Night. All out of doors looked darkly in at him Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars, That gathers on the pane in empty rooms. What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand. What kept him from remembering what it was That brought him to that creaking room was age. He stood with barrels round him—at a loss. And having scared the cellar under him In clomping there, he scared it once again In clomping off;—and scared the outer night, Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar Of trees and crack of branches, common things, But nothing so like beating on a box. A light he was to no one but himself Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what, A quiet light, and then not even that. He consigned to the moon,—such as she was, So late-arising,—to the broken moon As better than the sun in any case For such a charge, his snow upon the roof, His icicles along the wall to keep; And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted, And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept. One aged man—one man—can’t fill a house, A farm, a countryside, or if he can, It's thus he does it of a winter night.

23. nov. 20245 min