“To be the only bird in town.”

It’s just sometimes it’s kind of nice
To be the only bird in town.

– Shel Silverstein, “Weird-Bird

(If you have a minute, follow the link to read the whole poem. It’s short, and it’s worth it.)


“My heart leaps up”

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

–  William Wordsworth

“On Friday a thief”

Yesterday’s quote from Dietrich Bonhoeffer reminded me of these lyrics from a song by John Mark McMillan. Below the video you’ll find a link to McMillan’s commentary on the song.

“On Friday a thief
On Sunday a King
Laid down in grief
But awoke holding keys
To hell on that day
The first born of the slain
The man Jesus Christ
Laid death in his grave.”

– excerpt from “Death in His Grave” by John Mark McMillan

You can read John Mark McMillan’s line-by-line commentary on this song at his blog.

The Heart of John Mark McMillan” is a 2010 article from Relevant Magazine

daffodils, poetry and napping nephews

The Daffodils, by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
The thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

When I first read this poem, I thrilled at Wordsworth’s characterization of “…that inward eye/Which is the bliss of solitude.” He puts it so well. I think that “inward eye” may also be “the bliss of”:

  • long quiet car rides,
  • the calm that settled on the house when my nephew fell asleep for his nap yesterday, and
  • a cup of coffee or hot tea in the morning.

Oh, and autumn… the whole, entire season of autumn.

(This poem is in the public domain.)