Rose's Rambles

A Wreath for Christmas

When Mary made a Holly wreath,
The blood ran red--ran red.
Another Mary wove the Thorns
That crowned her Master's head.
But the Mistletoe was far away
Across a Western sea,
And the Mistletoe was wreathed around
A Pagan Apple Tree.

In Glastonbury grew a Thorn,
When Joseph came to trade.
And the Holly Bush was common growth
In every wooded glade.
But the Mistletoe was sacred where
The Sun arose each morn,
And the Mistletoe knew nothing of
The Babe in Bethlehem born.

Saint Patrick sailed the stormy seas
To preach the Cross--and so
He found Eve's Tree--with serpent coiled--
And hung with Mistletoe.
"I bid thee, Serpent, leave this Land,
And open, Plant, thine ears."
He preached the Tale of Christ--and Lo!
The Mistletoe wept tears....

The Holly bush has berries red,
Blood-red upon each bough.
The Thorn it blooms with golden flowers,
And Kissing's fashion now.
What will you give to Christ the Lord,
O! Pagan Bough so green?
"The Tears that I have shed for One
Whom I have never seen..."

Let Man then give his life for Man,
The blood-red berries say,
And Men have love for fellow men,
Where Gorse flowers bloom so gay.
And the Tears of Man be shed for Man
Where Mistletoe gleams white.
Come, pity, love and sacrifice....
God bless us all this night!

--Agatha Christie Mallowan, Star over Bethlehem and Other Stories

(And Happy Hanukkah to my Jewish friends!)

"A radical does not mean a man who lives on radishes [...] and a Conservative does not mean a man who preserves jam. Neither, I assure you, does a Socialist mean a man who desires a social evening with the chimney-sweep. A Socialist means a man who wants all the chimneys swept and all the chimney-sweeps paid for it."

"But who won't allow you," put in [Father Brown] in a low voice, "to own your own soot."

--G. K. Chesterton, The Innocence of Father Brown

Quote of the day, found as an epigraph in an anthology of Old English texts:

We dare not lengthen this book much more, lest it be out of moderation and stir up men's antipathy because of its size.--Ælfric

The House of Christmas
By G. K. Chesterton
There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam,
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost – how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky’s dome.

This world is wild as an old wives’ tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.



Merry Christmas, y'all. :)

I see the poetry meme is going around again. I really wasn't in the mood for it the other day (the only poem that came to mind was Hopkins' "Carrion Comfort," which is quite the downer), but here's one that came up today that I feel needs sharing:


A HYMN

O God of earth and altar,
Bow down and hear our cry,
Our earthly rulers falter,
Our people drift and die;
The walls of gold entomb us,
The swords of scorn divide,
Take not thy thunder from us,
But take away our pride.

From all that terror teaches,
From lies of tongue and pen,
From all the easy speeches
That comfort cruel men,
From sale and profanation
Of honour and the sword,
From sleep and from damnation,
Deliver us, good Lord.

Tie in a living tether
The prince and priest and thrall,
Bind all our lives together,
Smite us and save us all;
In ire and exultation
Aflame with faith, and free,
Lift up a living nation,
A single sword to thee.

~G.K. Chesterton

What I'm about to share might sound like a downer, but it isn't meant to be, and I can't help thinking someone needs to read it. So here goes.
( Cut mainly for length--from _The Hiding Place_ by Corrie Ten Boom )
In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.--I Thessalonians 5:18

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. :)

Have a pome. :D I was trying to find something else for febobe but ran across this in a dusty corner of my hard drive and reread it just now; I still love it and thought some of y'all might enjoy it, too.
Preach it, Tollers.

Mythopoeia
by J. R. R. Tolkien
As published in Tree and Leaf (Houghton, 1989)

To one who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though 'breathed through silver'.
( Philomythus to Misomythus )

A friend reposted part of this poem the other day, and it came back to mind just now... I know I've posted it here before, but good literature is always worth rereading. :)


As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.

Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.
--Gerard Manley Hopkins

ON PROFESSOR FREUD

The ignorant pronounce it Frood,
To cavil or applaud.
The well-informed pronounce it Froyd,
But I pronounce it Fraud.

-- G. K. Chesterton

"[T]o the [Pearl] poet's thinking, making the inevitable irrelevant is the great prank that faith plays on the universe."
--Adam Brooke Davis, "What the Poet of Patience Really Did to the Book of Jonah," Viator 22 (1991): 277.

That's just... brilliant. :D And appropriate for Holy Week, to boot!