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Every now and then she found out she was wrong,
and then she treated herself to a week of passionate humility.
After this she held her head higher than ever again;
for it was of no use, she had an unquenchable desire to think well of herself.
She had a theory that it was only on this condition that life was worth living;
that one should be one of the best, should be conscious of a tine organization
(she could not help knowing her organization was fine),
should move in a realm of light, of natural wisdom, of happy impulse,
of inspiration gracefully chronic.
It was almost as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of oneself
as to cultivate doubt of one's best friend;
one should try to be one's own best friend, and to give oneself,
in this manner, distinguished company.
The girl had a certain nobleness of imagination
which rendered her a good many services
and played her a great many tricks.
She spent half her time in thinking of beauty,
and bravery, and magnanimity;
she had a fixed determination to regard the world
as a place of brightness, of free expansion, of irresistible action;
she thought it would be detestable to be afraid or ashamed.

The Portrait of a Lady
by Henry James

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if we could just see christmas time
again through childhood eyes
perhaps some memories long forgotten
would soon materialize

perhaps we'd feel again
the thrill of a child's anticipation
and forget the rushed, commercial world
with its frenzy & frustration

each Christmas item we'd display
though used throughout the years
would seem a precious artifact
which time to us endears

we'd hear the carols in the air
and learn their words anew
about the savior's lowly birth
and what he came to do!

and perhaps we'd sense again
the wonder of this babe of holy birth
and, knowing he came to die for us
we'd live for him on earth

but it seems there's something about our age
and the years as we've matured
that makes our holiday so routine
like something to be endured

we seem to close our eyes and ears
to the beauty and all the sound
our hearts and feelings grow cold and hard
when love and joy should abound

yet, if we've lost sight of these deeper joys
they can once more arise
if we will just view christmas time again
through childhood eyes!

through childhood eyes
by earl weldon

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what, younger, felt
was possible, now knows
is not - but still
not chanted enough -

walked by the sea,
unchanged in memory -
evening, as clouds
on the far-off rim

of water float,
pictures of time,
smoke, faintness -
still the dream.

i want, if older,
still to know
why, human, men
and women are

so torn, so lost,
why hopes cannot
find better world
than this

shelley is dead and gone,
who said,
"taught them not this -
to know themselves;

their might could not repress
the mutiny within,
and for the morn
of truth they feigned,

deep night
caught them ere evening . . "

myself
a poem by robert creeley

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somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers
you open always petal by petal myself as spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens
only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
by ee cummings

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the good lady luck must be smiling on me
since all around me beauty i only do see
the sun brightly shining in the sky blue and gray
and the birds chirp and sing on a beautiful day

the honey-eaters chirp on the blossoming trees
and the song of the blackbird carrying in the breeze
the town park resplendent in the flowers of the spring
of the praises of nature's beauty who could not wish to sing
could this be my last spring the clock ticking on?

next year i may be to the forever gone
in some ways i do envy the young girl and boy
so many more springs they may have to enjoy
the birds chirp and whistle the day warm and dry
and the sun shining bright in the blue and gray sky

the good lady luck must be smiling on me
by francis duggan