Sunday, April 26, 2015


Autumn Rain 

Do not stand at my grave and weep. 
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am that swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star that shines at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.

~ Mary Frye, 1932

“The rain to the wind said,
You push and I'll pelt.'
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged--though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.” 

~ Robert Frost

What Could Have Been

The rain has subsided, and while he sleeps, 

I am transfixed on a geranium weeping.  

I am reminded of another's eyes of indigo,

and buoys floating on a horizon sublime, 

from a pleasant, yet lonely time, long ago.

I was disheartened by our choices,

The madness, 


void of redemption.

You were Zen and distinguished, 

We denied the tides that turned;

and we could not extinguish, 

a fire that never burned.

And yet, the tides shift

and my memory drifts 

to what could have been.

© Denise Goodwin ~ 4/26/2015

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall. 

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying tonight or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be towards what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.

~Edward Thomas

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