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IN BOLD RELIEF Sundays, from ether days, are different, They seem ta stand out en the calendar; ■ Brighter than week-days, and more slowly
spent, As things of value usually are. At first this was the day when I could wear My "best dress," and could go to Sunday
school. And later it was welcomed, foul or fair, As holiday, freed from scholastic rule. Then that first row of numbers seemed to
shout "This is the day he comes to see me!" . . .
Now— There is no reason why they should stand
out From any hum-drum week-day, yet somehow Because of other days and moons and
starsAll Sundays shine a bit on calendars. — Isla Paschal Richardson
I HAD FORGOTTEN
d forgotten it could be like this; poet's rhyme . . . soft spoken words that sing
Of silken rhapsodies ... a breathless kiss . . .
A night that lingers with remembering.
I had forgotten that my heart could beat
Like dark men's drums beneath a restless moon,
And then you came and breathed a dream complete
With stars and laughter drugged with madness. Soon
Again I shall know music rich beyond
The hour . . . and peace, like rain, typing welcome
Upon my roof. A clear but. vagabond
Perfection shimmers and the pendulum
Of love becomes the cycle of a sigh.
I said I had forgotten — but had I? — Ruby Diehr
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FARM WIFE
There are so many things that I'd be saying If you could hear my heart 'way out of doors; I think of how I love you, while you're haying, Or plowing fields, or doing evening chores.
And after choretime, when you come in weary, I think of tender things I'd like to say, But I just say, "The fire feels mighty cheery." Or, "My! it's been just like a summer's day."
My heart knows all the love words poets treasure But I can't seem to say them, though I try, So when I love you more than I can measure, I scrub the floor, or bake an apple pie..
— Marylu Terral Jeans
SHOCK In all of life's emergencies One shock I label GOOD The time the local plumber came The 'day he said he would.
—Helena K. Beacham
AUTUMN NIGHT In whirring flight
A frightened quail Shatters the stillness
Along the trail. The weeds grow high
Where our path once led; The orchard is barren —
The grass is dead . . .
But my thoughts of you
Are living things, — Shining moths
With eternal wings. Blazing a pathway
Of clean, white light Through the shadowed hours
Of an autumn night.
— Rowena Che:
flaring of color before the world turns white
4
nun
APOLOGY IN AUTUMN Forgive my heart for so much golden
weather, For moon-mist and a' river full of
stars ; For small leaf-secrets and a redwing's feather; A gypsy camp and fiddles and
guitars. Forgive my heart for so much Indian
summer, ' For fields moon-eyed with pumpkins
and with squashes; For listening to the weather's treetop drummer While walking you in rain without
galoshes. Forgive my heart for so much
autumn hunger — (I love you but I love the season
too) ; For feeling gayer, giddier and
younger Than I have any right or reason to. Forgive me and I promise to be
sober And sane and sweet again — after
October.
— Cosette Middleton
Be sure to listen to Ted Malone's program Monday through Friday mornings at 11:45 EST on ABC stations.
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~ML'
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