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| ODE GARDEN, MAY 2016 |
Thursday, 8:30 AM. 23 degrees F at the ferry dock, 21 on the back porch. Wind calm and variable, skies overcast, humidity 76%. The barometer is falling, currently at 29.88". The next ten days should be warmer, with temperatures in the 30's and 40's, mixed skies, and rain on Monday. We will still get bad winter weather, such as the mini-storm last evening, however we are through the worst of it (but watch out for March).
Boston Patriots Super Bowl winning quarterback Tom Brady likes to quote the British poet and author Rudyard Kipling's poem "If", that ends with "...you'll be a man, my son." It is a favorite phrase and poem often quoted by football coaches as it regards coming of age, and being a man.
The poet, famed as the greatest of British poets of at least the modern age, is also vilified by many Twenty First Century critics as being sexist, an apologist for colonialism and more, and perhaps he was some of those things. But he was a great poet nonetheless, who eloquently spoke the truth about many things. Here is the full poem:
If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make a heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make a heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
The Glory of the Garden |
| OUR England is a garden that is full of stately views, Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues, With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by; But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye. For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall, You'll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dung-pits and the tanks, The rollers, carts, and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks. And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice boys Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise ; For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds, The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words. And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose, And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows ; But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam, For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come. Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made By singing:-" Oh, how beautiful," and sitting in the shade While better men than we go out and start their working lives At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives. There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick, There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done, For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one. Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders, If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders; And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden, You will find yourself a partner In the Glory of the Garden. Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees, So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away ! |
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