fave-O-lit Friday

Early Supper

by Barbara Howes

Laughter of children brings
The kitchen down with laughter.
While the old kettle sings
Laughter of children brings
To a boil all savory things.
Higher than beam or rafter,
Laughter of children brings
The kitchen down with laughter.

So ends an autumn day,
Light ripples on the ceiling,
Dishes are stacked away;
So ends an autumn day,
The children jog and sway
In comic dances wheeling.
So ends an autumn day,
Light ripples on the ceiling.

They trail upstairs to bed,
And night is a dark tower.
The kettle calls: instead
They trail upstairs to bed,
Leaving warmth, the coppery-red
Mood of their carnival hour.
They trail upstairs to bed,
And night is a dark tower.

fave-O-lit friday: E. B. White

The Meaning of Democracy

We received a letter from the Writers’ War Board the other day asking for a statement on ‘The Meaning of Democracy.’ It is presumably our duty to comply with such a request, and it is certainly our pleasure. Surely the Board knows what democracy is. It is the line that forms on the right. It is the don’t in don’t shove. It is the hole in the stuffed shirt through which the sawdust slowly trickles, the dent in the high hat.

Democracy is the recurrent suspicion that more than half of the people are right more than half the time. It is the feeling of privacy in the voting booths, the feeling of communion in the libraries, the feeling of vitality everywhere. Democracy is the letter to the editor. Democracy is the score at the beginning of the ninth. It is an idea which hasn’t been disproved yet, a song the words of which have not gone bad. It’s the mustard on the hot dog and the cream in the rationed coffee. Democracy is a request from a War Board, in the middle of the morning in the middle of a war, wanting to know what democracy is. (E.B. White, July 3, 1943)

fave-O-lit friday

No Difference

by Shel Silverstein

Small as a peanut, Big as a giant,

We’re all the same size When we turn off the light.
Rich as a sultan, Poor as a mite,

We’re all worth the same When we turn off the light.
Red, black or orange, Yellow or white,

We all look the same When we turn off the light.
So maybe the way To make everything right

Is for God to just reach out And turn off the light!

fave-O-lit friday

The Flower

Alfred Lord Tennyson              

Once in a golden hour   I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower, The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went   Thro’ my garden-bower, And muttering discontent   Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall It wore a crown of light, But thieves from o’er the wall   Stole the seed by night.

Sow’d it far and wide   By every town and tower, Till all the people cried   `Splendid is the flower.’

Read my little fable:   He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now,   For all have got the seed.

And some are pretty enough,   And some are poor indeed; And now again the people   Call it but a weed.

fave-O-lit friday

Nature — the Gentlest Mother is,
Impatient of no Child —
The feeblest — or the waywardest —
Her Admonition mild —

In Forest — and the Hill —
By Traveller — be heard —
Restraining Rampant Squirrel —
Or too impetuous Bird —

How fair Her Conversation —
A Summer Afternoon —
Her Household — Her Assembly —
And when the Sun go down —

Her Voice among the Aisles
Incite the timid prayer
Of the minutest Cricket —
The most unworthy Flower —

When all the Children sleep —
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light Her lamps —
Then bending from the Sky —

With infinite Affection —
And infiniter Care —
Her Golden finger on Her lip —
Wills Silence — Everywhere —