“Be Thou My Vision” is one of my favorite hymns. It’s one I wish I could speak as a confession instead of an aspiration. Here are two of the less familiar verses:

Be Thou my battle Shield, Sword for the fight;

Be Thou my Dignity, Thou my Delight;

Thou my soul’s Shelter, Thou my high Tower:

Raise Thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.

Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise,

Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:

Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,

High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art.

We’ve been talking about women a bit this week, so I submit this Longfellow poem to cap things off. Here’s a portion:

MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes,

In whose orbs a shadow lies

Like the dusk in evening skies!

Thou whose locks outshine the sun,

Golden tresses, wreathed in one,

As the braided streamlets run!

…

Bear a lily in thy hand;

Gates of brass cannot withstand

One touch of that magic wand.

from “Maidenhood”

I felt I should confess what is probably obvious to all of our regular readers. This blog could be in the top 10 of the blogosphere, if Lars and I weren’t holding back. As an illustration, I offer this poem by Holmes:

I WROTE some lines once on a time

In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say

They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,

I laughed as I would die;

Albeit, in the general way,

A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came; Read on

from “The Height of the Ridiculous,” by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Since Lars is gone this week, I feel the need to post something Vikinesque. Here’s part of a modern poem by Christie Ward, called “Creation,” which claims to be in the style of Viking poetry. You can read the whole thing through the link.

Of men there are many, and many the singers.

One is the song that shall rise above all:

of man sing the song then! The ideal! The spirit!

Away shall pass peoples, but never the power

of song, nor the poet who sings the soul of his people.

Here’s a fun poem by Mark Jarman, printed in The New Criterion.

When we arrive, the future will adore us

As being so much better than it expected.

We went to school with thugs and contagion.

We went to school with tidal waves and felons.

And we turned out OK. We’re at the future!

. . . Read on

“GENTLY, Lord, oh, gently lead us,

Pilgrims in this vale of tears . . .

Suffer not our hearts to languish,

Suffer not our souls to fear”

from Thomas Hastings, “In Sorrow”

How bad can it be before it can no longer be called poetry? I know y’all are fierce poetry advocates, so here’s an article on a poem, once highly praised, now considered the worst ever written. If that’s not enough bathroom reading for you, here’s a promising book: Very Bad Poetry.