He likes fog. She likes rain.

Sharing London

Leanne Hooper — Sun, 20 May 2012 13:00:41 +0000

To our dear family and friends (if you’re reading this, that’s you),

To say we have been terrible at keeping you up-to-date on our great London adventure would be an understatement. The last time we updated the blog with anything personal was when we went to Greenwich to celebrate Jonathan’s birthday…last year!

We arrived back in the UK from our short but sweet Canadian trip just 2 weeks ago and our time in Canada impressed upon my heart our need to share more about our lives here! The only question is where to begin?

Happy New Year!

Leanne Hooper — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 22:27:36 +0000

Twenty-Eighth Advent Poem, “On The Morning Of Christ’s Nativity” by John Milton

Leanne Hooper — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 01:11:34 +0000

It’s Christmas Eve, making this the last of the Advent poems. Thank you all so much for following along! For this Christmas Eve I’ve chosen John Milton’s “On The Morning Of Christ’s Nativity”. Merry Christmas!

 "On The Morning Of Christ's Nativity" by John Milton

I

  This is the Month, and this the happy morn
  Wherin the Son of Heav'ns eternal King,
  Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
  Our great redemption from above did bring;
  For so the holy sages once did sing,
  That he our deadly forfeit should release,
  And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

  II

  That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
  And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty,
  Wherwith he wont at Heav'ns high Councel-Table,                     
  To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
  He laid aside; and here with us to be,
  Forsook the Courts of everlasting Day,
  And chose with us a darksom House of mortal Clay.

  III

  Say Heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
  Afford a present to the Infant God?
  Hast thou no vers, no hymn, or solemn strein,
  To welcom him to this his new abode,
  Now while the Heav'n by the Suns team untrod,
  Hath took no print of the approching light,                        
  And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

  IV

  See how from far upon the Eastern rode
  The Star-led Wisards haste with odours sweet,
  O run,  prevent them with thy humble ode,
  And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
  Have thou the honour first, thy Lord to greet,
  And joyn thy voice unto the Angel Quire,
  From out his secret Altar toucht with hallow'd fire.

(As reprinted at Project Gutenberg.)

Twenty-Seventh Advent Poem, “In the bleak mid-winter” by Christina Rossetti

Leanne Hooper — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 22:41:32 +0000

Christina Rossetti’s “A Christmas Carol” or, as it is more commonly known, “In the bleak mid-winter” is one of my absolute favourite poems. It is chilling and beautiful.

 "A Christmas Carol" by Christina Rossetti

In the bleak mid-winter
  Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
  Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
  Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
  Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
  Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
  When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
  A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty
  Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him whom cherubim
  Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
  And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him whom angels
  Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
  Which adore.

Angels and archangels
  May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
  Throng'd the air,
But only His mother
  In her maiden bliss
Worshipped her Beloved
  With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
  Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
  I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
  I would do my part,--
Yet what I can I give Him,
  Give my heart.

(As reprinted at Project Gutenberg.)

Twenty-Sixth Advent Poem, “Christ’s Nativity” by Henry Vaughn

Leanne Hooper — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 00:05:00 +0000

 "Christ's Nativity" by Henry Vaughn

Awake, glad heart! get up and sing!
It is the birth-day of thy King.
         Awake! awake!
         The Sun doth shake
Light from his locks, and all the way
Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

Awake, awake! hark how th’ wood rings;
Winds whisper, and the busy springs
         A concert make;
         Awake! awake!
Man is their high-priest, and should rise
To offer up the sacrifice.

I would I were some bird, or star,
Flutt’ring in woods, or lifted far
         Above this inn
         And road of sin!
Then either star or bird should be
Shining or singing still to thee.

I would I had in my best part
Fit rooms for thee! or that my heart
         Were so clean as
         Thy manger was!
But I am all filth, and obscene;
Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean.

Sweet Jesu! will then. Let no more
This leper haunt and soil thy door!
         Cure him, ease him,
         O release him!
And let once more, by mystic birth,
The Lord of life be born in earth.

(As reprinted at The Poetry Foundation.)

Twenty-Fifth Advent Poem, “Music on Christmas Morning” by Anne Brontë

Leanne Hooper — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 01:28:42 +0000

I’m a touch early regarding the content of the poem, but there are many very lovely poems that speak directly to Christmas Day and I wouldn’t want anyone to miss out on this one by Anne Brontë.

 "Music on Christmas Morning" by Anne Brontë
 (originally published under the pseudonym "Acton Bell")


 Music I love—but never strain
     Could kindle raptures so divine,
     So grief assuage, so conquer pain,
     And rouse this pensive heart of mine—
     As that we hear on Christmas morn,
     Upon the wintry breezes borne.

     Though Darkness still her empire keep,
     And hours must pass, ere morning break;
     From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,
     That music KINDLY bids us wake:
     It calls us, with an angel's voice,
     To wake, and worship, and rejoice;

     To greet with joy the glorious morn,
     Which angels welcomed long ago,
     When our redeeming Lord was born,
     To bring the light of Heaven below;
     The Powers of Darkness to dispel,
     And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.

     While listening to that sacred strain,
     My raptured spirit soars on high;
     I seem to hear those songs again
     Resounding through the open sky,
     That kindled such divine delight,
     In those who watched their flocks by night.

     With them I celebrate His birth—
     Glory to God, in highest Heaven,
     Good-will to men, and peace on earth,
     To us a Saviour-king is given;
     Our God is come to claim His own,
     And Satan's power is overthrown!

     A sinless God, for sinful men,
     Descends to suffer and to bleed;
     Hell MUST renounce its empire then;
     The price is paid, the world is freed,
     And Satan's self must now confess
     That Christ has earned a RIGHT to bless:

     Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,
     And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:
     The captive's galling bonds are riven,
     For our Redeemer is our king;
     And He that gave his blood for men
     Will lead us home to God again.

(As reprinted at Project Gutenberg.)

Twenty-Fourth Advent Poem, “Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak” by William Wordsworth

Leanne Hooper — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 00:27:06 +0000

 "Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak" by William Wordsworth

Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak, 
When hitherward we journeyed, side by side,
Through burst of sunshine and through flying showers,
Paced the long vales, how long they were, and yet
How fast that length of way was left behind, 
Wensley's rich vale and Sedbergh's naked heights.
The frosty wind, as if to make amends
For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps,
And drove us onward like two ships at sea;
Or, like two birds, companions in mid-air, 
Parted and reunited by the blast.
Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced
In that stern countenance; for our souls thence drew
A feeling of their strength. The naked trees,
The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared 
To question us, "Whence come ye? To what end?"

(As reprinted at Project Gutenberg.)

Twenty-Third Advent Poem, “Winter calling up his Legions” by Susanna Moodie

Leanne Hooper — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 00:53:42 +0000

Okay, I confess, I seem to have a soft spot for Ms. Moodie, but this poem tends towards the theatric. I encourage you to read it aloud to someone!

 "Winter calling up his Legions" by Susanna Moodie

WINTER.

Awake—arise! all my stormy powers,
The earth, the fair earth, again is ours!
At my stern approach, pale Autumn flings down
In the dust her broken and faded crown;
At my glance the terrified mourner flies,
And the earth is filled with her doleful cries.
Awake!—for the season of flowers is o'er,—
My white banner unfurl on each northern shore!
Ye have slumbered long in my icy chain—
Ye are free to travel the land and main.
Spirits of frost! quit your mountains of snow—
Will ye longer suffer the streams to flow?
Up, up, and away from your rocky caves
And herald me over the pathless waves!

He ceased, and rose from his craggy throne
And girt around him his icy zone;
And his meteor-eye grew wildly bright
As he threw his glance o'er those realms of night.
He sent forth his voice with a mighty sound,
And the snows of ages were scattered around;
And the hollow murmurs that shook the sky
Told to the monarch, his band was nigh.

THE WIND FROST.

I come o'er the hills of the frozen North,
To call to the battle thy armies forth:
I have swept the shores of the Baltic sea,
And the billows have felt my mastery;
They resisted my power, but strove in vain—
I have curbed their might with my crystal chain.
I roused the northwind in his stormy cave,
Together we passed over land and wave;
I sharpened his breath and gave him power
To crush and destroy every herb and flower;
He obeyed my voice, and is rending now
The sallow leaves from the groaning bough;
And he shouts aloud in his wild disdain,
As he whirls them down to the frozen plain:
Those beautiful leaves to which Spring gave birth
Are scattered abroad on the face of the earth.
I have visited many a creek and bay,
And curdled the streams in my stormy way;
I have chilled into hail the genial shower:—
All this I have done to increase thy power.

THE RIME FROST.

I stood by the stream in the deep midnight.
The moon through the fog shed a misty light;
I arrested the vapours that floated by,
And wove them in garlands and hung them on high;
I bound the trees in a feathery zone,
And turned the soft dews of heaven to stone;
I spangled with gems every leaf and spray,
As onward I passed on my noiseless way;
And I came to thee when my work was done,
To see how they shone in the morning sun!

THE NORTH WIND.

I have borne the clouds on my restless wings,
And my sullen voice through the desert rings;
I sent through the forest a rushing blast,
And the foliage fled as I onward passed
From the desolate regions of woe and death,
In adamant bound by my freezing breath:
From the crystal mountains where silence reigns,
And nature sleeps on the sterile plains,
I have brought the snow from thy mighty store
To whiten and cover each northern shore.

THE EAST WIND.

I woke like a giant refreshed with sleep,
And lifted the waves of the troubled deep;
I clouded the heavens with vapours dark,
And rolled the tide o'er the foundering bark,
Then mocked in hoarse murmurs the hollow cry
Of the drowning wretch in his agony:
I have leagued with the North to assert thy right
On the land and the wave both by day and by night!

THE SNOW.

I heard thy summons and hastened fast,
And floated hither before the blast,
To wave thy white banner o'er tower and town,
O'er the level plain and the mountain brown.
I have crowned the woods with a spotless wreath,
And loaded the avalanche with death;
I have wrapped the earth in a winding sheet,
And Nature lies dead beneath my feet.

CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

All hail, mighty monarch! our tasks are o'er;
Thy power is confessed on each northern shore;
From the rock's stern brow to the rolling sea
The spirits of earth have bowed to thee.
In the cradle of Nature the young Spring lies
With the slumber of death on her azure eyes;
And we wander at will through the wide domain,
Which in beauty and verdure shall flourish again,
When she bursts from her shroud like a sun-beam forth
'To chase us back to the frozen North!'

With darkness and storms for thy panoply,
Stern Winter, what power may contend with thee?
Thy sceptre commands both the wind and the tide,
And thy empire extends over regions wide;
With thy star-gemmed crown and eagle wings,
The strongest of nature's potent kings!
But thy power for a season alone is lent,
Thou art but a ministering spirit sent
By the mighty Creator of thine and thee,
Who fills with his presence immensity!

(As reprinted at Project Gutenberg.)

Twenty-Second Advent Poem, “Frost At Midnight” Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Leanne Hooper — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 01:32:41 +0000

 "Frost At Midnight" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,

Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

                      But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!

         Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

         Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

(As reprinted at The Poetry Foundation.)

Twenty-First Advent Poem, “It sifts from Leaden Sieves” by Emily Dickinson

Leanne Hooper — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 02:33:23 +0000

Today’s poem is also a mere link, but it is a very lovely poem!
To read Emily Dickinson’s “It sifts from Leaden Sieves” go here.