Poems

Ah, poetry. I have always loved poems. I remember my first stirrings toward my love of all things "Language Arts" came during a poetry assignment in 9th grade. I threw myself into that project, heart and soul, as I pored over both the poems and the poets. We also had to memorize and publicly recite a poem and I still to this day can recite, Stopping by a Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost.

Then came college and my English hero, Dr. Geerda Bos. I loved explicating poetry for her class, if for nothing more but the sheer, selfish joy of receiving an "A+" and "Job Well Done" from the woman that I felt "hung the moon" when it came to the teaching of English.

Today, for reasons unknown, I recalled this poem. It's one by George Eliot. "George" was not a man, just a pen name. Her real name was Mary Evans (I think). She lived in England during the Victorian Era and lived quite, shall we say, an "interesting" life for women of that time. In fact, a lot of well-known people from England had the honor of being buried in Westminster Abbey. At her death, however, it was decided that she had "pushed the envelope" a tad too far during her lifetime, so she couldn't be buried there. Somehow, I don't think "George" would have minded; quite the contrary...she's probably buried with a huge smile on her face! Well class, enough of my lecture for today (can you tell I'm a frustrated English teacher in search of a classroom?). Here's some poetry by George:

If you sit down at set of sun

And count the acts that you have done,

And, counting, find

One self-denying deed, one word

That eased the heart of him who heard,

One glance most kind

That fell like sunshine where it went

Then you may count that day well spent.

But if, through all the livelong day,

You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay

If, through it all

You've nothing done that you can trace

That brought the sunshine to one face

No act most small

That helped some soul and nothing cost

Then count that day as worse than lost.