To a SkylarkHail to thee, blithe Spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from Heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springestLike a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the sunken sun,O'…

Human lives are composed like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual's life. Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress. It is right to…

The PrefaceTHE ARTIST is the creator of beautiful things.To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt wi…

“Hope” is the thing with feathersBY EMILY DICKINSON"Hope” is the thing with feathers -That perches in the soul -And sings the tune without the words -And never stops - at all -And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -And sore must be the storm -That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm -I’ve heard it in the chillest land -And on the stra…

Ask Me Not of Sunset.Do not come and ask me of sunset,For I have not seen one,For I have not been one.They came and asked:How about the greying of hair,The fall of tooth,The aching of bones,Is it not sunset?I answered them loud and clear:No, it is not sunset,Because for every strand of grey hair,Every tooth that fell,Every aching of the bones,A new…

Do not come and ask me of sunset,For I have not seen one,For I have not been one.They came and asked:How about the greying of hair,The fall of tooth,The aching of bones,Is it not sunset?I answered them loud and clear:No, it is not sunset,Because for every strand of grey hair,Every tooth that fell,Every aching of the bones,A new wisdom will come, kn…

Approaching seventy, she learns to live,at last. She realizes she has notaccomplished half of what she struggled for,that she surrendered too many battlesand seldom celebrated those she won.Approaching seventy, she learns to livewithout ambition: a calm lake face, nota train bound for success and glory. Forthe first time, she relaxes her hands on t…

It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That lov…

I found Robert Frost's poem, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening",as a poem that best describes a mother's journey, especially its last stanza:"The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep." A mother is promises well-kept:A promise to love unconditionally,A promis…

Do not come and ask me of sunset,For I have not seen one,For I have not been one.They came and asked:How about the greying of hair,The fall of tooth,The aching of bones,Is it not sunset?I answered them loud and clear:No, it is not sunset,Because for every strand of grey hair,Every tooth that fell,Every aching of the bones,A new wisdom will come, kn…

I talked about my journal entry for the New Year: my resolutions, the 'Way', the most important people and thing in my life, my prayers and meditations. I also read Schaef's January 1 entry from her book "Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much."

I am reading for you two pages of The Best-Loved Poems of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, who is one of the icons of our time and one of the most inspiring women in the world.

This is one of my favourite poems. It tells us to never, never, never lose faith.

I am reading from Tolstoy's Calendar of Wisdom about Good Books and reciting Gibran's poem on Work.

Ithaca by Constantine P. Cavafi always reminds me that life is a journey, an adventure to be fully experienced, enjoyed and lived.

I wrote this poem ("Ask Me Not of Sunset") for my Mother's 80-th birthday, while watching a giant lizard swimming gracefully in a swamp and a kingfisher bird taking her first step in the dawn. Ask Me Not of Sunset. (to Eniek on her 80-th birthday)Do not come and ask me of sunset, For I have not seen one,For I have not been one.They came and asked:H…