Saturday thoughts . . .

The Heart of The Tree

What does he plant who plants a tree?
He plants a friend of sun and sky;
He plants the flag of breezes free;
The shaft of beauty, towering high;
He plants a home to heaven high;
For song and mother-croon of bird
In hushed and happy twilight heard . . .
The treble of heaven's harmony . . .
These things he plants who plants a tree.

What does he plant who plants a tree?
He plants cool shade and tender rain,
And seed and bud of days to be,
And years that fade and flush again;
He plants the forest's heritage;
The harvest of a coming age;
The joy that unborn eyes shall see . . .
These things he plants who plants a tree.

What does he plant who plants a tree?
He plants, in sap and leaf and wood,
In love of home and loyalty
And far-cast thought of civic good . . .
His blessings on the neighborhood
Who in the hollow of His hand
Holds all the growth of all our land . . .
A nation's growth from sea to sea
Stirs in his heart who plants a tree.

by Henry Cuyler Bunner
1855-1896

I just love this poem, but then again . . . I love trees. We were watching an episode of Leave It To Beaver on dvd the other night and Beaver's teacher Miss Landers read this poem out to the children in it. They had been tasked with memorizing it and had been reciting it going through the lines quickly and with no expression . . . so Miss Landers recited it to them properly with expression . . . It was so beautiful. I just had to find the poem so that I could read it through completely, as she had only recited a few lines.



I can remember having to memorize poetry when I was at school. Sometimes it was only a small verse and a funny one at that, like Eletelephony. Other times it was a poem that seemed to be pages long and very difficult like The Wreck of the Hesperus. I can remember that one as being very challenging, but I did do it . . . we all did, as easy or as difficult as it may have been. I remember being particularly nervous about this stanza:

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.

I was nine years old and I had no idea of what hawthorn buds were, but I knew what bosom's were and every time I got to that part I felt like giggling and that made me very nervous about reciting it. Oh the innocence of childhood . . .



Who has not been touched by the words of Wordsworth in The Daffodils . . . or sighed to the words of Keats' Bright Star . . . and then . . . there is Emily Dickenson . . . and Elizabeth Barret Browning . . . how do I love thee . . .

That is what having to memorize poetry in school did for me . . . it was far more than just learning about different poets and stretching my brain by making me exercise it . . . it was about developing a love and true fondness for poetry. I have loved poetry ever since . . . I collect volumes of it and I read through it often.

It is amazing to me how these melodic lines of prose can brush against my heart and fill my mind with vivid pictures . . . did they know, these poets of old, that as they penned these words . . . that their words would have the power to touch hearts and souls down through generations of people? How could they know . . . they were probably just telling the tales of their own hearts and souls . . . and because their words came from deep inside the channels of their own feelings and souls, this is what gives them the power to touch our own . . .



I fancy myself somewhat of a poet sometimes. I have various lines of verse scribbled upon scraps of paper scattered throughout my house . . . sometimes I even think in verse. Life is like a huge piece of prose to me . . . that I add to every day . . . the words, a gentle twist here and a sudden thump there. I believe at the end of the day . . . when I finally get called home for that last time . . . I will have written a piece of magic. It may be for my eyes only, and the eyes of the One who cares most of all, but it will be my poem, in my words . . . I hope that He finds it pleasing . . . oh I do so hope that He finds it pleasing . . .

I am off to Wrexham this morning for the World Wide Leadership Broadcast of our church. Anyone who is in a position of Leadership is invited to attend and feast on whatever it is the Leaders of our church want us to take in. Todd has to go too, as he is also in a Leadership position so it will be nice, the two of us sitting there together drinking it in. I hope I remember my notebook! We went to the Panto last night and it was brilliant! Very entertaining! I thought they did a fabulous job and to think . . . it was written and performed by amateurs! Just goes to show how much hidden talent there is out there!

Something simple this morning. I read somewhere once where a celebrity chef measured how good a cook was by the way they cooked an egg, and ever since then I have been in pursuit of the perfect scrambled egg . . . and by jove, I think I've cracked it! (Every pun intended!)



*Perfect Scrambled Eggs*
Serves 2
Printable Recipe

There is nothing more beautiful or enticing than a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs… fluffy, feather light, moist and not dry, full of farm fresh goodness…accompanied with crisp slices of perfectly buttered toast, this is the food of the Gods . . .

4 large free range eggs
2 TBS cream
Butter
Salt and pepper to taste

Have a skillet heating over medium heat on the stove. Crack your eggs into a bowl and beat them with a fork until they are all beaten together and light. Beat in the cream.

Melt a large knob of butter in the heated skillet . When it just starts to foam, tip in the eggs. Let sit for about 30 seconds and then with a wooden spatula start to scrape the cooked egg from the outside into the centre of the pan, folding and stirring as you go. Don’t rush it. You don’t want to over cook it, neither do you want to undercook it. You just want to cook them until they all pull together into soft creamy lumps, not dry curds. This should take several minutes.

You may want to turn the heat off under the pan for the last minute or so. I often do. Once you have them to the consistency you want, stir in yet another lump of butter spreading it’s delicious melting goodness through the egg. Remove completely from the heat and serve, seasoned with a sprinkling of sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper. Crisp buttered toast is the must have accompaniment, either along side, or underneath!



In The English Kitchen today . . . a delicious Cranberry Eve's Pudding!