The muffled syllables that Nature speaks
Fill us with deeper longing for her word;
She hides a meaning that the spirit seeks,
She makes a sweeter music than is heard.
A hidden light illumines all our seeing,
An unknown love enchants our solitude.
We feel and know that from the depths of being
Exhales an infinite, a perfect good.
Though the heart wear the garment of its sorrow
And be not happy like a naked star,
Yet from the thought of peace some peace we borrow,
Some rapture from the rapture felt afar.
Our heart strings are too coarse for Nature’s fingers
Deftly to quicken as she pulses on,
And the harsh tremor that among them lingers
Will into sweeter silence die anon.
We catch the broken prelude and suggestion
Of things unuttered, needing to be sung;
We know the burden of them, and their question
Lies heavy on the heart, nor finds a tongue.
Till haply, lightning through the storm of ages,
Our sullen secret flash from sky to sky,
Glowing in some diviner poet’s pages
And swelling into rapture from this sigh.
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
He says the problem with teachers isWhat’s a kid going to learnfrom someone who decided his best option in lifewas to become a teacher?He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s truewhat they say about teachers:Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.I decide to bite my tongue instead of hisand resist the temptation to remind the dinner gueststhat it’s also true what they say about lawyers.Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor.Be honest. What do you make?And I wish he hadn’t done that— asked me to be honest—because, you see, I have this policy about honesty and ass-¬‐kicking:if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it.You want to know what I make?I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honorand an A-¬‐ feel like a slap in the face.How dare you waste my timewith anything less than your very best.I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hallin absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.No, you may not ask a question.Why won’t I let you go to the bathroom?Because you’re bored.And you don’t really have to go to the bathroom, do you?I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time, I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today. To the biggest bully in the grade, he said,“Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you?It’s no big deal.”And that was noblest act of courage I have ever seen.I make parents see their children for who they areand what they can be.You want to know what I make? I make kids wonder,I make them question.I make them criticize.I make them apologize and mean it.I make them write.I make them read, read, read.I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautifulover and over and over again until they will never misspelleither one of those words again.I make them show all their work in mathand hide it on their final drafts in English.I make them understand that if you’ve got this,then you follow this,and if someone ever tries to judge youby what you make, you give them this.Here, let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:Teachers make a goddamn difference! Now what about you?
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but I am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.
Words ... for the Time Being 