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Rain and slush and mud. It could be days before we see the sun. It’s time to gird loins and grit teeth and remember in a month it will be May. Also remember poets who had grimmer mud to face, and still saw beauty. I may reread the World War One poet Wilford Owen’s “Apoligia Pro Promate Meo,” that begins, “I, too, saw God through mud…”


Some people are like a snatch of blue sky on a gray day.

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In my time I have seen many wrenches
Tossed into the artworks which I might have made,
But I, too, have seen God in the trenches
And laughed about Yorick while wielding a spade.

Happiness can’t abide preconditions.
You think you need money, but wealthy men
Groan as their mansions become perditions.
Happiness just won’t obey “if” and “then”.

In the valley of shadow white light will appear
Though doubters seek to creep close and destroy.
If Beethoven demanded that he could hear
We would not now have his sweet song of Joy.

In thickets of thorns, still seek a rosebud
And you too will see the sky in the mud.