Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Linda Hogan

Brad Ricca

Stephen Dunn

Anna Akhmatova

Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,

Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

Much has been said about being in the present. It’s the place to be, according to the gurus, like the latest club on the downtown scene, but no one, it seems, is able to give you directions.

While democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

So join your much discussed hands.

We need this; for one small second.

So touch. So lead.

We know the horses are there in the dark meadow because we can smell them, can hear them breathing. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid.

So we pray amidst jeering protesters and soaring jets.  Come by here and make new, even at some risk to our entitlements.

Winter is the best time to find out who you are.

Called to a destiny more momentous than any in all of Time, she did not quail, only asked a simple, ‘How can this be?’

And so we lay them at the threshold, God: bid you hold them, bless them, use them.