With eyes of green
That you can see
Between the mossy trees,
Lives a being.
He sleeps at night
Below the stars all bright
Watching over all
Of Nature’s beings.
He is the guardian of the trees.
He is the guardian of the bees.
He is the guardian of the flowers.
He is the guardian of their leaves.
He is the guardian of the grass.
He is the guardian of their seeds.
He is Master.
He is King.
He is kind.
He is free.
He is able to see everything
For he is the seer of all of nature’s things.
The Green Man is what you see within that mossy tree.
Dear David and Myrea:
I thought you might like to include this excerpt on your wonderful website.
John —–Dear John we would be delighted to add these powerful mystical yet enchanting words to your pages at your request, David and Myrea
“If ever island were enchanted,” —said I to myself, — “This is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs? —or do they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying do they not rather waste away mournfully; rendering unto God little by little of their existence, as those trees render up shadow after shadow, exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys upon, may not the life of the Fay be the death which engulfs it?”
As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to rest and eddying currents careering round and round the island, bearing upon their bosom large dazzling, white flakes of the bark of the sycamore—flakes which in their multiform positions upon the water, a quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased—while I thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect, in a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude seemed indicative of joy—but sorrow deformed it as she passed within the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and re-entered the region of light. “The revolution which has just been made by the Fay,” continued I musingly—“Is the cycle of the brief year of her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She is a year nearer unto Death; for I did not fail to see that as she came into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the dark water, making its blackness more black.”
And again the boat appeared, and the Fay; but about the attitude of the latter there was more of care and uncertainty, and less of elastic joy. She floated again from out of the light, and into the gloom (which deepened momently) and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water and became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the circuit of the island, (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers) and at each issuing into the light, there was more sorrow about her person, while it grew feebler, and far fainter, and more indistinct; and at each passage into the gloom, there fell from her a darker shade, which became whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, —and that she issued thence at all I cannot say, —for darkness fell over all things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.
Excerpt from The Island of the Fay, by Edgar Allan Poe, 1841.
The World’s Smallest Giant
A Christmas Tale for Children
Once upon a time, there was a giant named Thirgill. Even though it was almost Christmas time, Thirgill was not happy. You see, Thirgill was only five feet tall. Now that may not seem so awful to you … but for a giant … that’s really quite small. Poor Thirgill was the world’s smallest giant, and that’s why he was so unhappy.
Thirgill’s little brother Thirhald (who was fifteen feet tall) suggested that a letter to Father Christmas might help. So after much coaxing, Thirgill wrote:
“Dear Father Christmas:
I have only one wish for Christmas. I am the world’s smallest giant, only five feet tall. Can you please change me into something else so I can do things to help people? I’m just too little to do giant’s work. Please help me.
Love,
Thirgill”
On Christmas Eve, Thirgill went to bed early, after he and little brother Thirhald made a last-minute check of the Christmas tree and stockings.
The brothers were awakened Christmas morning by the squeals of delight from the children next door. Thirgill leaped out of bed with anticipation and ran to the mirror.
But poor Thirgill still looked the same … and was still only five feet tall. The only thing that kept him from bursting out in tears was the excited voice of his little brother calling to him from the other room.
“Thirgill! Come here quickly! It’s something for you from Father Christmas!”
Thirgill ran into the room at once, to see Thirhald holding a large red box with gold ribbons. On the box was a card addressed to THIRGILL, NO LONGER THE WORLD’S SMALLEST GIANT.
“What does it mean?” asked Thirgill, “I look just the same as I always did.”
“Open the gift, Thirgill,” cried little brother Thirhald, “open it!”
Thirgill opened the box excitedly, putting aside all the bright red paper and the pretty gold ribbons. In the box, Thirgill could see some strange clothing… a big gold certificate… and right on top, a letter from Father Christmas!
“Dear Thirgill:
I hope you will have a very merry Christmas with what I am sending you. I suppose you are curious about how and why you are no longer the world’s smallest giant and yet haven’t seemed to change in the least.
I am granting your request to change your unhappy situation. We at the North Pole have a tremendous job preparing toys and gifts for children throughout the year. My gnomes and elves, due to their small size, must work frightfully hard to meet our annual Christmas Eve deadline.
We have needed help for many years, and I am asking you to join us. Please read the enclosed gold certificate.
Merry Christmas,
Father Christmas”
Thirgill picked up the beautiful gold certificate with tears of happiness in his eyes.
This certifies that
Thirgill
is to be henceforth known as
Thirgill, the World’s Tallest Elf
and a Member in Good Standing and an
Official Employee of Santa’s Workshop.
“The World’s Tallest Elf,” exclaimed Thirgill. (you know, he felt bigger already!)
“What else is in the box?” asked his brother.
Thirgill looked again, and pulled out the biggest Elf Suit either of them had ever seen… and when Thirgill tried it on, it fit perfectly!
How very proud of his brother was Thirhald! He told all the other giants from that day on, that his brother was Thirgill, the World’s Tallest Elf!
So… if you’ve been getting larger Christmas gifts lately, and if you’ve wondered how those little, tiny elves could have managed them… you can be sure they were helped by none other than Thirgill, the World’s Tallest (and happiest) Elf!
You don’t have to be a Christian to love Christmas,
It’s a festival for all the girls and boys;
Even Buddha, meditatin’ can hardly bear the waitin’
For jolly Santa and his bag of toys.
You don’t have to be a Christian to love Christmas,
It’s such fun to decorate the Christmas tree;
The Shinto in Japan and the kids of the Koran,
Their eyes light up when all the gifts they see.
You don’t have to be a Christian to love Christmas,
It’s a holiday for all the world to share;
The Druid and the Jain and the atheist down the lane
Are wrapping gifts for family everywhere.
You don’t have to be a Christian to love Christmas,
There’s a friendliness in everyone you meet;
The Hindu and the Wiccan can bake a sumptious chicken
And invite the Jewish family down the street!
The goldfinch faery casts her shimmering dust
Alights upon her long-eared morning pal
Who canters forth, enlivened by such trust
Then hides amidst the grey-green chaparral
The lizard likewise relishes this day
My fleet companion on the sandy trail
But changing course, he interrupts his play
And vanishes, just like the cottontail
My own gait more deliberate, it seems
While savoring the scent of coastal sage
Along with autumn’s muted color schemes
I ponder seasons’ ever-turning page
And shifting choices made by man and beast:
Retreat in fear or celebrate the feast?
Stumble it!
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