[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 147 (2001), Part 5]
[Senate]
[Pages 6392-6394]
[From the U.S. Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]



                        A CELEBRATION OF POETRY

  Mr. BYRD. Mr. President, this is entitled ``Looking Up At Him'':

       I asked the robin, as he sprang
       From branch to branch and sweetly sang,
       What made his breast so round and red;
       Twas ``looking at the sun,'' he said;
       I asked the violets, sweet and blue,
       Sparkling in the morning dew,
       Whence came their colors, then so shy;
       They answered, ``looking to the sky'';
       I saw the roses, one by one,
       Unfold their petals to the sun,
       I asked them what made their tints so bright,
       They answered, ``looking to the light'';
       I asked the thrush, whose silvery note
       Came like a song from angel's throat,
       Why he sang in the twilight dim;
       He answered, ``looking up at Him.''

  Mr. President, this month, our nation recognizes National Poetry 
Month, a celebration of poetry and its place in American society. Like 
spring, poetry offers man a rebirth of his inner spirit. Poetry 
expresses our humanity, and, through meter, makes music of the spoken 
world as it rhythmically sways and floats through our imaginations. It 
is the laughter of children, the gentle rustle of an autumn breeze, and 
the pitter-patter of a sun shower. Poetry, simply put, is beauty 
defined.

     Man comes a pilgrim of the universe,
     Out of the mystery that was before
     The world, out of the wonder of old stars.
     Far roads have felt his feet, forgotten wells
     Have glassed his beauty bending down to drink.
     At altar-fires anterior to Earth
     His soul was lighted, and it will burn on
     After the suns have wasted on the void.
     His feet have felt the pressure of old worlds,
     And are to tread on others yet unnamed--
     Worlds sleeping yet in some new dream of God.

  Whether constructed with long cadenced lines or intricate stanzas, 
conventional or openhanded sonnetry, light quatrains or heavy ballads, 
or the age-old epic yarns of Homer and Virgil, the power of poetry 
surrounds us. It tells of love, of death, of things temporal or 
spiritual, and of the hereafter. It speaks of the most common of 
occurrences and the most revealing of emotions, and it flows like a 
symphony, its

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meter enhancing the expressiveness of its words. These virtues can be 
seen in Alfred Tennyson's ``Crossing the Bar'':

     Sunset and evening star,
     And one clear call for me!
     And my there be no moaning of the bar,
     When I put out to sea,
     But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
     Too full for sound and foam,
     When that which drew from out the boundless deep
     Turns again home.
     Twilight and evening bell,
     And after that the dark!
     And may there be no sadness of farewell,
     When I embark;
     For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
     The flood may bear me far,
     I hope to see my Pilot face to face
     When I have crost the bar.

  I have often found that a good poet helps me to examine my inner self 
through the poet's use of words, meter, and rhyme. Such poets enable 
their readers to look within and to confront their own vexations and 
perplexities, and then sort out the wheat from the chaff and deal with 
the inevitable dilemmas of life. An example of this can be seen in 
Robert Frost's ageless masterpiece, ``The Road Not Taken:''

     Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
     And sorry I could not travel both
     And be one traveler, long I stood
     And looked down one as far as I could
     To where it bent in the undergrowth;

     Then took the other, as just as fair,
     And having perhaps the better claim,
     Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
     Though as for that, the passing there
     Had worn them really about the same,

     And both that morning equally lay
     In leaves no step had trodden black.
     Oh, I kept the first for another day!
     Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
     I doubted if I should ever come back.

     I shall be telling this with a sigh
     Somewhere ages and ages hence:
     Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
     I took the one less traveled by,
     And that has made all the difference.

  Frost's words sing, and at the same time, as I reflect on his deft 
metaphor for the choices we all make in our lives, they burn in my 
mind. For 83 years I have encountered diverging roads, some in the 
beautiful woods of West Virginia and many here in this Chamber. The 
choices that I have made at these crossroads have, in fact, made all 
the difference.
  Speaking of roads, there are many bridges also that we have to cross 
in this great country of ours. It brings to my mind a poem by Will 
Dromgoole. One might think this is a man who wrote this poem--Will 
Dromgoole, but it is a female author:

     An old man going a lone highway
     Came at the evening, cold and gray,
     To a chasm vast and wide and steep,
     With waters rolling cold and deep.
     The old man crossed in the twilight dim,
     The sullen stream had no fears for him;
     But he turned when safe on the other side,
     And built a bridge to span the tide.

     ``Old man,'' said a fellow pilgrim near,
     ``You are wasting your strength with building here.
     Your journey will end with the ending day,
     You never again will pass this way.
     You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
     Why build you this bridge at eventide?''

     The builder lifted his old gray head.
     ``Good friend, in the path I have come,'' he said,
     ``There followeth after me today
     A youth whose feet must pass this way.
     The chasm that was as nought to me
     To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;
     He, too, must cross in the twilight dim--
     Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.''

  The lines of a poem contain the timeless power of concentrated 
thought. Whether a poem is as ancient as the ``Aeneid'' by Virgil or as 
straightforward as the verses of Emily Dickinson or Ella Wheeler Cox, 
poetry can evoke the full range of human emotions from joy to sadness. 
Poems are, as William Butler Yeats once said, ``monuments of unaging 
intellect.'' Poems may also be monuments to historical eras--speaking 
for every man and woman of the time. One such poem, ``The Right to 
Labor in Joy,'' by Edwin Markham, captures the discord and tension of 
the era when the grasp of European despotism began to weaken:

     Out on the roads they have gathered, a hundred-thousand men,
     To ask for a hold on life as sure as the wolf's hold in his 
           den.
     Their need lies close to the quick of life as rain to the 
           furrow sown:
     It is as meat to the slender rib, as marrow to the bone.

     They ask but the leave to labor for a taste of life's 
           delight,
     For a little salt to savor their bread, for houses water-
           tight.
     They ask but the right to labor, and to live by the strength 
           of their hands--
     They who have bodies like knotted oaks, and patience like 
           sea-sands.

     And the right of a man to labor and his right to labor in 
           joy--
     Not all your laws can strangle that right, nor the gates of 
           hell destroy.
     For it came with the making of man and was kneaded into his 
           bones,
     And it will stand at the last of things on the dust of 
           crumbled thrones.

  Whether introspective, political, or pastoral, all poetry is intended 
to elicit an emotional response. Some poems use free-flowing meter and 
cleverly crafted verse to bring a smile to the reader's face. But, very 
often such verses also embody simply universal truths which make us nod 
our heads in agreement. One such example is the poem, ``Trees,'' 
written by Joyce Kilmer.

     I think that I shall never see
     A poem lovely as a tree

     A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
     Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

     A tree that looks at God all day,
     And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

     A tree that may in Summer wear
     A nest of robins in her hair;

     Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
     who intimately lives with rain.

     Poems are made by fools like me,
     But only God can make a tree.

  Other poems delve into more complex and profound regions of the human 
experience. These poems resonate deeply and touch the deep chords of 
our senses, echoing through our imaginations over and over again. 
Thomas Moore's ``The Scent of the Roses,'' comments on love, death, and 
poignant memories.

     Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
     Bright dreams of the past that she cannot destroy,
     That come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
     And bring back the features that joy used to wear.

     Long, long be my heart with such memories filled,
     Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled,
     You may break, you may shatter the base if you will,
     But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

  Nothing has the capacity of poetry to condense the pain and the 
beauty of living and to reach the spiritual side of our natures. A 
talented poet can elicit tears with only a few lines of verse, while 
the novelist must reach for plot twists and character development to 
garner a similar response. In no form of expression is the choice of 
each word so important. Listen to William Earnest Henley's ``Invictus'' 
and its description of the author's triumph over an infection that 
almost cost him his only leg and threatened his life.

     Out of the night that covers me
     Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
     I thank whatever gods may be
     For my unconquerable soul.

     In the fell clutch of circumstance
     I have not winced nor cried aloud;
     Under the bludgeonings of chance
     My head is bloody, but unbowed.

     Beyond this place of wrath and tears
     Looms but the Horror of the Shade,
     And Yet the menace of the years
     Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

     It matters not how strait the gate,
     How charged with punishments the scroll,
     I am the master of my fate;
     I am the captain of my soul.

  In plain and simple words, William Earnest Henley draws from courage 
and the depths of his soul a supreme strength of human will, while in 
the crucible of excruciating pain and under the shadow of death.
  Poetry has always been a passion of mine, and a form of art which I 
hold dear to my heart. Consequently, I have sought to discipline my 
mind through the memorization of lines and verses of poetry. Many 
people jog today in the exercising of their bodies. I do little of 
that. But I mostly try to jog my mind, jog my memory, give it exercise, 
keep it busy. I have memorized poem after poem, trying to capture the 
beauty and wisdom of each one. Poetry has been my consummate companion 
over the

[[Page 6394]]

years, and the verses that I have committed to memory are not only a 
delight to my ears, but a balm to my soul as well. I try to be 
selective in the poems I memorize. It does take time. It takes effort. 
It takes energy. It takes determination. It takes discipline to 
memorize poetry. I frequently make use of these poems in my speeches, 
carefully choosing a verse that captures the essence of my message, 
always assured that its beauty will deliver in the keenest sense what I 
try to convey. One such poem which has served me well is by Henry 
Wadsworth Longfellow: ``The Building of The Ship.''

     Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
     Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
     Humanity with all its fears,
     With all the hopes of future years,
     Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
     We know what Master laid thy keel,
     What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
     Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
     What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
     In what a forge and what a heat
     Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
     Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
     `Tis of the wave and not the rock;
     `Tis but the flapping of the sail,
     And not a rent made by the gale!
     In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
     In spite of false lights on the shore,
     Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
     Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
     Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears.
     Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
     Are all with thee, are all with thee!

  Can one think of a more beautiful description of the promise of 
America, and of what we as Senators have a duty to protect? We have 
nothing less than the hopes of mankind in our charge!
  Poetry is man's attempt to reach up and out of his human skin, and 
connect, just for a moment, with something perfect and eternal.
  Edwin Markham's, ``A Workman To The Gods,'' could be seen as a 
tribute to the perfection sought by the poet.

     Once Phidias stood, with hammer in his hand,
     Carving Minerva from the breathing stone,
     Tracing with love the winding of a hair,
     A single hair upon her head,
     Whereon a youth of Athens cried,
     ``O Phidias, why do you dally on a hidden hair?
     When she is lifted to the lofty front
     Of the Parthenon, no human eye will see.''
     And Phidias thundered on him:
     ``Silence, slave: Men will not see, but the Immortals will!''

  Like the carving of Minerva that Phidias so carefully chiseled into 
the relief of the Parthenon, a well crafted poem lifts all of humanity 
and is an undeniable testimony to the immortal nature and exceptional 
beauty of the human soul.
  A poem is a symphony of words just waiting to be played, and, like 
any good piece of music, it only improves with the playing. My own 
repertoire of poems has provided me with great spiritual enrichment and 
the special comfort of finding meaning in my own experiences which I 
might not otherwise have easily discerned. I applaud the efforts of the 
Academy of American Poets and the programs that they have organized for 
the sixth annual National Poetry Month. Through celebrations such as 
this, I hope that poetry will come to be appreciated by a new 
generation of Americans so that they might enjoy the deep spiritual 
enrichment that poetry has provided to so many. I should mention that 
great English novelist and poet, Rudyard Kipling, who received the 
Nobel Prize for literature in 1907 and about whom I was reading when I 
was yet in high school in the early 1930's
  In his ``Recessional'' and similar pieces, Kipling addressed himself 
to his fellow countryman in times of crises. Today I shall only quote 
from Kipling's ``The Heritage'':

     Our fathers in a wondrous age,
     Ere yet the earth was small,
     Ensured to us a heritage,
     And doubted not at all,
     That we, the children of their heart,
     Which then did beat so high,
     In later time should play like part
     For our posterity

     Then, fretful, murmur not they gave
     So great a charge to keep,
     Nor dream that awestruck time shall save
     Their labor while we sleep.
     Dear-bought and clear, a thousand year
     Our father's title runs.
     Make we likewise their sacrifice,
     Defrauding not our sons.

  I shall close with one of the poems by Henry Van Dyke, another poet 
and essayist popular in the closing days of the 19th century and the 
early decades of the 20th century. This poem, ``America For Me,'' has 
been very popular with my own constituents for whom I have quoted it so 
many, many times during my travels in the West Virginia hills.

     Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down
     Among the famous palaces and cities of renown,
     To admire the crumply castles and the statues of the kings,
     But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things.

     So it's home again, and home again, America for me!
     My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be,
     In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars,
     Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of 
           stars.

     Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air;
     And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair;
     And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study in 
           Rome
     But when it comes to living there is just no place like home.

     I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled,
     I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains 
           filled;
     But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day
     In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way!

     I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack:
     The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back.
     But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free,
     We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.

     Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me!
     I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling 
           sea,
     To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars,
     Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of 
           stars.

  Mr. President, Senator Kennedy was planning to speak. While we are 
waiting for Senator Kennedy, I shall quote another poem:

     I saw them tearing a building down,
     A group of men in a busy town;
     With a ``Ho, heave, ho'' and a lusty yell.
     They swung a beam and the sidewall fell.

     I said to the foreman, ``Are these men skilled
     The type you'd hire if you had to build?''
     He laughed, and then he said, ``No, indeed,
     Just common labor is all I need;
     I can easily wreck in a day or two,
     That which takes builders years to do.''

     I said to myself as I walked away,
     ``Which of these roles am I trying to play?
     Am I a builder who works with care,
     Building my life by the rule and square?
     Am I shaping my deeds by a well-laid plan,
     Patiently building the best I can?
     Or am I a fellow who walks the town,
     Content with the labor of tearing down?''

  Mr. President, I yield the floor.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. The Democratic leader is recognized.

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