My husband  lies in bed all day
Well,he is on the night shift at the coal mine!
That’s what they all say
Why,how many have you got?
How many what?
Is that English?
What, not to know how many husbands you have?
No, the syntax.
They tax everything now.How much is a sin?
You can’t buy them,you can commit them.
Into a  psychiatric institute?
You need a doctor.
Am I ill?
No, but  your sins are.
That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve never heard.

I lose myself in heather scented earth
The sun, the sky, the happenstance of you
No more to be a rival for love’s birth

The bees fly in and out of mirth
The distant Tees,the farms, the longer view
I lose myself in heather scented earth

What is life  if not experienced first?
To lie in arms of love,to feel renewed
No more to be a zealot for love’s birth

We roll towards the edge, the ending cliff
Are saved by buzzing bees from avenue
We lose ourselves in heather scented earth

Never will there be another mist
A fog of love that fills the endless pews
No more to be a beggar for love’s birth

We sunk into the soil and out of view
We knew each other well, till we were through
I lose myself in darkly scented earth
No more to be a threat to love’s  new birth

I think I see his shadow on the wall
My eye is waiting for his shape and form
I hear his footsteps passing down the hall

Feeling loss in winter,my heart fails
Cruelly I crush myself with scorn
I want to see his shadow on the wall

In the dark of evening,does he call?
I slept propped up, from bedtime until dawn
I hear his footsteps passing down the hall

I wandered with him,  high in Wensleydale
In Richmond  Town the people have now gone
I want to see his shadow on the wall.

On the Cleveland Hills,I will bewail
In  rich heather there was our kingdom
I hear his footsteps  or the morning mail

The little words invented in our dawn
Died within his lips, from where they came
I think I see his shadow on the wall
I hear his voice when  standing in the hall

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/easter-1916

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud, 
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute to minute they live;
The stone’s in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be, 
Wherever green is worn, 
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

W. B. Yeats

My foot. Katherine using Artweaver

With winter comes an insight into death
To view from this perspective our own life
The dark, the cold, the promise of re-birth

The love, the lack, the need for God’s new breath
The harvesting, the cutter and the scythe
With winter comes an insight into death

So we connect with all that lives on earth
The love, the joy, the wisdom and the grief.
The dark, the cold, the promise of re-birth

Again we ponder meaning and our worth
As we will  one day lie beside a leaf
With winter comes an insight into death

We soon return to laughter and to mirth
With cakes and ale and wine at  this our Feast
From the  dark, the cold   comes all re-birth

As the mighty lie beside the  least
Each will give the worms intriguing tastes.
With winter comes an insight into death
The dark, the cold,   the faint hints  of re-birth

I made this from a photograph using Art-weaver Software

https://www.drweil.com/health-wellness/body-mind-spirit/stress-anxiety/breathing-basic-how-tos/

Short extract:
“At the very centre of our being is rhythmic movement, a cyclic expansion and contraction that is both in our body and outside it, that is both in our mind and in our body, that is both in our consciousness and not in it. Breath is the essence of being, and in all aspects of the universe we can see the same rhythmic pattern of expansion and contraction, whether in the alternating cycles of day and night, waking and sleeping, high and low tides, or seasonal growth and decay. Oscillation between two phases exists at every level of reality, even up to the scale of the observable universe itself, which is presently in expansion but will at some point contract back to the original, unimaginable point that is everything and nothing, completing one cosmic breath.”

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/why-i-write

“What we take out of life is the luminous moment, which can be a bare branch against a morning sky so overcast it’s in white face, seen through a window that warps the view because the glass has begun to melt with age. Or it can be the face of a beautiful man seen in passing on a crowded street, because beauty is always passing, and you see it but it doesn’t see you. It’s the promise that beauty is possible and the threat that it’s only momentary: if someone doesn’t write it down it’s gone. The moment vanishes without a trace and then the person who experiences that moment vanishes and then there’s nothing. Except perhaps the poem, which can’t change anything. As Auden wrote, poetry makes nothing happen, which also implies the possibility of making “nothing” an event rather than a mere vacancy. Poetry rescues nothing and no one, but it embodies that helpless, necessary will to rescue, which is a kind of love, my love for the world and the things and people in the world.

In a graduate contemporary poetry class I took some twenty years ago, a fellow student complained that a poem we were reading was “Just trying to immortalize this scene.” I found it an odd objection, since I thought that’s what poems were supposed to do. One is deluded if one believes that one can actually preserve the world in words, but one is just playing games if one doesn’t try.

The world cannot be saved, in any of the several senses of the word. To save the world would be to stop it, to fix it in place and time, to drain it of what makes it world: motion, flux, action. As Yeats wrote in “Easter 1916,” “Minute by minute they change;/ …. The stone’s in the midst of all.” Poet and critic Allen Grossman is not the first to observe that poetry is a deathly activity, removing things from the obliterating stream of meaningless event that is also the embodied vitality of the world and of time’s action in and upon the world, which creates and destroys in the same motion. The stream of time is both life and that which wears life down to nothing. “Poetry is the perpetual evidence, the sadly perpetual evidence, of the incompleteness of the motive which gives rise to it” (Grossman 71).”