A new Poetry blog
THE SONGS AND SONNETS OF JOHN DONNE
begins on Sunday 6th December at
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Thursday, December 3, 2015
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Monday, November 18, 2013
No.30
BE CAREFUL, IT'S MY HEART
Irving Berlin 1888-19
Irving Berlin 1888-19
Be careful, it's my heart,
It's not my watch you're holding, it's my heart.
It's not the note that I sent you that you quickly burned,
It's not the book I lent you that you never returned.
Remember, it's my heart,
The heart with which so willingly I part.
It's yours to take, to keep or break
But please, before you start
Be careful, it's my heart.
-o0o-
THE THRUSH'S NEST
John Clare 1793-1864
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a mole-hill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the sound
With joy; and, often an intruding guest,
I watched her secret toils from day to day -
How true she warped the moss to form a nest,
And modelled it from within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;
And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as that sunshine and the laughing sky.
-o0o-
I HAVE A GARDEN OF MY OWN
John Clare 1793-1864
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a mole-hill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the sound
With joy; and, often an intruding guest,
I watched her secret toils from day to day -
How true she warped the moss to form a nest,
And modelled it from within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;
And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as that sunshine and the laughing sky.
-o0o-
I HAVE A GARDEN OF MY OWN
Thomas Moore 1779-1852
I have a garden of my own,
Shining with flowers of every hue;
I loved it dearly while alone,
But I shall love it more with you:
And there the golden bees shall come,
In summer time at break of morn,
And wake us with their busy hum
Around the Siha's fragrant thorn.
I have a fawn from Aden's land,
On leafy buds and berries nursed;
And you shall feed him from your hand,
Though he may start with fear at first;
And I will lead you where he lies
For shelter in the noon-tide heat;
And you may touch his sleeping eyes,
And feel his little silvery feet.
-o0o-
WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY
Oliver Goldsmith 1728-74
When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt can cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover
And wring his bosom is - to die.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY
Oliver Goldsmith 1728-74
When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt can cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover
And wring his bosom is - to die.
TODAY'S POST CONCLUDES THIS SERIES OF "AS LONG AS IT RHYMES"
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Monday, November 11, 2013
No.29
DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS
William Butler Yeats 1865-1939
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
-o0o-
SOLITUDE
Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1850-1919
Laugh and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
-o0o-
SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY?
William Shakespeare 1564-1616
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
-o0o-
A NONSENSE POEM
Oliver Goldsmith 1728-1774
A quiet home had Parson Gray,
Secluded in a vale;
His daughters all were feminine,
And all his sons were male.
How faithfully did Parson Gray
The bread of life dispense -
Well "posted" in theology,
And post and rail his fence.
'Gainst all the vices of the age
He manfully did battle;
His chickens were a biped breed,
And quadruped his cattle.
No clock more punctually went,
He ne'er delayed a minute -
Nor ever empty was his purse,
When he had money in it.
His piety was ne'er denied;
His truths hit saint and sinner;
At morn he always breakfasted;
He always dined at dinner.
He ne'er by any luck was grieved,
By any care perplexed -
No filcher he, though when he preached,
He always "took" a text.
As faithful characters he drew
As mortal ever saw;
But ah! poor parson! when he died,
His breath he could not draw!
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
William Butler Yeats 1865-1939
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
-o0o-
SOLITUDE
Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1850-1919
Laugh and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
-o0o-
SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY?
William Shakespeare 1564-1616
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
-o0o-
A NONSENSE POEM
Oliver Goldsmith 1728-1774
A quiet home had Parson Gray,
Secluded in a vale;
His daughters all were feminine,
And all his sons were male.
How faithfully did Parson Gray
The bread of life dispense -
Well "posted" in theology,
And post and rail his fence.
'Gainst all the vices of the age
He manfully did battle;
His chickens were a biped breed,
And quadruped his cattle.
No clock more punctually went,
He ne'er delayed a minute -
Nor ever empty was his purse,
When he had money in it.
His piety was ne'er denied;
His truths hit saint and sinner;
At morn he always breakfasted;
He always dined at dinner.
He ne'er by any luck was grieved,
By any care perplexed -
No filcher he, though when he preached,
He always "took" a text.
As faithful characters he drew
As mortal ever saw;
But ah! poor parson! when he died,
His breath he could not draw!
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Monday, November 4, 2013
No.28
NO!
Thomas Hood 1799-1845
Thomas Hood 1799-1845
No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon!
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day -
No sky - no earthly view -
No distance looking blue -
No road - no street -
No "t'other side the way" -
No end to any Row -
No indications where the Crescents go -
No top to any steeple -
No recognitions of familiar people -
No courtesies for showing 'em -
No knowing 'em!
No mail - no post -
No news from any foreign coast -
No park - no ring -
No afternoon gentility -
No company - no nobility -
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
-o0o-
THE MOUNTAINS OF MOURNE
Percy French 1854-1920
No morn - no noon!
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day -
No sky - no earthly view -
No distance looking blue -
No road - no street -
No "t'other side the way" -
No end to any Row -
No indications where the Crescents go -
No top to any steeple -
No recognitions of familiar people -
No courtesies for showing 'em -
No knowing 'em!
No mail - no post -
No news from any foreign coast -
No park - no ring -
No afternoon gentility -
No company - no nobility -
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
-o0o-
THE MOUNTAINS OF MOURNE
Percy French 1854-1920
Oh Mary, this London's a wonderful sight
With the people here working by day and by night,
They don't sow potatoes nor barley nor wheat,
But there's gangs of them digging for gold in the street;
At least when I asked them that's what I was told,
So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
I believe that when writing a wish you expressed,
As to how the fine ladies of London were dressed;
Well, if you believe me, when asked to a ball,
They don't wear a top on their dresses at all;
Oh, I've seen them myself, and you couldn't in truth
Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath;
Don't be starting them fashions now, Mary Macree,
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
I've seen England's king from the top of a bus,
I never knew him, though he means to know us;
And though by the Saxon we once were oppressed,
Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest;
And now that he's visited Erin's green shore,
We'll be much better friends than we've heretofore;
When we've got all we want, we're as quiet as can be,
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
You remember young Peter O'Loughlin of course,
Well, now he is here at the head of the force;
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand
And he stopped the whole street with one wave of his hand;
And there we stood talking of days that are gone,
While the whole population of London looked on,
But for all these great powers he's wishful like me
To be back where dark Moume sweeps down to the sea.
There's beautiful girls here - Oh, never you mind,
With beautiful shapes Nature never designed,
And lovely complexions, all roses and cream,
But O'Loughlin remarked with regard to the same,
That, if at those roses you venture to sip,
The colours might all come away on your lip,
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting for me
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
-o0o-
A TERRIBLE INFANT
Frederick Locker-Lampson 1821-95
I recollect a nurse called Ann,
Who carried me about the grass,
And one fine day a fine young man
Came up and kissed the pretty lass.
She did not make the least objection.
Thinks I “Aha!
When I can talk I’ll tell Mama”
- And that’s my earliest recollection.
-o0o-
With the people here working by day and by night,
They don't sow potatoes nor barley nor wheat,
But there's gangs of them digging for gold in the street;
At least when I asked them that's what I was told,
So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
I believe that when writing a wish you expressed,
As to how the fine ladies of London were dressed;
Well, if you believe me, when asked to a ball,
They don't wear a top on their dresses at all;
Oh, I've seen them myself, and you couldn't in truth
Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath;
Don't be starting them fashions now, Mary Macree,
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
I've seen England's king from the top of a bus,
I never knew him, though he means to know us;
And though by the Saxon we once were oppressed,
Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest;
And now that he's visited Erin's green shore,
We'll be much better friends than we've heretofore;
When we've got all we want, we're as quiet as can be,
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
You remember young Peter O'Loughlin of course,
Well, now he is here at the head of the force;
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand
And he stopped the whole street with one wave of his hand;
And there we stood talking of days that are gone,
While the whole population of London looked on,
But for all these great powers he's wishful like me
To be back where dark Moume sweeps down to the sea.
There's beautiful girls here - Oh, never you mind,
With beautiful shapes Nature never designed,
And lovely complexions, all roses and cream,
But O'Loughlin remarked with regard to the same,
That, if at those roses you venture to sip,
The colours might all come away on your lip,
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting for me
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
-o0o-
A TERRIBLE INFANT
Frederick Locker-Lampson 1821-95
I recollect a nurse called Ann,
Who carried me about the grass,
And one fine day a fine young man
Came up and kissed the pretty lass.
She did not make the least objection.
Thinks I “Aha!
When I can talk I’ll tell Mama”
- And that’s my earliest recollection.
-o0o-
BLOG NEWS: A new series of "John's Quiet Corner" which ran from May 2009 until May 2011 begins on 8th November and will be updated every Friday. The address is http://john-quietcorner.blogspot.com
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Monday, October 28, 2013
No.27
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER
Thomas Campbell 1777-1844
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry!''
“Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy weather?''
“O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
“And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
“His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?''
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
“I'll go, my chief - I'm ready,
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.
“And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.''
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
“O haste thee, haste!'' the lady cries,
“Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.''
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,
When, O! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismay'd through storm and shade,
His child he did discover -
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.
“Come back! come back!'' he cried in grief
Across this stormy water:
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! - O my daughter!''
'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing:
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
-o0o-
A TIRED HOUSEWIFE
Anon
Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,
She lived in a house where help wasn't hired:
Her last words on earth were: “Dear friends, I am going
To where there's no cooking, or washing, or sewing,
For everything there is exact to my wishes,
For where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes.
I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,
But having no voice I'll be quit of the singing.
Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,
I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.”
-o0o-
YOU DO SOMETHING TO ME
Cole Porter 1891-1964
You do something to me.
Something that simply mystifies me.
Tell me, why should it be
You have the pow'r to hypnotize me.
Let me live 'neath your spell.
Do do that voodoo that you do so well.
For you do something to me
That nobody else can do.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Thomas Campbell 1777-1844
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry!''
“Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy weather?''
“O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
“And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
“His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?''
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
“I'll go, my chief - I'm ready,
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.
“And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.''
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
“O haste thee, haste!'' the lady cries,
“Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.''
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,
When, O! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismay'd through storm and shade,
His child he did discover -
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.
“Come back! come back!'' he cried in grief
Across this stormy water:
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! - O my daughter!''
'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing:
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
-o0o-
A TIRED HOUSEWIFE
Anon
Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,
She lived in a house where help wasn't hired:
Her last words on earth were: “Dear friends, I am going
To where there's no cooking, or washing, or sewing,
For everything there is exact to my wishes,
For where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes.
I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,
But having no voice I'll be quit of the singing.
Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,
I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.”
-o0o-
YOU DO SOMETHING TO ME
Cole Porter 1891-1964
You do something to me.
Something that simply mystifies me.
Tell me, why should it be
You have the pow'r to hypnotize me.
Let me live 'neath your spell.
Do do that voodoo that you do so well.
For you do something to me
That nobody else can do.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Monday, October 21, 2013
No.26
ODE TO AUTUMN
John Keats 1795-1821
John Keats 1795-1821
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
-o0o-
WILD NIGHTS! WILD NIGHTS!
Emily Dickenson 1830-86
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
-o0o-
WILD NIGHTS! WILD NIGHTS!
Emily Dickenson 1830-86
Wild Nights! Wild Nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port, -
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart!
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in Thee!
-o0o-
WITH RUE MY HEART IS LADEN
A.E. Housman 1859-1936
Were I with thee,
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port, -
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart!
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in Thee!
-o0o-
WITH RUE MY HEART IS LADEN
A.E. Housman 1859-1936
With rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.
By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid;
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.
-o0o-
WE’LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING
George, Lord Byron 1788-1824
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.
By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid;
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.
-o0o-
WE’LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING
George, Lord Byron 1788-1824
So, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
-o0o-
NEW - now online - NEW
IN THE CHOCOLATE BOX STYLE
The term, usually derogatory, describes idealistic, sentimental
paintings. Artists like Renoir were often derided for producing such
works. The genre was particularly loved by the Victorians and my selection will appeal to many today.
Monday, October 14, 2013
No.25
THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
Anon
There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them o’er the sea.
They hadna' been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline wife,
That her three sons were gane.
They hadna' been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
When word came to the carline wife
That her sons she‘d never see.
"I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood."
It fell about the Martinmass,
When nights are long and mirk,
The carline wife's three sons came hame,
But their hats were o’ the birk.
Anon
There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them o’er the sea.
They hadna' been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline wife,
That her three sons were gane.
They hadna' been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
When word came to the carline wife
That her sons she‘d never see.
"I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood."
It fell about the Martinmass,
When nights are long and mirk,
The carline wife's three sons came hame,
But their hats were o’ the birk.
It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in any sheugh;
But at the gates o' Paradise,
That birk grew fair enough.
"Blow up the fire my maidens,
Bring water from the well;
For a' my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well."
And she has made to them a bed,
She's made it large and wide,
And she's ta'en her mantle her about,
Sat down at the bed-side.
Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up then crew the grey;
The eldest to the youngest said,
“Tis time we were away.”
Nor yet in any sheugh;
But at the gates o' Paradise,
That birk grew fair enough.
"Blow up the fire my maidens,
Bring water from the well;
For a' my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well."
And she has made to them a bed,
She's made it large and wide,
And she's ta'en her mantle her about,
Sat down at the bed-side.
Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up then crew the grey;
The eldest to the youngest said,
“Tis time we were away.”
The cock he hadna' crowed but once,
And clapped his wings at a',
When the youngest to the eldest said,
“Brother, we must awa'.”
"Fare ye well, our mother dear!
Farewell to barn and byre!
And fare ye well, the bonny lass
That kindles our mother's fire!"
-o0o-
And clapped his wings at a',
When the youngest to the eldest said,
“Brother, we must awa'.”
"Fare ye well, our mother dear!
Farewell to barn and byre!
And fare ye well, the bonny lass
That kindles our mother's fire!"
-o0o-
THE SOLITARY REAPER
William Wordsworth 1770-1850
William Wordsworth 1770-1850
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
-o0o-
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
-o0o-
THE ASH GROVE
Anon
Down yonder green valley where streamlets meander,
When twilight is fading, I pensively rove,
Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander
Amid the dark shades of the lonely Ash grove.
'Twas there while the blackbird was joyfully singing,
I first met my dear one, the joy of my heart;
Around us for gladness the bluebells were ringing,
Ah! then little thought I how soon we should part.
Still grows the bright sunshine o'er valley and mountain,
Still warbles the blackbird his note from the tree;
Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain,
But what are the beauties of nature to me.
Anon
Down yonder green valley where streamlets meander,
When twilight is fading, I pensively rove,
Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander
Amid the dark shades of the lonely Ash grove.
'Twas there while the blackbird was joyfully singing,
I first met my dear one, the joy of my heart;
Around us for gladness the bluebells were ringing,
Ah! then little thought I how soon we should part.
Still grows the bright sunshine o'er valley and mountain,
Still warbles the blackbird his note from the tree;
Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain,
But what are the beauties of nature to me.
With sorrow, deep sorrow, my bosom is laden,
All day I go mourning in search of my love.
Ye echoes, O tell me, where is the sweet maiden?
She sleeps 'neath the green turf down by the Ash grove.
All day I go mourning in search of my love.
Ye echoes, O tell me, where is the sweet maiden?
She sleeps 'neath the green turf down by the Ash grove.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Monday, October 7, 2013
No.24
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
Christopher Marlowe 1564-93
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
-o0o-
SEA FEVER
John Masefield 1878-1967
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
-o0o-
DAFFODILS
William Wordsworth 1770-1850
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Monday, September 30, 2013
No.23
ABOU BEN ADHEM
Leigh Hunt 1784-1859
Leigh Hunt 1784-1859
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
-o0o-
BILLY AND ME
James Hogg 1770-1835
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
James Hogg 1770-1835
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
-o0o-
THE ISLE OF CAPRI
Jimmy Kennedy 1902-1984
Jimmy Kennedy 1902-1984
‘Twas on the Isle of Capri that I found her
Beneath the shade of an old walnut tree,
Oh, I can still see the flowers blooming round her
Where we met on the Isle of Capri.
She was as sweet as a rose at the dawning
But somehow fate hadn’t meant her for me,
And though I sailed with the tide in the morning
Still my heart’s on the Isle of Capri.
Summertime was nearly over,
Blue Italian sky above,
I said “Lady, I’m a rover,
Can you spare a sweet word of love?”
She whispered softly “It’s best not to linger,”
Then as I kissed her hand I could see
She wore a plain golden ring on her finger,
‘Twas goodbye on the Isle of Capri.
Beneath the shade of an old walnut tree,
Oh, I can still see the flowers blooming round her
Where we met on the Isle of Capri.
She was as sweet as a rose at the dawning
But somehow fate hadn’t meant her for me,
And though I sailed with the tide in the morning
Still my heart’s on the Isle of Capri.
Summertime was nearly over,
Blue Italian sky above,
I said “Lady, I’m a rover,
Can you spare a sweet word of love?”
She whispered softly “It’s best not to linger,”
Then as I kissed her hand I could see
She wore a plain golden ring on her finger,
‘Twas goodbye on the Isle of Capri.
-o0o-
ACCIDENT
Harry Graham 1874-1936
"There's been an accident!" they said,
"Your servant's cut in half; he's dead."
"Indeed!" said Mr Jones, "and please
Give me the half that's got my keys.'"
Give me the half that's got my keys.'"
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Monday, September 23, 2013
No.22
UNWELCOME
Mary Coleridge 1861-1907
We were young, we were merry, we were very, very wise,
And the door stood open at our feast,
When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes,
And a man with his back to the East.
O, still grew the hearts that were beating so fast,
The loudest voice was still,
The jest died away on our lips as they passed,
And the rays of July struck chill.
The cups of red wine turned pale on the board,
The white bread black as soot,
The hound forgot the hand of her lord,
She fell down at his foot.
Low let me lie where the dead dog lies,
Ere I sit me down again at a feast,
When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes,
And a man with his back to the East.
-o0o-
DOON IN THE WEE ROOM
Anon
Doon in the wee room underneath the stair
Everybody's happy and everybody's there,
We're a' makin' merry, each in his chair
Doon in the wee room underneath the stair.
When you're tired and weary and you're feeling blue,
Don't give way tae sorrow, we'll tell you what to do,
Just tak' a trip tae Springburn and find the Quin's Bar there
And go doon tae the wee room underneath the stair.
The king went oot a-hunting, his fortune for tae seek.
He missed his train at Partick and went missing for a week.
And after days of searching, of sorrow and despair,
They found him in the wee room underneath the stair.
If your team has won the day and you want tae cheer,
Take a trip tae Springburn and order up a beer,
Hae yersel' a bevvy, gie yersel' a tear,
Doon in the wee room underneath the stair.
When I'm auld and feeble and my bones are gettin' set,
Ah'll no get cross and grumpy like other people get,
Ah'm savin' up ma bawbees tae buy a hurly chair
Tae tak' me tae the wee room underneath the stair.
-o0o-
ONE PERFECT ROSE
Dorothy Parker 1893-1967
A single flower he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet –
One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret;
“My fragile leaves,” it said, “his heart enclose.”
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one’s ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah, no – it’s always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.
-o0o-
Mary Coleridge 1861-1907
We were young, we were merry, we were very, very wise,
And the door stood open at our feast,
When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes,
And a man with his back to the East.
O, still grew the hearts that were beating so fast,
The loudest voice was still,
The jest died away on our lips as they passed,
And the rays of July struck chill.
The cups of red wine turned pale on the board,
The white bread black as soot,
The hound forgot the hand of her lord,
She fell down at his foot.
Low let me lie where the dead dog lies,
Ere I sit me down again at a feast,
When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes,
And a man with his back to the East.
-o0o-
DOON IN THE WEE ROOM
Anon
Doon in the wee room underneath the stair
Everybody's happy and everybody's there,
We're a' makin' merry, each in his chair
Doon in the wee room underneath the stair.
When you're tired and weary and you're feeling blue,
Don't give way tae sorrow, we'll tell you what to do,
Just tak' a trip tae Springburn and find the Quin's Bar there
And go doon tae the wee room underneath the stair.
The king went oot a-hunting, his fortune for tae seek.
He missed his train at Partick and went missing for a week.
And after days of searching, of sorrow and despair,
They found him in the wee room underneath the stair.
If your team has won the day and you want tae cheer,
Take a trip tae Springburn and order up a beer,
Hae yersel' a bevvy, gie yersel' a tear,
Doon in the wee room underneath the stair.
When I'm auld and feeble and my bones are gettin' set,
Ah'll no get cross and grumpy like other people get,
Ah'm savin' up ma bawbees tae buy a hurly chair
Tae tak' me tae the wee room underneath the stair.
-o0o-
ONE PERFECT ROSE
Dorothy Parker 1893-1967
A single flower he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet –
One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret;
“My fragile leaves,” it said, “his heart enclose.”
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one’s ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah, no – it’s always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.
-o0o-
DOWN IN THE FOREST
- Harold Simpson (dates not known)
Down in the forest something stirred
So faint that I scarcely heard,
But the forest leapt at the sound,
Like a good ship homeward bound.
Down in the forest something stirred,
It was only the song of a bird.
So faint that I scarcely heard,
But the forest leapt at the sound,
Like a good ship homeward bound.
Down in the forest something stirred,
It was only the song of a bird.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Monday, September 16, 2013
No.21
IN EXTREMIS
John Updike 1932-2009
John Updike 1932-2009
I saw my toes the other day.
I hadn't looked at them for months.
Indeed, they might have passed away.
And yet they were my best friends once.
When I was small, I knew them well.
I counted on them up to ten
And put them in my mouth to tell
The larger from the lesser. Then
I loved them better than my ears,
My elbows, adenoids, and heart.
But with the swelling of the years
We drifted, toes and I, apart.
Now, gnarled and pale, each said, “j'accuse!”
I hid them quickly in my shoes.
-o0o-
YOUNG AND OLD
Charles Kingsley 1819-75
When all the world is young, lad,
I hadn't looked at them for months.
Indeed, they might have passed away.
And yet they were my best friends once.
When I was small, I knew them well.
I counted on them up to ten
And put them in my mouth to tell
The larger from the lesser. Then
I loved them better than my ears,
My elbows, adenoids, and heart.
But with the swelling of the years
We drifted, toes and I, apart.
Now, gnarled and pale, each said, “j'accuse!”
I hid them quickly in my shoes.
-o0o-
YOUNG AND OLD
Charles Kingsley 1819-75
When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green,
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen,
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen,
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down,
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.
-o0o-
TWO HUNTERS
Anon
There were but two beneath the sky -
The thing I came to kill, and I.
I, under covert, quietly
Watched him sense eternity
From quivering brush to pointed nose
My gun to shoulder level rose.
And then I felt (I could not see)
Far off a hunter watching me.
I slowly put my rifle by,
For there were two who had to die -
The thing I wished to kill, and I.
-o0o-
LILI MARLENE
English words by Tommie Connor
Underneath the lantern by the barrack gate
Darling I remember the way you used to wait,
Twas there that you whispered tenderly
That you loved me,
You'd always be
My Lili of the lamplight,
My own Lili Marlene.
Time would come for roll call,
Time for us to part,
Darling I'd caress you and press you to my heart,
And there 'neath that far off lantern light
I'd hold you tight,
We'd kiss good-night,
My Lili of the lamplight,
My own Lili Marlene
.
Orders came for sailing somewhere over there,
All confined to barracks was more than I could bear,
I knew you were waiting in the street,
I heard your feet,
But could not meet
My Lili of the lamplight,
My own Lili Marlene.
Orders came for sailing somewhere over there,
All confined to barracks was more than I could bear,
I knew you were waiting in the street,
I heard your feet,
But could not meet
My Lili of the lamplight,
My own Lili Marlene.
Resting in a billet just behind the line,
Even tho' we're parted your lips are close to mine,
You wait where that lantern softly gleams,
Your sweet face seems to haunt my dreams,
My Lili of the lamplight,
My own Lili Marlene.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Monday, September 9, 2013
No.20
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER
Thomas Moore 1779-1852
'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
-o0o-
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
John Keats 1795-1821
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
“I love thee true.”
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sighed fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill’s side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
“I love thee true.”
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sighed fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill’s side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
-o0o-
THINGS
Joan Dixon
So many things
Everywhere things,
My things, your things,
On-the-shelves and in-drawers things,
Old things, new things,
Useful and trivial things,
Pretty and ugly things,
Treasured and forgotten things,
Not-need-now things,
One day come-in-handy things,
Will keep-for-grandchildren things,
Hate-to-throw-away things,
Oh! Too many things!
Time to shed the blooming things!!!
Everywhere things,
My things, your things,
On-the-shelves and in-drawers things,
Old things, new things,
Useful and trivial things,
Pretty and ugly things,
Treasured and forgotten things,
Not-need-now things,
One day come-in-handy things,
Will keep-for-grandchildren things,
Hate-to-throw-away things,
Oh! Too many things!
Time to shed the blooming things!!!
-o0o-
GOLDEN SLUMBERS
Thomas Dekker 1572-1632
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise ;
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby,
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Smiles awake you when you rise ;
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby,
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you,
You are care, and care must keep you ;
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby,
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Monday, September 2, 2013
No.19
TIME OF ROSES
Thomas Hood 1798-1845
It was not in the Winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses -
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet:
O no - the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met!
'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses -
That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet:
O no - the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met!
'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses -
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
-o0o-
ALL IN THE DOWNS
Tom Hood (The Younger) 1835-1874
I would I had something to do - or to think!
Or something to read, or to write!
I am rapidly verging on Lunacy’s brink,
Or I shall be dead before night.
In my ears has been ringing and droning all day,
Without ever a stop or a change,
That poem of Tennyson’s - heart-cheering lay! -
Of the Moated Monotonous Grange!
The stripes in the carpet and paper alike
I have counted, and counted all through.
And now I’ve a fervid ambition to strike
Out some path of wild pleasure that’s new.
They say if a number you count, and re-count,
That the time imperceptibly goes: -
Ah, I wish - how I wish! - I’d ne’er learnt the amount
Of my aggregate fingers and toes.
“Enjoyment is fleeting,” the proverbs all say,
“Even that, which it feeds upon, fails.”
I’ve arrived at the truth of the saying today,
By devouring the whole of my nails.
Or something to read, or to write!
I am rapidly verging on Lunacy’s brink,
Or I shall be dead before night.
In my ears has been ringing and droning all day,
Without ever a stop or a change,
That poem of Tennyson’s - heart-cheering lay! -
Of the Moated Monotonous Grange!
The stripes in the carpet and paper alike
I have counted, and counted all through.
And now I’ve a fervid ambition to strike
Out some path of wild pleasure that’s new.
They say if a number you count, and re-count,
That the time imperceptibly goes: -
Ah, I wish - how I wish! - I’d ne’er learnt the amount
Of my aggregate fingers and toes.
“Enjoyment is fleeting,” the proverbs all say,
“Even that, which it feeds upon, fails.”
I’ve arrived at the truth of the saying today,
By devouring the whole of my nails.
I have numbered the minutes, so heavy and slow,
Till of that dissipation I tire.
And as for exciting amusements - you know
One can’t ALWAYS be stirring the fire!
Till of that dissipation I tire.
And as for exciting amusements - you know
One can’t ALWAYS be stirring the fire!
-o0o-
SWEET GARDEN-ORCHARD
William Wordsworth 1770-1850
Sweet Garden-orchard! of all spots that are
The loveliest surely man hath ever found.
Farewell! we leave thee to heaven's peaceful care.
Thee and the cottage which thou dost surround -
Dear Spot! whom we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own -
O happy Garden! loved for hours of sleep,
O quiet Garden! loved for waking hours.
For soft half-slumbers that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers.
Sweet Garden-orchard! of all spots that are
The loveliest surely man hath ever found.
Farewell! we leave thee to heaven's peaceful care.
Thee and the cottage which thou dost surround -
Dear Spot! whom we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own -
O happy Garden! loved for hours of sleep,
O quiet Garden! loved for waking hours.
For soft half-slumbers that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers.
-o0o-
A FINE ROMANCE
Dorothy Fields/Jerome Kern
Dorothy Fields/Jerome Kern
A fine romance with no kisses,
A fine romance, my friend, this is,
We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes,
But you're as cold as yesterday's mashed po-tah-toes.
A fine romance, you won't nestle,
A fine romance, you won't even wrestle,
You've never mussed the crease in my blue serge pants,
You never take a chance, this is a fine romance.
A fine romance, my good fellow,
You take romance, I'll take jello,
You're calmer than the seals in the Arctic Ocean,
At least they flap their fins to express emotion.
A fine romance, my dear Duchess,
Two old fogies, we really need crutches,
You're just as hard to land as the Ile de France!
I haven't got a chance, this is a fine romance.
A fine romance, my good woman,
My strong, aged-in-the-wood woman,
You never give those orchids I send a glance,
They're just like cactus plants,
This is a fine romance.
A fine romance, my friend, this is,
We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes,
But you're as cold as yesterday's mashed po-tah-toes.
A fine romance, you won't nestle,
A fine romance, you won't even wrestle,
You've never mussed the crease in my blue serge pants,
You never take a chance, this is a fine romance.
A fine romance, my good fellow,
You take romance, I'll take jello,
You're calmer than the seals in the Arctic Ocean,
At least they flap their fins to express emotion.
A fine romance, my dear Duchess,
Two old fogies, we really need crutches,
You're just as hard to land as the Ile de France!
I haven't got a chance, this is a fine romance.
A fine romance, my good woman,
My strong, aged-in-the-wood woman,
You never give those orchids I send a glance,
They're just like cactus plants,
This is a fine romance.
MORE POETRY NEXT MONDAY
BLOG NEWS - "The Eternal Venus" will have shown 180 paintings by Friday and will come to an end then. "My Own Selection of Pre-Raphaelite Paintings" which ran from June 2010 to June 2011 returns on Saturday 7th with a new title "My Own Selection of British Art of the 19th Century" but using the same address - http://myownselection.blogspot.com
-o0o-
Monday, August 26, 2013
No.18
THE FOUR MARYS
Anon
Last night there were four Marys,
Tonight there'll be but three,
There was Mary Seaton and Mary Beaton
And Mary Carmichael and me.
Oh, often have I dressed my Queen
And put on her braw silk gown,
But all the thanks I've got tonight
Is to be hanged in Edinburgh Town.
Full often have I dressed my Queen
Put gold upon her hair,
But I have got for my reward
The gallows to be my share.
Oh, little did my mother know
The day she cradled me
The land I was to travel in,
The death I was to dee.
Tonight there'll be but three,
There was Mary Seaton and Mary Beaton
And Mary Carmichael and me.
Oh, often have I dressed my Queen
And put on her braw silk gown,
But all the thanks I've got tonight
Is to be hanged in Edinburgh Town.
Full often have I dressed my Queen
Put gold upon her hair,
But I have got for my reward
The gallows to be my share.
Oh, little did my mother know
The day she cradled me
The land I was to travel in,
The death I was to dee.
Oh, happy, happy is the maid
That's born of beauty free,
Oh, it was my rosy, dimpled cheeks
That's been the devil to me.
They'll tie a kerchief around my eyes
That I may not see to dee,
And they'll never tell my father or mother
But that I'm across the sea.
That's born of beauty free,
Oh, it was my rosy, dimpled cheeks
That's been the devil to me.
They'll tie a kerchief around my eyes
That I may not see to dee,
And they'll never tell my father or mother
But that I'm across the sea.
This information comes from www.marie-stuart.co.uk
"The four Marys were Mary, Queen of Scots' ladies-in-waiting, but these were Mary Seton, Mary Beaton, Mary Fleming and Mary Livingston. There was no Mary Carmichael but this popular song was believed to be relating to Mary, Queen of Scots until it was traced back to the court of the Tsar. The ballad dates between 1719 and 1764 and narrates the story of Mary Hamilton, a Scottish maid of Peter the Great's wife Catherine, who was executed for the murder of her illegitimate child, product of an affair with the Tsar Peter.
The two stories of Mary Hamilton and Mary, Queen of Scots were grafted onto each other."
"The four Marys were Mary, Queen of Scots' ladies-in-waiting, but these were Mary Seton, Mary Beaton, Mary Fleming and Mary Livingston. There was no Mary Carmichael but this popular song was believed to be relating to Mary, Queen of Scots until it was traced back to the court of the Tsar. The ballad dates between 1719 and 1764 and narrates the story of Mary Hamilton, a Scottish maid of Peter the Great's wife Catherine, who was executed for the murder of her illegitimate child, product of an affair with the Tsar Peter.
The two stories of Mary Hamilton and Mary, Queen of Scots were grafted onto each other."
-o0o-
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP
Emily Bronte 1818-48
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree -
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He still may leave thy garland green.
-o0o-
Emily Bronte 1818-48
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree -
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He still may leave thy garland green.
-o0o-
LUCY
William Wordsworth 1770-1850
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!
-o0o-
William Wordsworth 1770-1850
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!
-o0o-
HOPE
Emily Dickinson 1830-86
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-o0o-
MORE POEMS NEXT MONDAY
Monday, August 19, 2013
No.17
BEGIN THE BEGUINE
Cole Porter 1891-64
When they begin the beguine
It brings back the sound of music so tender,
It brings back a night of tropical splendour,
It brings back a memory ever green.
I'm with you once more under the stars
And down by the shore an orchestra's playing,
And even the palms seem to be swaying
When they begin the beguine.
To live it again is past all endeavor
Except when that tune clutches my heart,
And there we are swearing to love forever
And promising never, never to part.
What moments divine, what rapture serene,
Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted,
And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted
I know but too well what they mean.
Cole Porter 1891-64
When they begin the beguine
It brings back the sound of music so tender,
It brings back a night of tropical splendour,
It brings back a memory ever green.
I'm with you once more under the stars
And down by the shore an orchestra's playing,
And even the palms seem to be swaying
When they begin the beguine.
To live it again is past all endeavor
Except when that tune clutches my heart,
And there we are swearing to love forever
And promising never, never to part.
What moments divine, what rapture serene,
Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted,
And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted
I know but too well what they mean.
So don't let them begin the beguine,
Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember,
Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember,
When they begin the beguine.
Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play,
Till the stars that were there before return above you,
Till you whisper to me once more, darling I love you,
And we suddenly know what heaven we're in,
When they begin the beguine.
-o0o-
Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember,
Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember,
When they begin the beguine.
Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play,
Till the stars that were there before return above you,
Till you whisper to me once more, darling I love you,
And we suddenly know what heaven we're in,
When they begin the beguine.
-o0o-
FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE
Robert Louis Stevenson 1850-94
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!
-o0o-
Robert Louis Stevenson 1850-94
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!
-o0o-
OH! EVER THUS
Thomas Moore 1779-1852
Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never loved a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away.
I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die!
-o0o-
Thomas Moore 1779-1852
Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never loved a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away.
I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die!
-o0o-
TWAS EVER THUS
Henry Sambrooke Leigh 1837-83
Henry Sambrooke Leigh 1837-83
I never rear'd a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried);
But, had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well,
But still persists in living on -
I would he were a young gazelle.
I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I had, I beg to say,
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower,
Would soon have withered it away.
I've dearly loved my uncle John,
From childhood till the present hour,
And yet he will go living on, -
I would he were a tree or flower!
-o0o-
(Because, you see, I never tried);
But, had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well,
But still persists in living on -
I would he were a young gazelle.
I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I had, I beg to say,
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower,
Would soon have withered it away.
I've dearly loved my uncle John,
From childhood till the present hour,
And yet he will go living on, -
I would he were a tree or flower!
-o0o-
MORE POEMS NEXT MONDAY
Monday, August 12, 2013
No.16
BEAUTIFUL DREAMER
Stephen Foster 1826-1864
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,
Lulled by the moonlight have all passed away!
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea
Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelie;
Over the streamlet vapours are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
-o0o-
Stephen Foster 1826-1864
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,
Lulled by the moonlight have all passed away!
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea
Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelie;
Over the streamlet vapours are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
-o0o-
ADLESTROP
Edward Thomas 1878-1917
Yes, I remember Adlestrop -
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop - only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
Edward Thomas 1878-1917
Yes, I remember Adlestrop -
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop - only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
-o0o-
UPHILL
Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830–1894
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
-o0o-
UPHILL
Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830–1894
Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
-o0o-
I’LL NEVER USE TOBACCO
Anon, from The Temperance Orator and Reciter 19th cent
“I’ll never use tobacco, no,
It is a filthy weed!
I’ll never put it in my mouth,”
Said little Robert Reid.
“Why, there was idle Jerry Jones,
As dirty as a pig,
Who smoked when only ten years old,
And thought it made him big.
“He’d puff along the open street,
As if he had no shame;
He’s sit beside the tavern-door,
And there he’d do the same.
“He spent his time and money too,
And made his mother sad,
She feared a worthless man would come
From such a worthless lad.
I’LL NEVER USE TOBACCO
Anon, from The Temperance Orator and Reciter 19th cent
“I’ll never use tobacco, no,
It is a filthy weed!
I’ll never put it in my mouth,”
Said little Robert Reid.
“Why, there was idle Jerry Jones,
As dirty as a pig,
Who smoked when only ten years old,
And thought it made him big.
“He’d puff along the open street,
As if he had no shame;
He’s sit beside the tavern-door,
And there he’d do the same.
“He spent his time and money too,
And made his mother sad,
She feared a worthless man would come
From such a worthless lad.
“Oh no, I’ll never smoke or chew,
‘Tis very wrong indeed,
It hurts the health, it makes bad breath,”
Said little Robert Reid.
‘Tis very wrong indeed,
It hurts the health, it makes bad breath,”
Said little Robert Reid.
-o0o-
MORE POEMS NEXT MONDAY
Monday, August 5, 2013
No.15
BALLADE OF AUTUMN
Andrew Lang 1844-1912
We built a castle in the air,
In summer weather, you and I,
The wind and sun were in your hair,
Gold hair against a sapphire sky:
When autumn came, with leaves that fly
Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh,
My Love returns no more again!
The windy lights of autumn flare:
I watch the moonlit sails go by;
I marvel how men toil and fare,
The weary business that they ply!
Their voyaging is vanity,
And fairy gold is all their gain,
And all the winds of winter cry,
"My Love returns no more again!"
Here, in my Castle of Despair,
I sit alone with memory;
The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,
To keep the outcast company.
The brooding owl he hoots hard by,
The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,
The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,
My Love returns no more again!
-o0o-
Andrew Lang 1844-1912
We built a castle in the air,
In summer weather, you and I,
The wind and sun were in your hair,
Gold hair against a sapphire sky:
When autumn came, with leaves that fly
Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh,
My Love returns no more again!
The windy lights of autumn flare:
I watch the moonlit sails go by;
I marvel how men toil and fare,
The weary business that they ply!
Their voyaging is vanity,
And fairy gold is all their gain,
And all the winds of winter cry,
"My Love returns no more again!"
Here, in my Castle of Despair,
I sit alone with memory;
The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,
To keep the outcast company.
The brooding owl he hoots hard by,
The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,
The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,
My Love returns no more again!
-o0o-
THE MOON
Anon
Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon:
This way, and that, she peers and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
-o0o-
Anon
Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon:
This way, and that, she peers and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
-o0o-
STELLA'S BIRTHDAY MARCH 13, 1719
Jonathan Swift 1667-1745
Jonathan Swift 1667-1745
Stella this day is thirty-four,
(We shan't dispute a year or more:)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled,
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declined;
Made up so largely in thy mind.
Oh, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit;
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;
With half the lustre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate,
(That either nymph might have her swain,)
To split my worship too in twain
-o0o-
DREAMS
Langston Hughes 1902-67
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
-o0o-
More poetry next Monday
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Monday, July 29, 2013
No.14
THE GREENWOOD SIDE
John Clare 1793-1864
I wandered down a green wood side
On Sunday noon in spring,
Where little birds their dwellings hide
And Thrushes sweetly sing,
The moss so green round Hazel roots,
The Primrose by its side,
That in its brimstone livery shoots
In bunches far and wide.
Oh there I met a pretty maid
The fairest of her kind,
She stood beneath the Hazels shade
Where lightly blew the wind.
I gave her cheek a hearty smack
As leaning on her neck
Her soft hair trailed adown her back
Without a mark or Speck,
Within the dyke the bullrush grew
Although the place was dry,
And Thrushes nest wi’ Eggs o' blue
Did on the hedge ribs lye.
The Woodbines in green leaves look'd wan,
The Bluebell stooped i' pride,
And there I claspt my bonny Ann
Along the greenwood side.
John Clare 1793-1864
I wandered down a green wood side
On Sunday noon in spring,
Where little birds their dwellings hide
And Thrushes sweetly sing,
The moss so green round Hazel roots,
The Primrose by its side,
That in its brimstone livery shoots
In bunches far and wide.
Oh there I met a pretty maid
The fairest of her kind,
She stood beneath the Hazels shade
Where lightly blew the wind.
I gave her cheek a hearty smack
As leaning on her neck
Her soft hair trailed adown her back
Without a mark or Speck,
Within the dyke the bullrush grew
Although the place was dry,
And Thrushes nest wi’ Eggs o' blue
Did on the hedge ribs lye.
The Woodbines in green leaves look'd wan,
The Bluebell stooped i' pride,
And there I claspt my bonny Ann
Along the greenwood side.
Oh bonny Ann, Oh bonny Ann,
What makes you look so fair,
Is it the love for some fond man
Or is't for none you care.
My love to thee my bonny Ann
Where primrose blooms wi’ pride,
I’ll talk and please thee all I can
Down by the greenwood side.
-o0o-
What makes you look so fair,
Is it the love for some fond man
Or is't for none you care.
My love to thee my bonny Ann
Where primrose blooms wi’ pride,
I’ll talk and please thee all I can
Down by the greenwood side.
-o0o-
LAZY BONES
Johnny Mercer 1909-76
Johnny Mercer 1909-76
Long as there is chicken gravy on your rice,
Ev'rything is nice.
Long as there's watermelon on the vine,
Ev'rything is fine.
You got no time to work,
You got no time to play,
Busy doin' nothin' all the live long day.
You won't ever change no matter what I say,
You're just made that way.
Ev'rything is nice.
Long as there's watermelon on the vine,
Ev'rything is fine.
You got no time to work,
You got no time to play,
Busy doin' nothin' all the live long day.
You won't ever change no matter what I say,
You're just made that way.
Lazybones, sleepin' in the sun,
How you 'spec' to get your day's work
done?
Never get your day's work done,
How you 'spec' to get your day's work
done?
Never get your day's work done,
Sleepin' in the noonday sun.
Lazybones, sleepin' in the shade,
How you 'spec' to get your corn meal
made?
Never get your corn meal made
Sleepin' in the evenin' shade.
When 'taters need sprayin',
I bet you keep prayin'
The bugs fall off the vine
And when you go fishin'
I bet you keep wishin'
The fish won't grab at your line.
Lazybones, loafin' thru' the day,
Lazybones, sleepin' in the shade,
How you 'spec' to get your corn meal
made?
Never get your corn meal made
Sleepin' in the evenin' shade.
When 'taters need sprayin',
I bet you keep prayin'
The bugs fall off the vine
And when you go fishin'
I bet you keep wishin'
The fish won't grab at your line.
Lazybones, loafin' thru' the day,
How you spec to make a dime that way?
Never make a dime that way
(Well looky here)
He never heard a word I say!
Never make a dime that way
(Well looky here)
He never heard a word I say!
-o0o-
THE STAR
Jane Taylor 1783–1824
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveller in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.
Jane Taylor 1783–1824
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveller in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
-o0o-
A CURE FOR HAVING DRUNK MUCH
Alexis c350BC
Last evening you were drinking deep,
So now your head aches, go to sleep;
Take boiled cabbage when you wake,
And there's the end of your headache.
-o0o-
Now online
OH WHAT A PICTURE
updated every week-end
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Monday, July 22, 2013
No.13
FAIRIES’ SONG
Leigh Hunt 1784-1859
We the fairies blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.
Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen, be your apples.
When to bed the world is bobbing,
Then’s the time for orchard robbing,
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling,
Were it not for stealing, stealing.
-o0o-
Leigh Hunt 1784-1859
We the fairies blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.
Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen, be your apples.
When to bed the world is bobbing,
Then’s the time for orchard robbing,
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling,
Were it not for stealing, stealing.
-o0o-
THE SKYE BOAT SONG
Sir Harold Boulton 1859-1935
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.
Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclaps rend the air;
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore,
Follow they will not dare.
Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep,
Ocean's a royal bed.
Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep
Watch by your weary head.
Many's the lad fought on that day,
Well the Claymore could wield,
When the night came, silently lay
Dead in Culloden's field.
Burned are their homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men;
Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath
Charlie will come again.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.
Sir Harold Boulton 1859-1935
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.
Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclaps rend the air;
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore,
Follow they will not dare.
Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep,
Ocean's a royal bed.
Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep
Watch by your weary head.
Many's the lad fought on that day,
Well the Claymore could wield,
When the night came, silently lay
Dead in Culloden's field.
Burned are their homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men;
Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath
Charlie will come again.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.
These verses recall the escape of Bonnie Prince Charlie to the Isle of Skye after his defeat at Culloden in 1746. The prince disguised as a servant girl made his escape in a small boat with the help of Flora MacDonald.
-o0o-
MYFANWY
Richard Davies 1833-1877
Why is it anger, O Myfanwy,
That fills your eyes so dark and clear?
Your gentle cheeks, O sweet Myfanwy,
Why blush they not when I draw near?
Where is the smile that once most tender
Kindled my love so fond, so true?
Where is the sound of your sweet words,
That drew my heart to follow you?
What have I done, O my Myfanwy,
To earn your frown? What is my blame?
Was it just play, my sweet Myfanwy,
To set your poet's love aflame?
You truly once to me were promised,
Is it too much to keep your part?
I wish no more your hand, Myfanwy,
If I no longer have your heart.
Myfanwy, may you spend your lifetime
Beneath the midday sunshine's glow,
And on your cheeks O may the roses
Dance for a hundred years or so.
Richard Davies 1833-1877
Why is it anger, O Myfanwy,
That fills your eyes so dark and clear?
Your gentle cheeks, O sweet Myfanwy,
Why blush they not when I draw near?
Where is the smile that once most tender
Kindled my love so fond, so true?
Where is the sound of your sweet words,
That drew my heart to follow you?
What have I done, O my Myfanwy,
To earn your frown? What is my blame?
Was it just play, my sweet Myfanwy,
To set your poet's love aflame?
You truly once to me were promised,
Is it too much to keep your part?
I wish no more your hand, Myfanwy,
If I no longer have your heart.
Myfanwy, may you spend your lifetime
Beneath the midday sunshine's glow,
And on your cheeks O may the roses
Dance for a hundred years or so.
Forget now all the words of promise
You made to one who loved you well,
Give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy,
But one last time, to say "farewell".
-o0o-
You made to one who loved you well,
Give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy,
But one last time, to say "farewell".
-o0o-
RESUME
Dorothy Parker 1893-1967
Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you,
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful,
Nooses give,
Gas smells awful.
You might as well live.
THE NEXT POST HERE WILL BE ON MONDAY 29TH JULY
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