No.8

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NIGHT AND DAY (1932)
Cole Porter 1891-1964

Like the beat beat beat of the tom-tom
When the jungle shadows fall,
Like the tick tick tock of the stately clock
As it stands against the wall,
Like the drip drip drip of the raindrops
When the summer shower is through,
So a voice within me keeps repeating you, you, you.

Night and day, you are the one,
Only you beneath the moon and under the sun,
Whether near to me, or far
It's no matter darling where you are,
I think of you, night and day.
Day and night, why is it so
That this longing for you follows wherever I go,
In the roaring traffic's boom,
In the silence of my lonely room
I think of you, night and day.

Night and day, under the hide of me
There's an oh such a hungry yearning burning inside of me,
And its torment won't be through
'Til you let me spend my life making love to you
Day and night, night and day.

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    THERE ARE FAIRIES AT THE BOTTOM OF OUR GARDEN
Rose Fyleman 1877-1957

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!
It's not so very, very far away;
You pass the gardener's shed and you just keep straight ahead,
I do so hope they've really come to stay.
There's a little wood, with moss in it and beetles,
And a little stream that quietly runs through;
You wouldn't think they'd dare to come merrymaking there -
Well, they do!

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!
They often have a dance on summer nights;
The butterflies and bees make a lovely little breeze,
And the rabbits stand about and hold the lights.
Did you know that they could sit upon the moonbeams
And pick a little star to make a fan,
And dance away up there in the middle of the air?
Well, they can!

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!
You cannot think how beautiful they are;
They all stand up and sing when the Fairy Queen and King
Come gently floating down upon their car.
The King is very proud and very handsome;
The Queen -now you can guess who that could be -
She's a little girl all day, but at night she steals away -
Well - it's Me!

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LIFE IS FINE
Langston Hughes 1902-1967

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!

I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.

But it was High up there! It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love -
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry -
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.

Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!

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        SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS
        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!

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More poems on Monday

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THE LONG WHITE SEAM
 Jean Ingelow 1820–97

As I came round the harbour buoy,   
  The lights began to gleam,   
No wave the land-locked water stirred,   
  The crags were white as cream;   
And I marked my love by candle-light          
  Sewing her long white seam.   
    It’s aye sewing ashore, my dear,   
      Watch and steer at sea,   
    It’s reef and furl, and haul the line,   
      Set sail and think of thee.           

I climbed to reach her cottage door;   
  O sweetly my love sings!   
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,   
  My soul to meet it springs   
As the shining water leaped of old,           
  When stirred by angel wings.    

Aye longing to list anew,   
      Awake and in my dream,   
    But never a song she sang like this,   
      Sewing her long white seam.           

Fair fall the lights, the harbour lights,   
  That brought me in to thee,   
And peace drop down on that low roof   
  For the sight that I did see,   
And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear           
  All for the love of me.   
    For O, for O, with brows bent low   
      By the candle’s flickering gleam,   
    Her wedding gown it was she wrought,   
      Sewing the long white seam.           

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MORNING HAS BROKEN
Eleanor Farjeon 1881-1965

Morning has broken
Like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken
Like the first bird.
Praise for the singing!
Praise for the morning!
Praise for them, springing
Fresh from the Word!

Sweet the rain's new fall
Sunlit from heaven,
Like the first dewfall
On the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness
Of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness
Where his feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight!
Mine is the morning
Born of the one light
Eden saw play!
Praise with elation,
Praise every morning,
God's re-creation
Of the new day!

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A TRAGEDY
Edith Nesbit 1858-1924

Among his books he sits all day   
  To think and read and write;   
He does not smell the new-mown hay   
  The roses red and white.   

I walk among them all alone,           
  His silly stupid wife;   
The world seems tasteless, dead and done -   
  An empty thing is life.   

At night his window casts a square   
  Of light upon the lawn;           
I sometimes walk and watch it there   
  Until the chill of dawn.   

I have no brain to understand   
  The books he loves to read;   
I only have a heart and hand           
  He does not seem to need.   

He calls me “Child” - lays on my hair   
  Thin fingers, cold and mild;   
Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,   
  I wish I were a child!           

And no one sees and no one knows   
  (He least would know or see)   
That ere love gathers next year’s rose   
  Death will have gathered me;   

And on my grave will bindweed pink           
  And round-faced daisies grow;   
He still will read and write and think,   
  And never, never know!   

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There was a girl in our town,
Silk an’ satin was her gown,
Silk an’ satin, gold an’ velvet,
Guess her name, three times I’ve telled it.
Anon pub.1842

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More poems on Thursday

beginning today 

AMERICAN ART OF THE 19TH CENTURY

http://americanartofthe19thcent.blogspot.com

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DRAKE’S DRUM
 Henry Newbolt 1862-1938

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,   
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)   
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,   
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.   
Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,            
    Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,   
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'   
    He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.   
 
Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,   
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),     
Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,   
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,   
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,   
    Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;   
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,     
    An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."     

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,   
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),   
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,   
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.     
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,   
    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;   
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',   
    They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.   

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DARK LOCHNAGAR
George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove,
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,
Round their white summits tho' elements war,
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid.
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd
As daily I strode thro' the pine-cover'd glade.
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright Polar star,
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Lochnagar!

Years have roll'd on, Lochnagar, since I left you!
Years must elapse ere I tread you again.
Though nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England, thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roamed over mountains afar,
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagar.

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HAVE YOU SEEN BUT A BRIGHT LILY GROW?
Ben Jonson 1572-1637

Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

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SUMMER
John Betjeman 1906-84
[written at the age of 13 for his school magazine]

Whatever will rhyme with “summer”?
There only is “plumber” and “drummer.”
Why the cleverest bard
Would find it quite hard
To connect with the Summer - a plumber!

My Mind's getting glummer and glummer
Hooray! there's a word besides “drummer“;
Oh, I will think of some
Ere the prep's end has come
But the rhymes will get rummer and rummer.

Ah! If the bee hums, it's a hummer;
And the bee showeth signs of the Summer;
Also holiday babels
Make th'porter gum labels,
And whenever he gums, he's a gummer!

The cuckoo's a goer and comer
He goes in the hot days of Summer;
But he cucks ev'ry day
Till you plead and you pray
That his voice will get dumber and dumber!

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More poems here on Monday

ANNOUNCING A NEW BLOG

beginning on Monday - American Art of the 19th Century

http://americanartofthe19thcent.blogspot.com

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
Anon 18th century

A friend of mine was married to a scold,
To me he came and all his troubles told.
Said he, “She’s like a woman raving mad.”
“Alas, my friend” said I, “that’s very bad.”
“No, not so bad,” said he, “for with her, true,
I had both house and land, and money too.”

“That was well,” said I;
“No, not so well,” said he;
“For I and her own brother
Went to law with one another;
I was cast, the suit was lost,
And every penny went to pay the cost.”

“That was bad,” said I;
“No, not so bad,” said he;
“For we agreed that I the house should keep,
And give to me four score of Yorkshire sheep,
All fat and fine and fair, they were to be.”
“Well then,” said I, “sure that was well for thee?”

“No, not so well,” said he,
“For though the sheep I got, every one died of the rot.”
“That was bad,” said I;
“No, not so bad,” said he,
“For I had thought to scrape the fat,
And keep it in an oaken vat,
Then into tallow melt for winter store.”
“Well then,” said I, “That’s better than before.”

“Twas not so well,” said he,
“For having got a clumsy fellow
To scrape the fat and melt the tallow,
Into the melting fat the fire catches,
And, like brimstone matches,
Burnt my house to ashes.
“That WAS bad,” said I;
“No, not so bad,” said he, “for what is best,
My scolding wife got burnt up with the rest!”

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BEN LOMOND
Thomas Campbell 1777-1844

Hadst thou a genius on thy peak,
What tales, white-headed Ben,
Could'st thou of ancient ages speak,
That mock th' historian's pen!

Thy long duration makes our lives
Seem but so many hours;
And likens, to the bees' frail hives,
Our most stupendous towers.

Temples and towers thou seest begun,
New creeds, new conquerers sway;
And, like their shadows in the sun,
Hast seen them swept away.

Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied
(Unlike life's little span),
Looks down a mentor on the pride
Of perishable man.

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THAT LOVELY WEEKEND
Moira Heath and Ted Heath
[Ted Heath 1902-69 the dance band leader]

I haven't said thanks for that lovely weekend,
Those two days of heaven you helped me spend,
The thrill of your kiss as you stepped off the train
The smile in your eyes like the sun after rain.

To mark the occasion we went out to dine,
Remember the laughter, the music, the wine;
That drive in the taxi when midnight had flown,
Then breakfast next morning, just we two alone.

You had to go, the time was too short,
We both had so much to say;
Your kit to be packed, the train to be caught,
Sorry I cried but I just felt that way.

And now you have gone, dear, this letter I pen;
My heart travels with you till we meet again.
Keep smiling, my darling, and someday we'll spend
A lifetime as sweet as that lovely weekend.

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WHEN I WAS FAIR AND YOUNG
att.Queen Elizabeth I 1533-1603

When I was fair and young, then favour graced me.
Of many was I sought their mistress for to be,
But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,
How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,
But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

Then spake fair Venus' son, that brave victorious boy,
Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,
I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breast
That neither night nor day I could take any rest.
Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

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BLOG NEWS
The GALLERY OF COUNTRY GIRLS blog, which came to an end last week, is being replaced by AMERICAN ART OF THE 19TH CENTURY; the first post will be on Monday 1st July.
http://americanartofthe19thcent.blogspot.com

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JUST A’WEARYIN’ FOR YOU
Frank Stanton 1857-1927

Just a’wearyin’ for you
All the time a'feelin' blue,
Wishin’ for you, wonderin’ when
You’ll be comin’ home again,
Restless, don’t know what to do,
Just a’wearyin’ for you.

Mornin' comes, the birds awake,
Seem to sing so for your sake,
But there’s sadness in the notes
That come trillin’ from their throats,
Seem to feel a sadness too,
Just a’wearyin’ for you.

Evenin' comes, I miss you more
When the dark gloom’s round the door,
Seems just like you ought to be
Here to open it for me,
Latch goes tinklin‘, thrills me through,
Sets me wearyin’ for you.

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THE LITTLE VAGABOND
William Blake 1757-1827

Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold,
But the ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in Heaven will never do well.

But if at the church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray.

Then the parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

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SYMPATHY
Paul Laurence Dunbar 1872-1906

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
    When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;  
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,  
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
    When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,  
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals - 

I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
    Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;  
For he must fly back to his perch and cling  
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars  
And they pulse again with a keener sting -
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
    When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, -
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
    But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,  
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings -
I know why the caged bird sings!

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THE ARROW AND THE SONG
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  1807-82

I shot an Arrow into the air,
It fell to earth I know not where,
For so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breath'd a Song into the air,
It fell to earth, I know not where.
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of a song?

Long, long afterward in an oak
I found the Arrow still unbroke;
And the Song from beginning to end
I found again in the heart of a friend.

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More poems next Monday

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WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY
A.E. Housman 1859-1936

When I was one-and-twenty
       I heard a wise man say,
“Give crowns and pounds and guineas
       But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
       But keep your fancy free.”
But I was one-and-twenty,
       No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
       I heard him say again,
“The heart out of the bosom
       Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
       And sold for endless rue.”
And I am two-and-twenty,
       And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

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THE SKYLARK
James Hogg 1770-1835

Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

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LOVE’S BEEN GOOD TO ME
Rod McKuen b.1933

I have been a rover,
I have walked alone,
Hiked a hundred highways,
Never found a home,
Still in all I'm happy,
The reason is, you see,
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me.

There was a girl in Denver
Before the summer storm,
Oh, her eyes were tender,
Oh, her arms were warm,
And she could smile away the thunder,
Kiss away the rain,
Even though she's gone away,
You won't hear me complain.

There was a girl in Portland
Before the winter chill,
We used to go a-courtin'
Along October hill,
And she could laugh away the dark clouds,
Cry away the snow,
It seems like only yesterday
As down the road I go.

I've been a rover,
I have walked alone,
Hiked a hundred highways,
Never found a home,
Still in all I'm happy,
The reason is, you see,
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me.

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THE OLD WOMAN
Joseph Campbell (Seosamh MacCathmhaoil) 1879-1944

As a white candle in a holy place
So is the beauty of an aged face.
As the spent radiance of the winter sun,
So is a woman with her travail done,
Her brood gone from her and her thoughts as still
As the waters under a ruined mill.

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More poems on Thursday

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A RED, RED ROSE
Robert Burns 1759-96

O my luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly spring in June;
O my luve’s like a melodie
That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve
And fare thee weel awhile;
And I will come again, my luve
Though it were ten thousand mile!

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THE MOUNTAIN MAID
Dora Sigerson Shorter 1866-1918

Half seated on a mossy crag,
Half crouching in the heather;
I found a little Irish maid,
All in June's golden weather.

Like some fond hand that loved the child,
The wind tossed back her tresses;
The heath-bells touched her unclad feet
With shy and soft caresses.

A mountain linnet flung his song
Into the air around her;
But all in vain the splendid hour,
For deep in woe I found her.

"Ahone! Ahone! Ahone!" she wept,
The tears fell fast and faster;
I sat myself beside her there,
To hear of her disaster.

Like dew on roses down her cheek
The diamond drops were stealing;
She laid her two brown hands in mine,
Her trouble all revealing.

Alas! Alas! the tale she told
In Gaelic low and tender;
A plague upon my Saxon tongue,
I could not comprehend her.

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DAFFODILS
Robert Herrick 1591-1674

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring!
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the Summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.

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ON A PAINTED WOMAN
Percy Byshe Shelley 1792-1822

To youths, who hurry thus away,
How silly your desire is
At such an early hour to pay
Your compliments to Iris.

Stop, prithee, stop, ye hasty beaux,
No longer urge this race on;
Though Iris has put on her clothes,
She has not put her face on.

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More poems on Monday

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