Thursday, November 24, 2016

LONGING
Matthew Arnold 1822-88

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

POETRY - A PERSONAL CHOICE 
COMES TO AN END TODAY AND A NEW BLOG WILL BEGIN TOMORROW.
POETRY TO PLEASE
WILL CONTAIN 4/5 POEMS AND WILL BE UPDATED EVERY WEEKEND

-o=0=o-

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

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!

POETRY - A PERSONAL CHOICE 
COMES TO AN END ON THURSDAY AND A NEW BLOG WILL BEGIN ON FRIDAY.
POETRY TO PLEASE
WILL CONTAIN 4/5 POEMS AND WILL BE UPDATED EVERY WEEKEND

-o=0=o-

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

A CALM
George Santayana 1863-1952

When the towering heights of the middle heavens
Deep down in the ocean appear,
How pleasant to see the great summer clouds
Reflect in the water so clear.

There are trees above,
There are trees below,
Huge rocks and sloping hills;
And another Sun with its mellow glow
The pictured landscape fills.

The deep, silent mountains beneath the calm wave
Uphold their companions above.
Until hurrying winds from the breezy west
Sky, mountains, and landscape remove.

POETRY _ A PERSONAL CHOICE 
COMES TO AN END ON THURSDAY AND A NEW BLOG WILL BEGIN ON FRIDAY.
POETRY TO PLEASE
WILL CONTAIN 4/5 POEMS AND WILL BE UPDATED EVERY WEEKEND
http://poetrytoplease.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

Monday, November 21, 2016

FROM A WINDOW
Charlotte Mew 1869-1928

Up here, with June, the sycamore throws
   Across the window a whispering screen;
    I shall miss the sycamore more, I suppose,
    Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.
        But I mean to go through the door without fear,
     Not caring much what happens here
       When I’m away -
   How green the screen is across the panes
    Or who goes laughing along the lanes
      With my old lover all summer day. 

-o=0=o-

Sunday, November 20, 2016

THE THOMAS HARDY PAGE

SITTING ON THE BRIDGE

Sitting on the bridge
Past the barracks, town and ridge,
At once the spirit seized us
To sing a song that pleased us -
As "The Fifth" were much in rumour;
It was "Whilst I'm in the humour,
Take me, Paddy, will you now?"
And a lancer soon drew nigh,
And his Royal Irish eye
Said, "Willing, faith, am I,
O, to take you anyhow, dears,
To take you anyhow."

But, lo! - dad walking by,
Cried, "What, you lightheels! Fie!
Is this the way you roam
And mock the sunset gleam?"
And he marched us straightway home,
Though we said, "We are only, daddy,
Singing, 'Will you take me, Paddy?'"
- Well, we never saw from then
If we sang there anywhen,
The soldier dear again,
Except at night in dream-time,
Except at night in dream.

Perhaps that soldier's fighting
In a land that's far away,
Or he may be idly plighting
Some foreign hussy gay;
Or perhaps his bones are whiting
In the wind to their decay! . . .
Ah! - does he mind him how
The girls he saw that day
On the bridge, were sitting singing
At the time of curfew-ringing,
"Take me, Paddy; will you now, dear?
Paddy, will you now?"

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Saturday, November 19, 2016

THE ROAD TO THE ISLES
Kenneth Macleod (dates not known)

A far croonin' is pullin' me away
As take I wi' my cromach to the road.
The far Cuillins are puttin' love on me
As step I wi' the sunlight for my load.

Sure by Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber I will go
By heather tracks wi' heaven in their wiles.
If it's thinkin' in your inner heart the braggart's in my step,
You've never smelled the tangle o' the Isles.

It's by Shiel water the track is to the west
By Ailort and by Morar to the sea,
The cool cresses I am thinkin' of for pluck
And bracken for a wink on Mother´s knee.

The blue islands are pullin' me away
Their laughter puts the leap upon the lame,
The blue islands from the Skerries to the Lews
Wi' heather honey taste upon each name.
Oh the far Cuillins are puttin' love on me
As step I wi' my cromach to the Isles.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Friday, November 18, 2016

QUIET NIGHT THOUGHTS
Li Bai 701-62

I wake, and moonbeams play around my bed,
Glittering like hoar-frost to my wandering eyes;
Up towards the glorious moon I raise my head,
Then lay me down - and thoughts of home arise.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Thursday, November 17, 2016

A MAGIC MOMENT I REMEMBER
Alexander Sergeyevich Poushkin 1799-1837

A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.

I pray to mute despair and anguish,
To pursuits the vain world esteems,
Long did I hear your soothing accents,
Long did your features haunt my dreams. 

Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine. 

In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me
No one to cry for, live for, love. 

Then came a moment of renaissance,
I looked up - you again are there
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.
POETRY PATHWAYS
-o=0=o-


Wednesday, November 16, 2016

A BIRD FROM THE WEST
Dora Sigerson Shorter 1866-1918

At the grey dawn, amongst the falling leaves,
   A little bird outside my window swung,
High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,
   And "Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!" ever sung.

Take me, I cried, back to my island home;
   Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings;
For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,
   And home and home and home he ever sings.

We lingered over Ulster stern and wild.
   I called: "Arise! doth none remember me?"
One turnèd in the darkness murmuring,
   "How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!"

We rested over Connaught – whispering said:
   "Awake, awake, and welcome! I am here."
One woke and shivered at the morning grey;
   "The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear."

We flew low over Munster. Long I wept:
   "You used to love me, love me once again!"
They spoke from out the shadows wondering;
   "You'd think of tears, so bitter falls the rain."

Long over Leinster lingered we. "Good-bye!
   My best beloved, good-bye for evermore."
Sleepless they tossed and whispered to the dawn;
   "So sad a wind was never heard before."

Was it a dream I dreamt? For yet there swings
   In the grey morn a bird upon the bough,
And "Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!" ever sings.
   Oh! fair the breaking day in Ireland now.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

THE HARVEST MOON
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighbourhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendour rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the labouring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Monday, November 14, 2016

SUNSET
Florence Peacock (dates not known)

"The setting sun of old age ever gilds with rosy tints the days gone by."

The setting sun of life gilds with its rays
The unforgotten but far distant days,
The days when youth and hope walked hand in hand.

It sheds around the past a rosy glow,
That past which never was a present, though
On looking back o'er life it seems to stand

Bathed in a crimson glory, - and old age
Lingers with loving fondness o'er the page
Thus lighted up by memory's golden rays.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Sunday, November 13, 2016

THE THOMAS HARDY PAGE

AFTER THE FAIR

The singers are gone from the Cornmarket-place
With their broadsheets of rhymes,
The street rings no longer in treble and bass
With their skits on the times,
And the Cross, lately thronged, is a dim naked space
That but echoes the stammering chimes.

From Clock-corner steps, as each quarter ding-dongs,
Away the folk roam
By the "Hart" and Grey's Bridge into byways and drongs,*
Or across the ridged loam;
The younger ones shrilling the lately heard songs,
The old saying, "Would we were home."

The shy-seeming maiden so mute in the fair
Now rattles and talks,
And that one who looked the most swaggering there
Grows sad as she walks,
And she who seemed eaten by cankering care
In statuesque sturdiness stalks.

And midnight clears High Street of all but the ghosts
Of its buried burghees,
From the latest far back to those old Roman hosts
Whose remains one yet sees,
Who loved, laughed, and fought, hailed their friends, drank their toasts
At their meeting-times here, just as these!

*drong = a passageway or lane especially between walls or hedges
POETRY PATHWAYS

Saturday, November 12, 2016

HALFWAY DOWN
A.A. Milne 1882-1956

Halfway down the stairs
Is a stair
Where I sit.
There isn't any
Other stair
Quite like
It.
I'm not at the bottom,
I'm not at the top;
So this is the stair
Where
I always
Stop.

Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up
And it isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery,
It isn't in town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head.
It isn't really
Anywhere!
It's somewhere else
Instead!

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS


Friday, November 11, 2016

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY
William Wordsworth 1770-1850

Art thou the bird whom Man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;
The bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn-winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,
And Russia far inland?
The bird, that by some name or other
All men who know thee call their brother,
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.
—If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,
Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;
Can this be the bird, to man so good,
That, after their bewildering,
Covered with leaves the little children,
So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue
A beautiful creature,
That is gentle by nature?
Beneath the summer sky
From flower to flower let him fly;
'Tis all that he wishes to do.
The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own:
Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone! 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Thursday, November 10, 2016

NOVEMBER
Thomas Hood 1789-1845

No sun - no moon! 
No morn - no noon - 
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day. 
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! 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

O MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ARE YOU ROAMING? (from Twelfth Night)
William Shakespeare 1564-1616

O mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming 
That can sing both high and low; 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 
Journey's end in lovers' meeting - 
Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; 
Present mirth hath present laughter; 
What's to come is still unsure: 
In delay there lies no plenty - 
Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty, 
Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS


Tuesday, November 8, 2016

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND
Thomas Moore 1779-1852

Quick! we have but a second,
        Fill round the cup while you may;
     For time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
        And we must away, away!
     Grasp the pleasure that's flying,
        For oh, not Orpheus' strain
     Could keep sweet hours from dying,
        Or charm them to life again.
          Then, quick! we have but a second,
             Fill round the cup while you may!
          For Time, the churl hath beckon'd,
             And we must away, away.

     See the glass, how it flushes,
        Like some young Hebe's lip,
     And half meets thine, and blushes
        That thou shouldst delay to sip.
     Shame, oh shame unto thee,
        If ever thou see'st that day,
     When a cup or lip shall woo thee,
        And turn untouch'd away!
          Then, quick! we have but a second,
             Fill round, fill round while you may,
          For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
             And we must away, away!

POETRY PATHWAYS

Monday, November 7, 2016

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824

She walks in Beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 
Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent!

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Sunday, November 6, 2016

THE THOMAS HARDY PAGE

A NIGHT IN NOVEMBER

I marked when the weather changed,
And the panes began to quake,
And the winds rose up and ranged,
That night, lying half-awake.

Dead leaves blew into my room,
And alighted upon my bed,
And a tree declared to the gloom
Its sorrow that they were shed.

One leaf of them touched my hand,
And I thought that it was you
There stood as you used to stand,
And saying at last you knew! 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS


Saturday, November 5, 2016

KEEP A-GOIN'
Frank L. Stanton 1857-1927

If you strike a thorn or rose,
Keep a-goin'!
If it hails or if it snows,
Keep a-goin'!
'Taint no use to sit an' whine
When the fish ain't on your line;
Bait your hook an' keep a-tryin' - 
Keep a-goin'!

When the weather kills your crop,
Keep a-goin'!
Though 'tis work to reach the top,
Keep a-goin'!
S'pose you're out o' ev'ry dime,
Gittin' broke ain't any crime;
Tell the world you're feelin' prime -
Keep a-goin'!

When it looks like all is up,
Keep a-goin'!
Drain the sweetness from the cup,
Keep a-goin'!
See the wild birds on the wing, 
Hear the bells that sweetly ring,
When you feel like singin', sing -
Keep a-goin'!

POETRY PATHWAYS has been updated today

 -o=0=o-

Friday, November 4, 2016

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 conquerors 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.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Thursday, November 3, 2016

TRUE LOVE
Anon

True love is a sacred flame
That burns eternally,
And none can dim its special glow
Or change its destiny.

True love speaks in tender tones
And hears with gentle ear,
True love gives with open heart
And true love conquers fear.

True love makes no harsh demands
It neither rules nor binds,
And true love holds with gentle hands
The hearts that it entwines.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

THE FAIRIES
William Allingham. 1824–89

Up the airy mountain, 
Down the rushy glen, 
We daren't go a-hunting 
For fear of little men; 
Wee folk, good folk, 
Trooping all together; 
Green jacket, red cap, 
And white owl's feather! 

Down along the rocky shore 
Some make their home, 
They live on crispy pancakes 
Of yellow tide-foam; 
Some in the reeds 
Of the black mountain lake, 
With frogs for their watch-dogs, 
All night awake. 

High on the hill-top 
The old King sits; 
He is now so old and grey 
He's nigh lost his wits. 
With a bridge of white mist 
Columbkill he crosses, 
On his stately journeys 
From Slieveleague to Rosses; 
Or going up with music 
On cold starry nights 
To sup with the Queen 
Of the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little Bridget 
For seven years long; 
When she came down again 
Her friends were all gone. 
They took her lightly back, 
Between the night and morrow, 
They thought that she was fast asleep, 
But she was dead with sorrow. 
They have kept her ever since 
Deep within the lake, 
On a bed of flag-leaves, 
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side, 
Through the mosses bare, 
They have planted thorn-trees 
For pleasure here and there. 
If any man so daring 
As dig them up in spite, 
He shall find their sharpest thorns 
In his bed at night. 

Up the airy mountain, 
Down the rushy glen, 
We daren't go a-hunting 
For fear of little men; 
Wee folk, good folk, 
Trooping all together; 
Green jacket, red cap, 
And white owl's feather! 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Extract from THE LADDER OF St.AUGUSTINE
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

We have not wings, we cannot soar;
  But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
  The cloudy summits of our time. 

The mighty pyramids of stone
  That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
  Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 

The distant mountains, that uprear
  Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
  As we to higher levels rise. 

The heights by great men reached and kept
  Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
  Were toiling upward in the night. 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Monday, October 31, 2016

A PLAIN LIFE
W.H. Davies 1871-1940

No idle gold - since this fine sun, my friend,
Is no mean miser, but doth freely spend.

No precious stones - since these green mornings show,
Without a charge, their pearls where'er I go.

No lifeless books - since birds with their sweet tongues
Will read aloud to me their happier songs.

No painted scenes - since clouds can change their skies
A hundred times a day to please my eyes.

No headstrong wine - since, while I drink, the spring
Into my eager ears will softly sing.

No surplus clothes - since every simple beast
Can teach me to be happy with the least.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Sunday, October 30, 2016

CHANGE UPON CHANGE
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1809-61

Five months ago the stream did flow,
The lilies bloomed within the sedge,
And we were lingering to and fro,
Where none will track thee in this snow,
Along the stream, beside the hedge.
Ah, Sweet, be free to love and go!
For if I do not hear thy foot,
The frozen river is as mute,
The flowers have dried down to the root:
And why, since these be changed since May,
Shouldst thou change less than they.

And slow, slow as the winter snow
The tears have drifted to mine eyes;
And my poor cheeks, five months ago
Set blushing at thy praises so,
Put paleness on for a disguise.
Ah, Sweet, be free to praise and go!
For if my face is turned too pale,
It was thine oath that first did fail, -
It was thy love proved false and frail, -
And why, since these be changed enow,
Should I change less than thou.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS




Saturday, October 29, 2016

THE ABC
Spike Milligan 1918-2002

'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet 
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"

Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"

"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."

C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."

"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."

"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.

"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."

X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z." 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS was updated today

Friday, October 28, 2016

GO, VALENTINE
Robert Southey 1813-43

 Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid 
Whom fancy still will portray to my sight, 
How here I linger in this sullen shade, 
This dreary gloom of dull monastic night; 
Say, that every joy of life remote 
At evening's closing hour I quit the throng, 
Listening in solitude the ring-dome's note, 
Who pours like me her solitary song; 
Say, that of her absence calls the sorrowing sigh; 
Say, that of all her charms I love to speak, 
In fancy feel the magic of her eye, 
In fancy view the smile illume her cheek, 
Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove, 
And heave the sigh of memory and of love.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS
FLOWERS
Thomas Hood 1789/1845

I will not have the mad clytie*
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of everyone.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand
The wolfsbane I should dread; -
Nor will I dreary rosemary
That always mourns the dead; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me -
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with blush,
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom's betrothed to the bee; -
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.
*In Greek mythology Clytie was a nymph was who was turned into a sunflower.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Thursday, October 27, 2016

THE LITTLE GHOST
Edna St.Vincent Millay 1892-1950

I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high - higher than most -
And the green gate was locked.
And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone -
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.
By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown's white folds among.
I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do - and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!
She bent above my favourite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled - there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.
She held her gown on either side
To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
The way great ladies go.
And where the wall is built in new
And is of ivy bare
She paused - then opened and passed through
A gate that once was there.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS




Wednesday, October 26, 2016

HOPE
Joseph Addison 1672-1719

Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,
May still grow white and shine with happier hours.
So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains,
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines,
Till by degrees the floating mirror shines;
Reflects each flower that on the border grows,
And a new heaven in its fair bosom shows.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS


Tuesday, October 25, 2016

LIFE IS FINE
Langston Hughes 1902-67

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! 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Monday, October 24, 2016

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!

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Sunday, October 23, 2016

THE THOMAS HARDY PAGE

THE WIND BLEW WORDS

The wind blew words along the skies,
And these it blew to me
Through the wide dusk: "Lift up your eyes,
Behold this troubled tree,
Complaining as it sways and plies;
It is a limb of thee.

"Yea, too, the creatures sheltering round -
Dumb figures, wild and tame,
Yea, too, thy fellows who abound -
Either of speech the same
Or far and strange - black, dwarfed, and browned,
They are stuff of thy own frame."

I moved on in a surging awe
Of inarticulateness
At the pathetic Me I saw
In all his huge distress,
Making self-slaughter of the law
To kill, break, or suppress.

-o=0=o-

Saturday, October 22, 2016

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.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Friday, October 21, 2016

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-

TWAS EVER THUS
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!

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Thursday, October 20, 2016

WEATHER
Ambrose Bierce 1842-1913

Once I dipped into the future far as human eye could see, 
And I saw the Chief Forecaster, dead as any one can be -
Dead and damned and shut in Hades as a liar from his birth, 
With a record of unreason seldom paralleled on earth. 
While I looked he reared him solemnly, that incandescent youth, 
From the coals that he'd preferred to the advantages of truth. 
He cast his eyes about him and above him; then he wrote 
On a slab of thin asbestos what I venture here to quote - 
For I read it in the rose-light of the everlasting glow: 
"Cloudy; variable winds, with local showers; cooler; snow."

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

A FOREST PATH IN WINTER
Archibald Lampman 1861-1919

Along this secret and forgotten road
All depths and forest forms, above, below,
Are plumed and draped and hillocked with the snow
A branch cracks now and then, and its soft load
Drifts by me in a thin prismatic shower;
Else not a sound, but vistas bound and crossed
With sheeted gleams and sharp blue shadows, frost,
And utter silence. In his glittering power
The master of mid-winter reveries
Holds all things buried soft and strong and deep.
The busy squirrel has his hidden lair;
And even the spirits of the stalwart trees
Have crept into their utmost roots, and there,
Upcoiled in the close earth, lie fast asleep.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

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.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Monday, October 17, 2016

I'M GOING TO SEE YOU TODAY
Joyce Grenfell 1910-79

This is our red letter day,
It's come at last, you see,
Couldn't really be a better day,
It's meant for you and me,
This day we've been awaiting patiently,
It is perfection to me, for -

I'm going to see you today,
All's well with my world,
And the people that I meet
As I hurry down the street
Seem to know I'm on my way
Coming to you.

This is a beautiful day,
I'm treading on air,
And my feet have taken two wings,
My heart with happiness sings,
I'll see you today.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Sunday, October 16, 2016

THE THOMAS HARDY PAGE

I LOOKED UP FROM MY WRITING

I looked up from my writing,
And gave a start to see,
As if rapt in my inditing,
The moon's full gaze on me.

Her meditative misty head
Was spectral in its air,
And I involuntarily said,
"What are you doing there?"

"Oh, I've been scanning pond and hole
And waterway hereabout
For the body of one with a sunken soul
Who has put his life-light out.

"Did you hear his frenzied tattle?
It was sorrow for his son
Who is slain in brutish battle,
Though he has injured none.

"And now I am curious to look
Into the blinkered mind
Of one who wants to write a book
In a world of such a kind."

Her temper overwrought me,
And I edged to shun her view,
For I felt assured she thought me
One who should drown him too.

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Saturday, October 15, 2016

LINES COMPOSED IN A WOOD ON A WINDY DAY
Anne Bronte 1820-49

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,
And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!

-o=0=o-

POETRY PATHWAYS
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Friday, October 14, 2016

THE SOLITARY REAPER
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. 

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. 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Thursday, October 13, 2016

THE SOUNDS IN THE EVENING
Eleanor Fargeon 1881-1965

The sounds in the evening 
Go all through the house, 
The click of the clock 
And the pick of the mouse.

The footsteps of people 
Upon the top floor, 
The skirts of my mother 
That brush by the door.

The crick in the boards, 
And the creek of the chairs, 
The fluttering murmurs 
Outside on the stairs.

The ring of the bell, 
The arrival of guests, 
The laugh of my father 
At one of his jests.

The clashing of dishes 
As dinner goes in, 
The babble of voices 
That distance makes thin. 

The mewing of cats 
That seem just by my ear, 
The hooting of owls 
That can never seem near.

The queer little noises 
That no one explains,
Till the moon through the slats 
Of my window-blind rains. 

And the world of my eyes 
And my ears melts like steam 
As I find my pillow 
The world of my dream. 

-o=0=o-

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

I BENDED UNTO ME A BOUGH
Thomas Edward Brown  1830-97  

I bended unto me a bough of May,
That I might see and smell:
It bore it in a sort of way,
It bore it very well.
But, when I let it backward sway,
Then it were hard to tell
With what a toss, with what a swing,
The dainty thing
Resumed its proper level,
And sent me to the devil.
I know it did - you doubt it?
I turned, and saw them whispering about it. 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

A SLAVE'S DREAM
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  1807-82

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
  His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
  Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
  He saw his Native Land. 
Wide through the landscape of his dreams
  The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
  Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
  Descend the mountain-road. 
He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
  Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
  They held him by the hand! -
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
  And fell into the sand. 
And then at furious speed he rode
  Along the Niger's bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
  And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
  Smiting his stallion's flank. 
Before him, like a blood-red flag,
  The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
  O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
  And the ocean rose to view. 
At night he heard the lion roar,
  And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
  Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
  Through the triumph of his dream. 
The forests, with their myriad tongues,
  Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
  With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
  At their tempestuous glee. 
He did not feel the driver's whip,
  Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
  And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
  Had broken and thrown away! 

-o=0=o-
POETRY PATHWAYS