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.

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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!

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

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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
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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-

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-

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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.

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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-

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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.

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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-

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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.

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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-

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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

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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-

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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-

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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-

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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-

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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!

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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-

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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-

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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

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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 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-

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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-

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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-

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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-

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