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