WALTER de la MARE 1873-1956

MISTLETOE

Sitting under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

One last candle burning low,

All the sleepy dancers gone,

Just one candle burning on,

Shadows lurking everywhere:

Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go

Nodding under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

No footsteps came, no voice, but only,

Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,

Stooped in the still and shadowy air

Lips unseen - and kissed me there.

This English poet, short story writer and novelist is probably best remembered for his works for children and for his poem "The Listeners."  His Collected Stories for Children won the 1947 Carnegie Medal for British children's books.

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DOLLIE RADFORD 1858-1920

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A NOVICE

What is it, in these latter days, 

Transfigures my domestic ways, 

And round me, as a halo, plays? 

My cigarette. 

For me so daintily prepared, 

No modern skill, or perfume, spared, 

What would have happened had I dared 

To pass it yet? 

What else could lighten times of woe, 

When some one says 'I told you so,' 

When all the servants, in a row, 

Give notices? 

When the great family affairs 

Demand the most gigantic cares, 

And one is very ill upstairs, 

With poultices? 

What else could ease my aching head, 

When, though I long to be in bed, 

I settle steadily instead 

To my 'accounts?' 

And while the house is slumbering, 

Go over them like anything, 

And find them ever varying, 

In their amounts! 

Ah yes, the cook may spoil the broth, 

The cream of life resolve to froth, 

I cannot now, though very wroth, 

Distracted be; 

For as the smoke curls blue and thin 

From my own lips, I first begin 

To bathe my tired spirit in 

Philosophy. 

And sweetest healing on her pours, 

Once more into the world she soars, 

And sees it full of open doors, 

And helping hands. 

In spite of those who, knocking, stay 

At sullen portals day by day, 

And weary at the long delay 

To their demands. 

The promised epoch, like a star, 

Shines very bright and very far, 

But nothing shall its lustre mar, 

Though distant yet. 

If I, in vain, must sit and wait, 

To realize our future state, 

I shall not be disconsolate, 

My cigarette!

Caroline Maitland was an English poet who, using her married name, wrote as Dollie Radford. Her friends included Eleanor Marx the youngest daughter of Karl Marx.

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PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 1872-1906

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SYMPATHY

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!

This American poet, novelist, and playwright was born to parents who had been enslaved in Kentucky before the American Civil War. He began to write stories and verse when still a child and was president of his high school's literary society. His first poems appeared in a Dayton newspaper when he was just 16 years old.

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ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 1809-92

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THE BROOK

(These are the first three verses of a much longer poem)

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,

By twenty thorpes, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever.

Tennyson was Poet Laureate of Britain and Ireland for much of Queen Victoria's reign. He is still one of our most popular poets and is particularly remembered for "The Charge of the Light Brigade."

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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1770-1850

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MINSTRELS

The minstrels played their Christmas tune

To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;

While, smitten by a lofty moon,

The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,

Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,

That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze

Had sunk to rest with folded wings:

Keen was the air, but could not freeze,

Nor check, the music of the strings;

So stout and hardy were the band

That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened? - till was paid

Respect to every inmate's claim,

The greeting given, the music played

In honour of each household name,

Duly pronounced with lusty call,

And "Merry Christmas" wished to all. 

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SONG OF SONGS

My beloved speaks and says to me:

"Arise, my love, my fair one,

and come away;

for now the winter is past,

the rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth;

the time of singing has come,

and the voice of the turtle dove

is heard in our land.

The fig tree puts forth its figs,

and the vines are in blossom;

they give forth fragrance.

Arise, my love, my fair one,

and come away.

Set me as a seal upon your heart,

as a seal upon your arm;

for love is strong as death,

passion fierce as the grave.

Its flashes are flashes of fire,

a raging flame.

Many waters cannot quench love,

neither can floods drown it."

Those lines are just a section of the Song of Songs, also known as the Song of Solomon, in the Hebrew Bible and the Christian Old Testament.

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PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 1792-1822

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ON A PAINTED WOMAN

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.

Shelley was one of the major English Romantic Poets and is regarded by some as among the finest lyric poet in the English language. Mary Shelley who wrote Frankenstein was his second wife.

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