A Collection of Poems

Dawn - Yosa Buson

2012-02-25T11:43:00.000Z

Dawn —
fish the cormorants haven't caught
swimming in the shallows.

Yosa Buson (1716 - 1784) Japan

I Am There - Mahmoud Darwish

2012-02-23T19:33:00.001Z

I come from there and remember,
I was born like everyone is born, I have a mother
and a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends and a prison.
I have a wave that sea-gulls snatched away.
I have a view of my own and an extra blade of grass.
I have a moon past the peak of words.
I have the godsent food of birds and an olive tree beyond the kent of time.
I have traversed the land before swords turned bodies into banquets.
I come from there, I return the sky to its mother when for its mother the sky cries, and I weep for a returning cloud to know me.
I have learned the words of blood-stained courts in order to break the rules.
I have learned and dismantled all the words to construct a single one:
Home

Mahmoud Darwish (born 1941) Palestine

African Writings - Godfrey Mutiso Gorry

2012-02-22T19:20:00.001Z

If you meet literature from Africa
Or even their mentors
In such works
You realize a trait of madness
Pumping into the throbbing poetics.
There is a knack in it that sparks alight
The nearest shrubs;
Intrigue and sensation incomparable.
The heart of African literature
Pumping wordy blood into fragile young minds.
Rejuvenating the African word
That merges into a whirlpool mixture
Of creativity, and strengthen our verbosity.
Impregnated words
Be borne from fertility the center.

Godfrey Mutiso Gorry (born 1976) Kenya

Alabaster - Sarojini Naidu

2012-02-21T19:22:00.000Z

Like this alabaster box whose art
Is frail as a cassia-flower, is my heart,
Carven with delicate dreams and wrought
With many a subtle and exquisite thought.

Therein I treasure the spice and scent
Of rich and passionate memories blent
Like odours of cinnamon, sandal and clove,
Of song and sorrow and life and love.

Sarojini Naidu (1879 - 1949) India

Where the Sidewalk Ends - Shel Silverstein

2012-02-20T20:02:00.000Z

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Shel Silverstein (1932 – 1999) USA

Just so — Jesus — raps - Emily Dickinson

2012-02-19T10:12:00.001Z

Just so — Jesus — raps —
He — doesn't weary —
Last — at the Knocker —
And first — at the Bell.
Then — on divinest tiptoe — standing —
Might He but spy the lady's soul —
When He — retires —
Chilled — or weary —
It will be ample time for — me —
Patient — upon the steps — until then —
Hears! I am knocking — low at thee.

Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886) USA

He stepped inside my door - Eeva Kilpi

2012-02-18T18:32:00.001Z

Let me know right away
if I'm disturbing you.
he said
as he stepped inside my door,
and I'll leave the way I came.

Not only do you disturb me,
I answered,
You turn my whole world
upside down.
Welcome.

Eeva Kilpi (born 1928) Finland

Sing Me A Song - John O Brien

2012-02-17T14:47:00.000Z

Sing me a song with the ring of truth in it,
Sing me a song with the freshness of youth in it.
Chant me a paean of joy;
I'm tired of the dirge with regrets and despair in it,
Life has too much of drab sorrow and care in it,
Raise me a chorus with hopefulness rare in it,
Plucked from the heart of a boy.

Give me the splash and the shout of the sea in it,
The trebles of birds and the bass of the bee in it;
Bring the minstrels along.
Trilling a lay with the zest of young life in it,
Tender and clean with no heartache or strife in it;
Send me a message with joyfulness rife in it,
And the singer I'll love for the song.

John O Brien (1878 - 1952) Australia

The Smith - Ludwig Uhland

2012-02-16T18:58:00.000Z

I hear my sweetheart,
The hammer he swings,
That whistles, that clangs,
That penetrates into the distance
Like the peal of bells
Through streets and square.

At the black furnace,
There sits my love,
But if I pass by,
The bellows then groan,
The flames roar up
And blaze all around him.

Ludwig Uhland (1787-1862) Germany
Translation by Hyde Flippo

I Want to Grasp The - Xuân Diệu

2012-02-15T14:50:00.000Z

Life has just begun to burst forth.
I want to seize the clouds and wind,
Drunk with love on butterfly wings.
I want to embrace in an ardent kiss
The mountains, streams, trees, and bright grass
To delight in this world of perfume and light,
To satiate my soul with the prime of life.
O, vermeil spring! I want to bite into thee!

Xuân Diệu (1916 - 1985) Vietnam
Translated by Thomas D. Le

A Lament For Flodden - Jane Elliot

2012-02-14T09:57:00.000Z

I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray:
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

Jane Elliot (1727 – 1805) Scotland

The King - J.R.R. Tolkien

2012-02-13T17:58:00.002Z

The King beneath the mountains,
The King of carven stone,
The lord of silver fountains,
Shall come into his own!

His crown shall be upholden,
His harp shall be restrung,
His halls shall echo golden,
To songs of yore re-sung.

The woods shall wave on mountains,
And grass beneath the sun;
His wealth shall flow in fountains,
And the rivers golden run.

The streams shall run in gladness,
The lakes shall shine and burn,
All sorrow fail and sadness,
At the Mountain-king's return.

J.R.R. Tolkien (1892 - 1973) England

Dixie's Land - Daniel Decatur Emmett

2012-02-11T08:42:00.000Z

I wish I was in de land ob cotton,
Old times dar am not forgotten;
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!
In Dixie Land whar I was born in,
Early on one frosty mornin,
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!
Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

Ole missus marry "Will-de-weaber";
Willum was a gay deceaber;
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
But when he put his arm around her,
He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder;
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

His face was sharp as a butcher's cleaber;
But dat did not seem to greab her;
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
Ole missus acted de foolish part,
And died for a man dat broke her heart;
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

Now here's health to de next ole missus,
An' all the gals dat want to kiss us;
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
But if you want to drive 'way sorrow,
Come and hear dis song tomorrow;
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

Dar's buckwheat cakes an' Injin batter,
Makes you fat or a little fatter;
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
Den hoe it down an' scratch your grabble,
To Dixie's land I'm bound to trabble;
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

Daniel Decatur Emmett (1815 - 1904) USA

A young girl - Albert Ferland

2012-02-10T22:52:00.000Z

How sweet and beautiful to be young,
Where the soul retains its openness,
Where, fearing no storm is sprung
We know only happiness!

The child spends the day that provides
Joy to the heart and smiling eyes,
Not thinking of what future betides,
Less radiant day times.

But after your time of daybreak
You will tarnish your sky,
So enjoy the morning, no heartache,
Just singing, expect the goodbye.

Albert Ferland (1872 - 1943) Canada
Translation: Bruce Levitan

I'm Nobody! Who are you? - Emily Dickinson

2012-02-09T19:14:00.000Z

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!

Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886) USA

Endless Time - Rabindranath Tagore

2012-02-07T18:39:00.001Z

Time is endless in thy hands, my Lord.
There is none to count thy minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.
Thou knowest how to wait.

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose,
and having no time we must scramble for a chance.
We are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by
while I give it to every querulous man who claims it,
and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut;
but I find that yet there is time.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941) India (Bengal)

At the Theatre: To the Lady Behind Me - A.P. Herbert

2012-02-06T18:42:00.000Z

Dear Madam, you have seen this play;
I never saw it till today.
You know the details of the plot,
But, let me tell you, I do not.
The author seeks to keep from me
The murderer's identity,
And you are not a friend of his
If you keep shouting who it is.
The actors in their funny way
Have several funny things to say,
But they do not amuse me more
If you have said them just before;
The merit of the drama lies,
I understand, in some surprise;
But the surprise must now be small
Since you have just foretold it all.
The lady you have brought with you
Is, I infer, a half-wit too,
But I can understand the piece
Without assistance from your niece.
In short, foul woman, it would suit
Me just as well if you were mute;
In fact, to make my meaning plain,
I trust you will not speak again.
And—-may I add one human touch?—-
Don't breathe upon my neck so much.

A.P. Herbert (1890 - 1971) England

Black Marigolds (Chauraspanchasika) - Bilhana Kavi

2012-02-05T14:16:00.000Z

Even now
My thought is all of this gold-tinted king's daughter
With garlands tissue and golden buds,
Smoke tangles of her hair, and sleeping or waking
Feet trembling in love, full of pale languor;
My thought is clinging as to a lost learning
Slipped down out of the minds of men,
Labouring to bring her back into my soul.

Even now
If I see in my soul the citron-breasted fair one
Still gold-tinted, her face like our night stars,
Drawing unto her; her body beaten about with flame,
Wounded by the flaring spear of love,
My first of all by reason of her fresh years,
Then is my heart buried alive in snow.

Even now
If my girl with lotus eyes came to me again
Weary with the dear weight of young love,
Again I would give her to these starved twins of arms
And from her mouth drink down the heavy wine,
As a reeling pirate bee in fluttered ease
Steals up the honey from the nenuphar.

Even now
I bring her back, ah, wearied out with love
So that her slim feet could not bear her up;
Curved falls of her hair down on her white cheeks;
In the confusion of her coloured vests
Speaking that guarded giving up, and her scented arms
Lay like cool bindweed over against my neck.

Even now
I bring her back to me in her quick shame,
Hiding her bright face at the point of day;
Making her grave eyes move in watered stars,
For love's great sleeplessness wandering all night,
Seeming to sail gently, as that pink bird,
Down the water of love in a harvest of lotus.

Even now
If I saw her lying all wide eyes
And with collyrium the indent of her cheek
Lengthened to the bright ear and her pale side
So suffering the fever of my distance,
Then would my love for her be ropes of flowers, and night
A black-haired lover on the breasts of day.

Even now
I see the heavy startled hair of this reed-flute player
Who curved her poppy lips to love dances,
Having a youth's face madding like the moon
Lying at her full; limbs ever moving a little in love,
Too slight, too delicate, tired with the small burden
Of bearing love ever on white feet.

Even now
She is present to me on her beds,
Balmed with the exhalation of a flattering musk,
Rich with the curly essence of santal;
Girl with eyes dazing as the seeded-wine,
Showing as a pair of gentle nut-hatches
Kissing each other with their bills, each hidden
By turns within a little grasping mouth.

Even now
She swims back in the crowning hour of love
All red with wine her lips have given to drink,
Soft round the mouth with camphor and faint blue
Tinted upon the lips, her slight body,
Her great live eyes, the colourings of herself
A clear perfection; sighs of musk outstealing
And powdered wood spice heavy of Cashmir.

Even now
I see her; fair face blond like gold
Rich with small lights, and tinted shadows surprised
Over and over all of her; with glittering eyes
All bright for love but very love-weary,
As it were the conjuring disk of the moon when Rahu ceases
With his dark stumbling-block to hide her rays.

Even now
She is art-magically present to my soul
And that one word of strange heart's ease, good-bye,
That in the night, in loth moving to go,
And bending over to a golden mouth,
I said softly to the turned away
Tenderly tired hair of this king's daughter.

Even now
My eyes that hurry to see no more are painting, painting
Faces of my lost girl. O golden rings,
That tap against cheeks of small magnolia leaves,
O whitest so soft parchment where
My poor divorced lips have written excellent
Stanzas of kisses, and will write no more.

Even now
Death sends me the flickering of powdery lids
Over wild eyes and the pity of her slim body
All broken up with the weariness of joy;
The little red flowers of her breasts to be my comfort
Moving above scarves, and for my sorrow
Wet crimson lips that once I marked as mine.

Even now
By a cool noise of waters in the spring
The asoka with young flowers that feign her fingers
And bud in red; and in the green vest pearls kissing
As it were rose leaves in the gardens of God; the shining at night
Of white cheeks in the dark; smiles from light thoughts within,
And her walking as of a swan; these trouble me.

Even now
The pleased intimacy of rough love
Upon the patient glory of her form
Racks me with memory; and her bright dress
As it were yellow flame, which the white hand
Shamefastly gathers in her rising haste,
The slender grace of her departing feet.

Even now
When all my heavy heart is broken up
I seem to see my prison walls breaking
And then a light, and in that light a girl
Her fingers busied about her hair, her cool white arms
Faint rosy at the elbows, raised in the sunlight,
And temperate eyes that wander far away.

Even now
I seem to see my prison walls come close,
Built up of darkness, and against that darkness
A girl no taller than my breast and very tired,
Leaning upon the bed and smiling, feeding
A little bird and lying slender as ash-trees,
Sleepily aware as I told of the green
Grapes and the small bright-coloured river flowers.

Even now
I see her, as I used, in her white palace
Under black torches throwing cool red light,
Woven with many flowers and tearing the dark.
I see her rising, showing all her face
Defiant timidly, saying clearly;
Now I shall go to sleep, good-night, my ladies.

Even now
Though I am so far separate, a flight of birds
Swinging from side to side over the valley trees,
Passing my prison with their calling and crying,
Bring me to see my girl. For very bird-like
Is her song singing, and the state of a swan
In her light walking, like the shaken wings
Of a black eagle falls her nightly hair.

Even now
I know my princess was happy. I see her stand
Touching her breasts with all her flower-soft fingers,
Looking askance at me with smiling eyes.
There is a god that arms him with a flower
And she was stricken deep. Her, oh die here.
Kiss me and I shall be purer than quick rivers.

Even now
They chatter her weakness through the two bazaars
Who was so strong to love me. And small men
That buy and sell for silver being slaves
Crinkle the fat about their eyes; and yet
No Prince of the Cities of the Sea has taken her,
Leading to his grim bed. Little lonely one,
You clung to me as a garment clings, my girl.

Even now
Only one dawn shall rise for me. The stars
Revolve to-morrow's night and I not heed.
One brief cold watch beside an empty heart
And that is all. This night she rests not well;
Oh, sleep; for there is heaviness for all the world
Except for the death-lighted heart of me.

Even now
My sole concern the slipping of her vests,
Her little breasts the life beyond this life.
One night of disarray in her green hems,
Her golden cloths, outweighs the order of the earth,
Making of none effect the tides of the sea.
I have seen her enter the temple meekly and there seem
The flag of flowers that veils the very god.

Even now
I mind the coming and talking of wise men from towers
Where they had thought away their youth. And I, listening,
Found not the salt of the whispers of my girl,
Murmur of confused colours, as we lay near sleep;
Little wise words and little witty words
Wanton as water, honeyed with eagerness.

Even now
I call to mind her weariness in the morning
Close lying in my arms, and tiredly smiling
At my disjointed prayer for her small sake.
Now in my morning the weariness of death
Sends me to sleep. Had I made coffins
I might have lived singing to three score.

Even now
The woodcutter and fisherman turn home,
With on his axe the moon and in his dripping net
Caught yellow moonlight. The purple flame of fire
Calls them to love and sleep. From the hot town
The maker of scant songs for bread wanders
To lie under the clematis with his girl.
The moon shines on her breasts, and I must die.

Even now
I have a need to make up prayers, to speak
My last consideration of the world
To the great thirteen gods, to make my balance
Ere the soul journeys on. I kneel and say:
Father of Light. Leave we it burning still
That I may look at you. Mother of the Stars,
Give me your feet to kiss; I love you, dear.

Even now
I seem to see the face of my lost girl
With frightened eyes, like a wood wanderer,
In travail with sorrowful waters, unwept tears
Labouring to be born and fall; when white face turned
And little ears caught at the far murmur,
The pleased snarling of the tumult of dogs
When I was buried away down the white road.

Even now
When slow rose-yellow moons looked out at night
To guard the sheaves of harvest and mark down
The peach's fall, how calm she was and love worthy.
Glass-coloured starlight falling as thin as dew
Was wont to find us at the spirit's starving time
Slow straying in the orchard paths with love.

Even now
Love is a god and Rati the dark his bride;
But once I found their child and she was fairer,
That could so shine. And we were each to each
Wonderful and a presence not yet felt
In any dream. I knew the sunset earth
But as a red gold ring to bear my emerald
Within the little summer of my youth.

Even now
I marvel at the bravery of love,
She, whose two feet might be held in one hand
And all her body on a shield of the guards,
Lashed like a gold panther taken in a pit
Tearfully valiant, when I too was taken'
Bearding her black-beard father in his wrath,
Striking the soldiers with white impotent hands.

Even now
I mind that I loved cypress and roses, dear,
The great blue mountains and the small grey hills,
The sounding of the sea. Upon a day
I saw strange eyes and hands like butterflies;
For me at morning larks flew from the thyme
And children came to bathe in little streams.

Even now
Sleep left me all these nights for your white bed
And I am sure you sistered lay with sleep
After much weeping. Piteous little love,
Death is in the garden, time runs down,
The year that simple and unexalted ran till now
Ferments in winy autumn, and I must die.

Even now
I mind our going, full of bewilderment
As who should walk from sleep into great light,
Along the running of the winter river,
A dying sun on the cool hurrying tide
No more by green rushes delayed in dalliance,
With a clear purpose in his flower-flecked length
Informed, to reach Nirvana and the sea.

Even now
I love long black eyes that caress like silk,
Ever and ever sad and laughing eyes,
Whose lids make such sweet shadow when they close
It seems another beautiful look of hers.
I love a fresh mouth, ah, a scented mouth,
And curving hair, subtle as a smoke,
And light fingers, and laughter of green gems.

Even now
I mind asking: Where love and how love Rati's priestesses?
You can tell me of their washings at moon-down
And if that warm basin have silver borders.
Is it so that when they comb their hair
Their fingers, being purple-stained, show
Like coral branches in the black sea of their hair?

Even now
I remember that you made answer very softly,
We being one soul, your hand on my hair,
The burning memory rounding your near lips;
I have seen the priestesses of Rati make love at moon-fall
And then in a carpeted hall with a bright gold lamp
Lie down carelessly anywhere to sleep.

Even now
I have no surety that she is not Mahadevi
Rose red of Siva, or Kapagata
The wilful ripe Companion of the King,
Or Krishna's own Lakshmi, the violet-haired.
I am not certain but that dark Brahma
In his high secret purposes
Has sent my soft girl down to make the three worlds mad
With capering about her scented feet.

Even now
Call not the master painters from all the world,
Their thin black boards, their rose and green and grey,
Their ashes of lapis ultramarine, Their earth of shadows the umber. Laughing at art
Sunlight upon the body of my bride,
For painting not nor any eyes for ever.
Oh warm tears on the body of my bride.

Even now
I mind when the red crowds were passed and it was raining
How glad those two that shared the rain with me;
For they talked happily with rich young voices
And at the storm's increase, closer and with content,
Each to the body of the other held
As there were no more severance for ever.

Even now
The stainless fair appearance of the moon
Rolls her gold beauty over an autumn sky
And the stiff anchorite forgets to pray;
How much the sooner I, if her wild mouth
Tasting of the taste of manna came to mine
And kept my soul at balance above a kiss.

Even now
Her mouth careless scented as with lotus dust
Is water of love to the great heat of love,
A tirtha very holy, a lover's lake
Utterly sacred. Might I go down to it
But one more time, then should I find a way
To hold my lake for ever and ever more
Sobbing out my life beside the waters.

Even now
I mind that the time of the falling of blossoms started my dream
Into a wild life, into my girl;
Then was the essence of her beauty spilled
Down on my days so that it fades not,
Fails not, subtle and fresh, in perfuming
That day, and the days, and this the latest day.

Even now
She with young limbs as smooth as flower pollen,
Whose swaying body is laved in the cool
Waters of languor, this dear bright-coloured bird,
Walks not, changes not, advances not
Her weary station by the black lake
Of Gone Forever, in whose fountain vase
Balance the water-lilies of my thought.

Even now
Spread we our nets beyond the farthest rims
So surely that they take the feet of dawn
Before you wake and after you are sleeping
Catch up the visible and invisible stars
And web the ports the strongest dreamer dreamed,
Yet is it all one, Vidya, yet it is nothing.

Even now
The night is full of silver straws of rain,
And I will send my soul to see your body
This last poor time. I stand beside our bed;
Your shadowed head lies leaving a bright space
Upon the pillow empty, your sorrowful arm
Holds from your side and clasps not anything.
There is no covering upon you.

Even now
I think your feet seek mine to comfort them.
There is some dream about you even now
Which I'll not hear at waking. Weep not at dawn,
Though day brings wearily your daily loss
And all the light is hateful. Now is it time
To bring my soul away.

Even now
I mind that I went round with men and women,
And underneath their brows, deep in their eyes,
I saw their souls, which go slippng aside
In swarms before the pleasure of my mind;
The world was like a flight of birds, shadow or flame
Which I saw pass above the engraven hills.
Yet was there never one like to my woman.

Even now
Death I take up as consolation.
Nay, were I free as the condor with his wings
Or old kings throned on violet ivory,
Night would not come without beds of green floss
And never a bed without my bright darling.
Most fit that you strike now, black guards,
And let the fountain out before the dawn.

Even now
I know that I have savoured the hot taste of life
Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast.
Just for a small and a forgotten time
I have had full in my eyes from off my girl
The whitest pouring of eternal light.
The heavy knife. As to a gala day.

Bilhana Kavi (11th century) Kashmir
Translated by E. Powys Mathers (1919)

Forest - Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev

2012-02-04T17:26:00.000Z

In that magic forest, towering trees
Unexpectedly come forward from the haze.

Out of the earth, roots spring from other roots,
Like the arms of the dwellers of burial vaults.

Under the cover of the blazing autumn leaves
Lonesome giants, trolls, and lions used to live.

Here sailors saw the tracks in golden sand
Left behind by a six-fingered human hand.

Peers of France and Arthurian valiant knights
Never set on this forbidden place their sights.

Nor the bushes ever hid a pirates’ lair,
Nor a hermit ever made his lodging there…

Only once, they saw in a lurid tempest’s light -
Cat-headed woman softly stepped into the night;

Doomed to wear a solid silver coronet,
She was lamenting and sobbing till the sunset.

No communion was given by a priest
When, by quiet dawn, she passed away in peace.

All this happened, all this happened in those years,
Which have passed without leaving any trace.

All this happened, all this happened in a realm,
Which would never come across your wildest dreams.

I imagined all of this by looking at
Fiery braids that always snake around your head,

Looking at your ever changing greenish eyes,
They're akin to Persian feverish turquoise.

Well, perhaps that forest is a soul of yours,
Well, perhaps that forest 's always my remorse.

Or perhaps, one day when we will die,
To this forest we will travel – you and I.

Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev (1886 - 1921) Russia

Like the very gods - Sappho

2012-02-03T20:57:00.001Z

Like the very gods in my sight is he who
sits where he can look in your eyes, who listens
close to you, to hear the soft voice, its sweetness
murmur in love and

laughter, all for him. But it breaks my spirit;
underneath my breast all the heart is shaken.
Let me only glance where you are, the voice dies,
  I can say nothing,

but my lips are stricken to silence, under-
neath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses;
nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are
  muted in thunder.

And the sweat breaks running upon me, fever
Shakes my body, paler I turn than grass is;
I can feel that I have been changed, I feel that
  death has come near me.

Sappho (615 - 550 BC) Lesbos (part of modern day Greece)
Translated and edited by Richard Lattimore

A Memory - Barcroft Henry Boake

2012-02-02T22:05:00.000Z

Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed,
The evening cowslips ope’d
Their yellow eyes to look at her,
  The love-sick lilies moped
With envy that she rather chose
To take a creamy-petalled rose
And lean it 'gainst her ebon hair,
All in that garden fair.

A languid breeze, with stolen scent
  Of box-bloom in his grasp,
Sighed out his longing in her ear,
  And with his dying gasp
Scattered the perfume at her feet
To blend with others not less sweet;
He loved her, but she did not care,
All in that garden fair.

The rose she honoured nodded down,
  His comrades burst with spite:
Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed
  To barely last the night;
Are hearts to her but as that flower,
The plaything of a careless hour,
To lacerate and never spare
All in that garden fair.

I held her hand that I might trace
  Her fortune in its palm;
A bolder moonbeam than the rest
  Crept up and kissed her arm,
And, kissing once, was loth to leave,
So hid himself within the sleeve
That clasped the lithe arm, white and bare,
All in that garden fair.

I traced her fortune: love and wealth,-
  Tho’ life, alas! was short,
But will that wealth be bought with love?
  Or love with wealth be bought?
I know not, knowing only this -
Her hand seemed waiting for a kiss,
I longed to, but I did not dare
All in that garden fair.

But she, alas! is not for me,
  And I am not for her;
Yet ever deep within my thoughts
  A faint regret must stir
A thrill of longing - that among
Those moonlit paths with lover's tongue
I might return, and woo her there
All in that garden fair.

Barcroft Henry Boake (1866 - 1892) Australia

Have You An Eye - Edwin Ford Piper

2012-01-31T20:59:00.000Z

Have you an eye for the trails, the trails,
The old mark and the new?
What scurried here, what loitered there,
In the dust and in the dew?

Have you an eye for the beaten track,
The old hoof and the young?
Come name me the drivers of yesterday,
Sing me the songs they sung.

O, was it a schooner last went by,
And where will it ford the stream?
Where will it halt in the early dusk,
And where will the camp-fire gleam?

They used to take the shortest cut
The cattle trails had made;
Get down the hill by the easy slope
To the water and the shade.

But it’s barbed wire fence, and section line,
And kill-horse travel now;
Scoot you down the canyon bank,—
The old road’s under plough.

Have you an eye for the laden wheel,
The worn tire or the new?
Or the sign of the prairie pony’s hoof
Was never trimmed for shoe?

Edwin Ford Piper (1871 — 1939) United States

Indian Summer - Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

2012-01-30T17:43:00.000Z

I have strayed from silent places,
Where the days are dreaming always;
And fair summer lies a-dying,
Roses withered on her breast.
I have stolen all her beauty,
All her softness, all her sweetness;
In her robe of folden sunshine
I am drest.

I will breathe a mist about me
Lest you see my face too clearly,
Lest you follow me too boldly
I will silence every song.
Through the haze and through the silence
You will know that I am passing;
When you break the spell that holds you,
I am gone!

Isabel Ecclestone Mackay (1875 - 1928) Canada

The Alice Jean - Robert Graves

2012-01-29T21:31:00.000Z

One moonlit night a ship drove in,
A ghost ship from the west,
Drifting with bare mast and lone tiller,
  Like a mermaid drest
In long green weed and barnacles:
  She beached and came to rest.

All the watchers of the coast
  Flocked to view the sight,
Men and women streaming down
  Through the summer night,
Found her standing tall and ragged
  Beached in the moonlight.

Then one old woman looked and wept
  “The ‘Alice Jean’? But no!
The ship that took my Dick from me
  Sixty years ago
Drifted back from the utmost west
  With the ocean’s flow?

“Caught and caged in the weedy pool
  Beyond the western brink,
Where crewless vessels lie and rot
  in waters black as ink.
Torn out again by a sudden storm
  Is it the ‘Jean’, you think?”

A hundred women stared agape,
  The menfolk nudged and laughed,
But none could find a likelier story
  For the strange craft.
With fear and death and desolation
  Rigged fore and aft.

The blind ship came forgotten home
  To all but one of these
Of whom none dared to climb aboard her:
  And by and by the breeze
Sprang to a storm and the “Alice Jean”
  Foundered in frothy seas.

Robert Graves (1895 – 1985) England

A Red, Red Rose - Robert Burns

2012-01-28T10:58:00.000Z

O my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O my luve's like the 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:
O I will love 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.

Robert Burns (1759 – 1796) Scotland

A Psalm Of Life - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

2012-01-25T19:19:00.000Z

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! —
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, — act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882) United States

Penelope - Dorothy Parker

2012-01-24T19:48:00.000Z

In the pathway of the sun,
In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
He shall ride the silver seas,
He shall cut the glittering wave.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor’s knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
They will call him brave.

Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967) United States

Ghazal - Muhammad din Tilai

2012-01-23T19:27:00.001Z

The world is fainting,
And you will weep at last.

The world is fainting
And falling into a swoon.

The world is turning and changing;
The world is fainting,
And you will weep at last.

Look at the love of Farhad, who pierced a mountain
And pierced a brass hill for the love of Shirin.
The world is fainting
And you will weep at last.

Qutab Khan of the Ranizais was in love
And death became the hostess of his lady.
The world is fainting,
And you will weep at last.

Muhammad Din is ill for the matter of a little honey;
This is a moment to be generous.
The world is fainting,
And you will weep at last.

Muhammad din Tilai
From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)
Translated by E. Powys Mathers

We Wear the Mask - Paul Laurence Dunbar

2012-01-22T13:04:00.000Z

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties,

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile,
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872 - 1906) United States

Mirabeau Bridge - Guillaume Apollinaire

2012-01-21T09:46:00.000Z

Under Mirabeau bridge runs the Seine
And our loves
Must I remember them
Joy came always after pain
Let arriving night explain
Days fade I remain
Arm in arm let us stay face to face
While below
The bridge at our hands passes
With eternal regards the wave so slow
Let arriving night explain
Days fade I remain
Love goes like the water flows
Love goes
Like life is slow
And like hope is violent
Let arriving night explain
Days fade I remain
The days passed and the weeks spent
Not times past
Nor loves sent return again
Under Mirabeau bridge runs the Seine.

Guillaume Apollinaire (1880 - 1918) France
Translated by William A. Sigler

The Rose That Grew From Concrete - Tupac Shakur

2012-01-19T18:47:00.000Z

Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it
learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.

Tupac Shakur (1971 - 1996) United States

Sonnet - C. S. Lewis

2012-01-18T18:54:00.003Z

The stars come out; the fragrant shadows fall
About a dreaming garden still and sweet
,I hear the unseen bats above me bleat
Among the ghostly moths their hunting call,
And twinkling glow-worms all about me crawl.
Now for a chamber dim, a pillow meet
For slumbers deep as death, a faultless sheet,
Cool, white and smooth. So may I reach the hall
With poppies strewn where sleep that is so dear
With magic sponge can wipe away an hour
Or twelve and make them naught. Why not a year,
Why could a man not loiter in that bower
Until a thousand painless cycles wore,
And then—what if it held him evermore?

C. S. Lewis (1898 — 1963) England

The Train Of Life - Edmund William Gosse

2012-01-17T20:11:00.000Z

We traced the bleak ridge, to and fro,
Grave forty, gay fourteen;
While yellow larks, in heaven's blue glow,
Like laughing stars were seen,
And rose-tipp'd larches, fringed below,
Shone fabulously green.

And as I watched my restless son
Leap over gorse and briar,
And felt his golden nature run
With April sap and fire,
Methought another madpate spun
Beside another sire.

Sudden, the thirty years slip by,
Shot like a curtain's rings!
My father treads the ridge, and I
The boy that leaps and flings,
While eyes that in the churchyard lie
Seem smiling tenderest things.

Edmund William Gosse (1849 - 1928) England

My Idle Dreams Roam Far (Gazing at the South) - Li Yu

2012-01-16T20:07:00.001Z

My idle dreams roam far,
To the southern land where spring is fragrant.
Wind and strings play on a boat on the river's clear surface,
The city is full of catkins flying like light dust.
People are occupied admiring the flowers.
My idle dreams roam far,
To the southern land where autumn is clear.
For a thousand li over rivers and hills cold colours stretch far,
Deep in flowering reeds, a solitary boat is moored.
Beneath the bright moon, a flute plays in the tower.

Li Yu (937 – 978), China
To see the poem in Chinese, go here

Crossing the bar - Alfred Lord Tennyson

2012-01-15T13:22:00.000Z

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809 - 1892) England

Ozymandias - Percy Bysshe Shelley

2012-01-14T10:39:00.000Z

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 - 1822) England

Johnny Fife and Johnny's Wife - Mildred Plew Meigs

2012-01-13T18:03:00.000Z

Oh, Johnny Fife and Johnny's wife
To save their toes and heels,
They built themselves a little house
That ran on rolling wheels.

They hung their parrot at the door
Upon a painted ring,
And round and round the world they went
And never missed a thing;

And when they wished to eat they ate,
And after they had fed,
They crawled beneath a crazy quilt
And gaily went to bed;

And what they cared to keep they kept,
And what they both did not,
They poked beneath a picket fence
And quietly forgot.

Oh, Johnny Fife and Johnny's wife,
They took their brush and comb,
And round and round the world they went
And also stayed at home.

Mildred Plew Meigs (1892 - 1944) USA

The Cats Have Come To Tea - Kate Greenaway

2012-01-12T19:32:00.000Z

What did she see–oh, what did she see,
As she stood leaning against the tree?
Why all the Cats had come to tea.

What a fine turn out–from round about,
All the houses had let them out,
And here they were with scamper and shout.

"Mew–mew–mew!" was all they could say,
And, "We hope we find you well to-day."

Oh, what should she do–oh, what should she do?
What a lot of milk they would get through;
For here they were with "Mew–mew–mew!"

She didn't know–oh, she didn't know,
If bread and butter they'd like or no;
They might want little mice, oh! oh! oh!

Dear me–oh, dear me,
All the cats had come to tea.

Kate Greenaway (1846 - 1901) England

Water Fantasy - Fannie Stearns Davis

2012-01-11T19:44:00.000Z

O brown brook, O blithe brook, what will you say to me
If I take off my heavy shoon and wade you childishly?

O take them off, and come to me.
You shall not fall. Step merrily!

But, cool brook, but, quick brook, and what if I should float
White-bodied in your pleasant pool, your bubbles at my throat?

If you are but a mortal maid,
Then I shall make you half afraid.
The water shall be dim and deep,
And silver fish shall lunge and leap
About you, coward mortal thing.
But if you come desiring
To win once more your naiadhood,
How you shall laugh and find me good—
My golden surfaces, my glooms,
My secret grottoes’ dripping rooms,
My depths of warm wet emerald,
My mosses floating fold on fold!
And where I take the rocky leap
Like wild white water shall you sweep;
Like wild white water shall you cry,
Trembling and turning to the sky,
While all the thousand-fringèd trees
Glimmer and glisten through the breeze.
I bid you come! Too long, too long,
You have forgot my undersong.
And this perchance you never knew:
E’en I, the brook, have need of you.
My naiads faded long ago,—
My little nymphs, that to and fro
Within my waters sunnily
Made small white flames of tinkling glee.
I have been lonesome, lonesome; yea,
E’en I, the brook, until this day.
Cast off your shoon; ah, come to me,
And I will love you lingeringly!

O wild brook, O wise brook, I cannot come, alas!
I am but mortal as the leaves that flicker, float, and pass.
My body is not used to you; my breath is fluttering sore;
You clasp me round too icily. Ah, let me go once more!
Would God I were a naiad-thing whereon Pan’s music blew;
But woe is me! you pagan brook, I cannot stay with you!

Fannie Stearns Davis (1884 - 1966) United States

The Girl - Boris Pasternak

2012-01-10T19:25:00.000Z

By a cliff a golden cloud once lingered;
On his breast it slept...

From the swing, from the garden, helter-skelter,
A twig runs up to the glass.
Enormous, close, with a drop of emerald
At the tip of the cluster cast.

The garden is clouded, lost in confusion,
In staggering, teeming fuss.
The dear one, as big as the garden, a sister
By nature-a second glass!

But then this twig is brought in a tumbler
And put by the looking-glass;
Which wonders:-Who is it that blurs my vision,
From the dull, from the prison-class?

Translated by Lydia Pasternak Slater
Boris Pasternak (1890 - 1960) Russia

Everybody Tells Me Everything - Ogden Nash

2012-01-09T21:04:00.000Z

I find it very difficult to enthuse
Over the current news.
Just when you think that at least the outlook is so black that it can grow no blacker, it worsens,
And that is why I do not like the news, because there has never been an era when so many things were going so right for so many of the wrong persons.

Ogden Nash (1902 - 1971) USA

Winter Song - Wilfred Owen

2012-01-08T15:11:00.000Z

The browns, the olives, and the yellows died,
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.

From off your face, into the winds of winter,
The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,
And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.

Wilfred Owen (1893 — 1918) England

One Flower - Jack Kerouac

2012-01-07T21:56:00.001Z

One flower
on the cliffside
Nodding at the canyon

Jack Kerouac (1922 – 1969) USA

Gentle Lady, Do Not Sing - James Joyce

2012-01-06T20:38:00.000Z

XXVIII

Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.

James Joyce (1882 — 1941) Ireland

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind - William Shakespeare

2012-01-05T18:17:00.000Z

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616) England

Entreaty - Abdul Ghani Khan

2012-01-03T11:17:00.000Z

I do not need your red sculpted lips,
Nor hair in loops like a serpent's coils
Nor a nape as graceful as a swan's,
Nor narcissus eyes full of drunkenness,
Nor teeth as perfect as pearls of heaven,
Nor cheeks ruddy and full as pomegranates,
Nor a voice mellifluous as a sarinda,
Nor a figure as elegant as a poplar,
But show me just this one thing, my love,
I seek a heart stained like a poppy flower
Pearls by millions I would gladly cede,
For the sake of tears borne of love and grief.

Abdul Ghani Khan (1914 - 1996) Afghanistan

I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark, Not Day - Gerard Manley Hopkins

2012-01-02T12:48:00.000Z

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.

With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.

Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves, but worse.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 – 1889) England

The Darkling Thrush - Thomas Hardy

2012-01-01T16:04:00.000Z

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
  The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
  Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
  Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
  The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
  The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
  Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
  Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
  The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
  Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
  In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
  Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
  Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
  Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
  His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
  And I was unaware.

Thomas Hardy (1840 – 1928) England

New-Year's Eve - James Russell Lowell

2011-12-31T11:30:00.000Z

This is the midnight of the century,--hark!
Through aisle and arch of Godminster have gone
Twelve throbs that tolled the zenith of the dark,
And mornward now the starry hands move on;
'Mornward!' the angelic watchers say,
'Passed is the sorest trial;
No plot of man can stay
The hand upon the dial;
Night is the dark stem of the lily Day.'

If we, who watched in valleys here below,
Toward streaks, misdeemed of morn, our faces turned
When volcan glares set all the east aglow,
We are not poorer that we wept and yearned;
Though earth swing wide from God's intent,
And though no man nor nation
Will move with full consent
In heavenly gravitation,
Yet by one Sun is every orbit bent.

James Russell Lowell (1819 – 1891) USA

Lullaby - Louisa May Alcott

2011-12-30T12:12:00.000Z

Now the day is done,
Now the shepherd sun
Drives his white flocks from the sky;
Now the flowers rest
On their mother's breast,
Hushed by her low lullaby.

Now the glowworms glance,
Now the fireflies dance,
Under fern-boughs green and high;
And the western breeze
To the forest trees
Chants a tuneful lullaby.

Now 'mid shadows deep
Falls blessed sleep,
Like dew from the summer sky;
And the whole earth dreams,
In the moon's soft beams,
While night breathes a lullaby.

Now, birdlings, rest,
In your wind-rocked nest,
Unscared by the owl's shrill cry;
For with folded wings
Little Brier swings,
And singeth your lullaby.

Louisa May Alcott (1832 - 1888) United States

Anniversaries - Aldous Huxley

2011-12-29T10:02:00.000Z

Once more the windless days are here,
Quiet of autumn, when the year
Halts and looks backward and draws breath
Before it plunges into death.
Silver of mist and gossamers,
Through-shine of noonday's glassy gold,
Pale blue of skies, where nothing stirs
Save one blanched leaf, weary and old,
That over and over slowly falls
From the mute elm-trees, hanging on air
Like tattered flags along the walls
Of chapels deep in sunlit prayer.
Once more ... Within its flawless glass
To-day reflects that other day,
When, under the bracken, on the grass,
We who were lovers happily lay
And hardly spoke, or framed a thought
That was not one with the calm hills
And crystal sky. Ourselves were nought,
Our gusty passions, our burning wills
Dissolved in boundlessness, and we
Were almost bodiless, almost free.

The wind has shattered silver and gold.
Night after night of sparkling cold,
Orion lifts his tangled feet
From where the tossing branches beat
In a fine surf against the sky.
So the trance ended, and we grew
Restless, we knew not how or why;
And there were sudden gusts that blew
Our dreaming banners into storm;
We wore the uncertain crumbling form
Of a brown swirl of windy leaves,
A phantom shape that stirs and heaves
Shuddering from earth, to fall again
With a dry whisper of withered rain.

Last, from the dead and shrunken days
We conjured spring, lighting the blaze
Of burnished tulips in the dark;
And from black frost we struck a spark
Of blue delight and fragrance new,
A little world of flowers and dew.
Winter for us was over and done:
The drought of fluttering leaves had grown
Emerald shining in the sun,
As light as glass, as firm as stone.
Real once more: for we had passed
Through passion into thought again;
Shaped our desires and made that fast
Which was before a cloudy pain;
Moulded the dimness, fixed, defined
In a fair statue, strong and free,
Twin bodies flaming into mind,
Poised on the brink of ecstasy.

Aldous Huxley (1894 - 1963) England

Love And Age - Thomas Love Peacock

2011-12-28T19:46:00.000Z

I play’d with you ’mid cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you were four;
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Through groves and meads, o’er grass and heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,
We wander’d hand in hand together;
But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden,
And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along;
And I did love you very dearly,
How dearly words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touch’d as nearly;
But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you,
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The centre of its glimmering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth your hand bestow;
O, then I thought my heart was breaking!—
But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another:
No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row:
My joy in them was past expression;
But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion’s brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far more homely;
But I too had my festal days.
No merrier eyes have ever glisten’d
Around the hearth-stone’s wintry glow,
Than when my youngest child was christen’d;
But that was twenty years ago.

Time pass’d. My eldest girl was married,
And I am now a grandsire gray;
One pet of four years old I’ve carried
Among the wild-flower’d meads to play.
In our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket’s ample measure;
And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love’s impassion’d blindness
Has pass’d away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night.
The ever-rolling silent hours
Will bring a time we shall not know,
When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be an hundred years ago.

Thomas Love Peacock (1785 – 1866) England

The Nativity - Henry Vaughan

2011-12-27T10:06:00.003Z

Peace? and to all the world? sure, One
And He the Prince of Peace, hath none.
He travels to be born, and then
Is born to travel more again.
Poor Galilee! thou canst not be
The place for His nativity.
His restless mother’s called away,
And not delivered till she pay.

A tax? ’tis so still! we can see
The church thrive in her misery;
And like her Head at Bethlem, rise
When she, oppressed with troubles, lies.
Rise? should all fall, we cannot be
In more extremities than He.
Great Type of passions! come what will,
Thy grief exceeds all copies still.
Thou cam’st from heaven to earth, that we
Might go from earth to heaven with Thee.
And though Thou foundest no welcome here,
Thou didst provide us mansions there.
A stable was Thy court, and when
Men turned to beasts, beasts would be men.
They were Thy courtiers, others none;
And their poor manger was Thy throne.
No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,
Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.
No rockers waited on Thy birth,
No cradles stirred, nor songs of mirth;
But her chaste lap and sacred breast
Which lodged Thee first did give Thee rest.

But stay: what light is that doth stream,
And drop here in a gilded beam?
It is Thy star runs page, and brings
Thy tributary Eastern kings.
Lord! grant some light to us, that we
May with them find the way to Thee.
Behold what mists eclipse the day:
How dark it is! shed down one ray
To guide us out of this sad night,
And say once more, “Let there be light.”

Henry Vaughan (1621 — 1695) England

My Little Doll - Charles Kingsley

2011-12-26T10:29:00.000Z

I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.

Charles Kingsley (1819 – 1875) England

Journey Of The Magi - T.S. Eliot

2011-12-24T14:23:00.001Z

'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped in away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no imformation, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like
Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

TS Eliot (1888 – 1965) USA & England

[little tree] - ee cummings

2011-12-23T09:54:00.000Z

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid

look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

ee cummings (1894 – 1962) USA

Christmas Bells - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

2011-12-22T19:25:00.000Z

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882) USA

The Garden Year - Sara Coleridge

2011-12-21T19:29:00.000Z

January brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes, loud and shrill,
To stir the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs
Skipping by their fleecy dams.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hands with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots, and gillyflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit;
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasant;
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.

Dull November brings the blast;
Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

Sara Coleridge (1802 – 1852), England

I Saw Three Ships - Anonymous

2011-12-20T19:22:00.003Z

I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas day in the morning.

And what was in those ships all three,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day?
And what was in those ships all three,
On Christmas day in the morning?

Our Saviour Christ and his lady,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
Our Saviour Christ and his lady,
On Christmas day in the morning.

Pray whither sailed those ships all three,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day?
Pray whither sailed those ships all three,
On Christmas day in the morning?

O they sailed into Bethlehem,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
O they sailed into Bethlehem,
On Christmas day in the morning.

And all the bells on earth shall ring,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
And all the bells on earth shall ring,
On Christmas day in the morning.

And all the Angels in Heaven shall sing,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
And all the Angels in Heaven shall sing,
On Christmas day in the morning.

And all the Souls on Earth shall sing,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
And all the Souls on Earth shall sing,
On Christmas day in the morning.

Then let us all rejoice amain,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
Then let us all rejoice amain,
On Christmas day in the morning.

The House Of Christmas - G. K. Chesterton

2011-12-19T18:31:00.001Z

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost—how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky’s dome.

This world is wild as an old wife’s tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall all men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

G. K. Chesterton (1874 — 1936)

When Christmas Comes - Virna Sheard

2011-12-18T16:40:00.000Z

For thee, my small one--trinkets and new toys,
The wine of life and all its keenest joys,
When Christmas comes.
For me, the broken playthings of the past
That in my folded hands I still hold fast,
When Christmas comes.

For thee, fair hopes of all that yet may be,
And tender dreams of sweetest mystery,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the future in a golden haze,
For me, the memory of some bygone days,
When Christmas comes.

For thee, the things that lightly come and go,
For thee, the holly and the mistletoe,
When Christmas comes.
For me, the smiles that are akin to tears,
For me, the frost and snows of many years,
When Christmas comes.

For thee, the twinkling candles bright and gay,
For me, the purple shadows and the grey,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the friends that greet thee at the door,
For me, the faces I shall see no more,
When Christmas comes.

But ah, for both of us the mystic star
That leadeth back to Bethlehem afar,
When Christmas comes.
For both of us the child they saw of old,
That evermore his mother's arms enfold,
When Christmas comes.

Virna Sheard (1865 - 1943), Canada

Love Came Down at Christmas - Christina Georgina Rossetti

2011-12-17T19:09:00.001Z

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.

Worship we the Godhead,
Love incarnate, love divine;
Worship we our Jesus:
But wherewith for sacred sign?

Love shall be our token,
Love shall be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign.

Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830 - 1894), England

The Oxen - Thomas Hardy

2011-12-16T23:17:00.000Z

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel,

“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

Thomas Hardy (1840 — 1928, England)

Christmas: 1915 - Percy MacKaye

2011-12-15T18:49:00.000Z

Now is the midnight of the nations: dark
    Even as death, beside her blood-dark seas,
    Earth, like a mother in birth agonies,
Screams in her travail, and the planets hark
Her million-throated terror. Naked, stark,
    Her torso writhes enormous, and her knees
    Shudder against the shadowed Pleiades
Wrenching the night’s imponderable arc.

Christ! What shall be delivered to the morn
    Out of these pangs, if ever indeed another
    Morn shall succeed this night, or this vast mother
Survive to know the blood-spent offspring, torn
    From her racked flesh?—What splendour from the smother?
What new-wing’d world, or mangled god still-born?

Percy MacKaye (1875 – 1956, USA)

Star Of My Heart - Vachel Lindsay

2011-12-14T19:49:00.000Z

Star of my heart, I follow from afar.
Sweet Love on high, lead on where shepherds are,
Where Time is not, and only dreamers are.
Star from of old, the Magi-Kings are dead
And a foolish Saxon seeks the manger-bed.
O lead me to Jehovah’s child
Across this dreamland lone and wild,
Then will I speak this prayer unsaid,
And kiss his little haloed head—
“My star and I, we love thee, little child.”

Except the Christ be born again to-night
In dreams of all men, saints and sons of shame,
The world will never see his kingdom bright.
Stars of all hearts, lead onward thro’ the night
Past death-black deserts, doubts without a name,
Past hills of pain and mountains of new sin
To that far sky where mystic births begin,
Where dreaming ears the angel-song shall win.
Our Christmas shall be rare at dawning there,
And each shall find his brother fair,
Like a little child within:
All hearts of the earth shall find new birth
And wake, no more to sin.

Vachel Lindsay (1879 — 1931, USA)

Home For Christmas — Old Style - Cicely Fox Smith

2011-12-13T19:24:00.000Z

"I'm goin' to get 'er 'ome
For Christmas," said the skipper
O' the clipper
Flyin' Foam . . .

Built on the Clyde, an' built to go,
By Bell an' Burnie for Keith an' Co.,
She was a beauty, she was a mover,
An' our ol' man was the man to shove 'er!

We cleared the 'Eads the fust of October:
It was "All 'ands aft," afore we was sober,
An' "Boys," says 'e, "on board this packet
You'll 'ave to jump or else stand the racket . . . "

"'Cos I mean to get 'er 'ome
For Christmas," said the skipper
O' the clipper
Flyin' Foam.

Off o' Cape Stiff it blowed a teaser —
A reg'lar snorter, a beast of a freezer —
It blowed bad, an' it blowed bitter,
With lumps o' seas that froze when they 'it 'er,

With hail as stung like shot in our faces,
An' ice like iron on sheets an' braces:
But 'ailin' an' freezin' an' snowin' an' blowin',
'E stuck to 'is topsails, 'e kept 'er goin' —

'Cos I mean to get 'er 'ome
For Christmas, did the skipper
O' the clipper
Flyin' Foam.

She took 'er Trade an' she run from the South
With everything set an' a bone in 'er mouth,
She snored along with 'er lee rail under,
An' 'er main to'gal'ntsail bust like thunder!

It was breezing up an' the sea a smother,
But we laid aloft an' we bent another —
For 'e says, says 'e, "By the Great Lord Harry,
She must darn well drag what she can't darn carry,"

"But I'm goin' to git 'er 'ome
For Christmas," said the skipper
O' the clipper
Flyin' Foam.

We 'adn't 'ardly struck the Channel
When a fog come down as thick as flannel:
You couldn't see, an' you couldn't 'ear,
An' all you could do was stand an' steer.

An' where we was, well, there warn't no knowin',
But we blowed the 'orn an' we kep' on goin',
Till all of a suddent the fog got thinner,
An' there was the Foreland, as I'm a sinner . . .

An' 'e'd got 'er 'ome
For Christmas, 'ad the skipper
O' the clipper
Flyin' Foam.

Cicely Fox Smith (1882 - 1954, England)

A Visit from St. Nicholas - Clement Clark Moore

2011-12-12T18:59:00.000Z

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Clement Clark Moore (1779 – 1863 USA)

Christmas Gifts - Carolyn Wells

2011-12-11T14:22:00.000Z

Ten Christmas presents standing in a line;
Robert took the bicycle, then there were nine.
Nine Christmas presents ranged in order straight;
Bob took the steam engine, then there were eight.
Eight Christmas presents--and one came from Devon;
Robbie took the jackknife, then there were seven.
Seven Christmas presents direct from St. Nick's;
Bobby took the candy box, then there were six.
Six Christmas presents, one of them alive;
Rob took the puppy dog, then there were five.
Five Christmas presents yet on the floor;
Bobbin took the soldier cap, then there were four.
Four Christmas presents underneath the tree;
Bobbet took the writing desk, then there were three.
Three Christmas presents still in full view;
Robin took the checker board, then there were two.
Two Christmas presents, promising fun,
Bobbles took the picture book, then there was one.
One Christmas present--and now the list is done;
Bobbinet took the sled, and then there were none.
And the same happy child received every toy,
So many nicknames had one little boy.

Carolyn Wells (1862 – 1942, USA)

Christmas In The Olden Time - Sir Walter Scott

2011-12-10T13:06:00.003Z

On Christmas-eve the bells were rung;
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Thus opened wide the baron hall
To vassal, tenant, serf and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside
And ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of “Post and Pair.”
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn
By old blue-coated serving man;
Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell
How, when and where the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baitings of the boar.
The wassal round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pye;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high-tide, her savory goose.

Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din.
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong;
Who lists may in their murmuring see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But O, wht maskers richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!

Sir Walter Scott (1771 — 1832, Scotland)

At Christmas - Edgar A. Guest

2011-12-09T20:56:00.000Z

A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year;
He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season's here;
Then he's thinking more of others than be's thought the months before,
And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for.
He is less a selfish creature than at any other time;
When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.

When it's Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part;
He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart.
All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile
And the true reward he's seeking is the glory of a smile.
Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be.

If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I'd wait
Till he'd fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate.
I'd not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of pelf,
On the long days and the dreary when he's striving for himself.
I'd not take him when he's sneering, when he's scornful or depressed,
But I'd look for him at Christmas when he's shining at his best.

Man is ever in a struggle and he's oft misunderstood;
There are days the worst that's in him is the master of the good,
But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside
And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide.
Oh, I don't know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be.

Edgar A. Guest (1881 - 1959, born England, lived in USA)

The Christmas Homes of England - Caroline Hayward

2011-12-08T19:44:00.000Z

The Christmas homes of England!
How far-famed and how dear;
In bright array they ever stand,
That glad day of the year;
When gathered round the hearth-stone,
The loved ones joyful meet,
With one accord from far and near,
The circle glad to greet.

The Christmas homes of England!
O, many a joyous brow,
Which ever yet hath hailed that day,
Will sorrowfully bow,
When this one now returneth;
For they look, but look in vain,
The pride and joy of that glad home,
They ne’er shall see again!

The Christmas homes of England!
In manhood’s noblest bloom,
On Alma’s bloody fields thy lords
Have found their lowly tomb;
The warrior grey, whose stalwart arm
Had prostrate laid the foe;
And gallant sons of noble sires,
By them in death lie low!

The Christmas homes of England!
Alike in peasant’s cot,
Where hath the death-wail not been heard,
Where hath it entered not?
And the widowed mother silent weeps,
And sheds the bitter tear,
As fancy sees her gallant boy,
The cold ground for his bier!

The Christmas homes of England!
In that far-off Eastern land,
What thoughts will be awakened
Among that gallant band?
How from scenes so dark and fearful,
Their spirit will take flight
To the bright home of their childhood,
And the happy Christmas night!

The Christmas homes of England!
The love of many years
Is turned into a ceaseless fount
Of bitterness and tears;
The mother and the widow,
The maiden and the child,
They call; but none shall answer,
Those loving accents mild!

O, Christmas homes of England!
There’s One, the widow’s God!
Who, while He chastens, pitieth
The sad ones ’neath His rod;
His arm beneath supported
Thy loved ones in the field,
And whispered, “Leave thy little ones
To me, their God, their shield!

O, Christmas homes of England!
Let all unite in prayer,
That He, the widow’s God, may take
Such to His special care;
And we to whom he spareth
Our hearts best treasure yet;
The widow and the orphan,
O let us not forget!

Caroline Hayward (19th century, Canada)

Christmas At Sea - Robert Louis Stevenson

2011-12-07T19:49:00.000Z

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'long-shore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
'All hands to loose top gallant sails,' I heard the captain call.
'By the Lord, she'll never stand it,' our first mate, Jackson, cried.
... 'It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,' he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,
'We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894, Scotland)

Christmas Bells - Hattie Howard

2011-12-06T19:32:00.000Z

Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime!
   Again we hail the Christmas time;
In melting, mellow atmosphere,
   The crown and glory of the year.

When bitterness, distrust, and awe
   Dissolve, like ice in winter’s thaw,
Beneath the genial touches of
   Amenity, good will, and love.

When flowers of affection grow,
   Like edelweiss mid alpine snow,
In lives severe and beautiless,
   Unused to warmth or tenderness.

Let goodness, grace, and gratitude
   Revive in music’s interlude,
And paean notes, till time shall cease,
   Proclaim the blessed reign of peace.

Ring, Christmas bells! for at the sound
   Sweet memories of Him abound
Who laid aside a diadem
   To be the babe of Bethlehem.

Hattie Howard (1860 - 1920, United States)

John Greenleaf Whittier - After Election

2011-12-05T20:41:00.001Z

THE day's sharp strife is ended now,
Our work is done, God knoweth how!
As on the thronged, unrestful town
The patience of the moon looks down,
I wait to hear, beside the wire,
The voices of its tongues of fire.

Slow, doubtful, faint, they seem at first
Be strong, my heart, to know the worst!
Hark! there the Alleghanies spoke;
That sound from lake and prairie broke,
That sunset-gun of triumph rent
The silence of a continent!

That signal from Nebraska sprung,
This, from Nevada's mountain tongue!
Is that thy answer, strong and free,
O loyal heart of Tennessee?
What strange, glad voice is that which calls
From Wagner's grave and Sumter's walls?

From Mississippi's fountain-head
A sound as of the bison's tread!
There rustled freedom's Charter Oak
In that wild burst the Ozarks spoke!
Cheer answers cheer from rise to set
Of sun. We have a country yet!

The praise, O God, be thine alone!
Thou givest not for bread a stone;
Thou hast not led us through the night
To blind us with returning light;
Not through the furnace have we passed,
To perish at its mouth at last.

O night of peace, thy flight restrain!
November's moon, be slow to wane!
Shine on the freedman's cabin floor,
On brows of prayer a blessing pour;
And give, with full assurance blest,
The weary heart of Freedom rest!

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807 – 1892, USA)

Sunday - Thomas Gent

2011-12-04T16:25:00.000Z

Come, thou blessed day of rest!
Soother of the tortured breast,
Wearied souls release from toil,
Life’s eternal sad turmoil;
How I love thy tuneful bells
Which a welcome story tells!
Bids the wanderer rest and pray
On this peaceful holy-day.
All creation seems to pause—
Man, uncatechized by laws,
Looks to God with grateful eyes,
In such blessed sympathies,
All his rebel nature dies!
See the monster crime hath made,
Resting from his restless trade,
Unfit to live, afraid to die,
Hear his deep unconscious sigh,
See his former horrid mien,
Changed to the bright, serene,
View him on his BIBLE rest,
Care no longer gnaws his breast;
Heaven, in mercy, let him live,
Religion, such the peace you give!

Thomas Gent (1693 - 1778 Ireland)

In Memoriam, July 19, 1914 - Anna Akhmatova

2011-12-02T20:43:00.000Z

We aged a hundred years and this descended
In just one hour, as at a stroke.
The summer had been brief and now was ended;
The body of the ploughed plains lay in smoke.

The hushed road burst in colors then, a soaring
Lament rose, ringing silver like a bell.
And so I covered up my face, imploring
God to destroy me before battle fell.

And from my memory the shadows vanished
Of songs and passions—burdens I'd not need.
The Almighty bade it be—with all else banished—
A book of portents terrible to read.

Anna Akhmatova (1889 - 1966, Russia)
Translated by Stephen Edgar

Song: A youth for Jane with ardour sighed... - Amelia Opie

2011-12-01T20:03:00.000Z

A youth for Jane with ardour sighed,
The maid with sparkling eye;
But to his vows she still replied,
‘I’ll hear you by and by.’

‘Suspense (he cries) my bloom decays,
And bids my spirits fly;
Now hear my vows,’ — but still she says,
‘I’ll hear you by and by.’

At length her frowns his love subdue,
He shuns her scornful eye,
And Emma seeks, who’ll hear him woo
Both now, and by and by.

And soon to church he leads the maid,
When lo! he sees draw nigh,
The now repentant fair who said
She’d hear him by and by.

‘Hear me (she cries): no more in vain
Thy hear for me shall sigh!’ —
‘I’m busy now (said he) — but, Jane!
I’ll hear you by and by.’

Amelia Opie (1769 – 1853, England)

Hot Sun, Cool Fire - George Peele

2011-11-29T19:31:00.000Z

Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair.
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me.
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning;
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.

George Peele (1556 – 1596, England)

Song of the Little Cripple at the Street Corner - Rainer Maria Rilke

2011-11-28T19:34:00.000Z

Read the translator's notes
Maybe my soul’s all right.
But my body’s all wrong,
All bent and twisted,
All this that hurts me so.

My soul keeps trying, trying
To straighten my body up.
It hangs on my skeleton, frantic,
Flapping its terrified wings.

Look here, look at my hands,
They look like little wet toads
After a rainstorm’s over,
Hopping, hopping, hopping.

Maybe God didn’t like
The look of my face when He saw it.
Sometimes a big dog
Looks right into it.

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 – 1926, Germany)
Translated by David Ferry

Student Taper - James Stephens

2011-11-27T17:32:00.001Z

When
- At end of moon,
At end of day -
My lamp is lit,
Grant me a boon,
I pray,
And do
So order it

- That the small creatures,
Terrified and blind;
The gold and silvern moths
Of lovely kind,
Do not whirl to my taper,
Nor, therein,
Die, painfully,
And bring my light
To sin.

My light
Is innocent!
Grant
- That it may be
Harmless,
And helpful,
And remarked
Of thee.

James Stephens (1882 - 1950, England)

The Ballad of Sally in our Alley - Henry Carey

2011-11-26T13:16:00.000Z

Of all the Girls that are so smart
There’s none like pretty SALLY,
She is the Darling of my Heart,
And she lives in our Alley.
There is no Lady in the Land
Is half so sweet as SALLY,
She is the Darling of my Heart,
And she lives in our Alley.

Her Father he makes Cabbage-nets,
And through the Streets does cry ’em;
Her Mother she sells Laces long,
To such as please to buy ’em:
But sure such Folks could ne’er beget
So sweet a Girl as SALLY!
She is the Darling of my Heart,
And she lives in our Alley.

When she is by I leave my Work,
(I love her so sincerely)
My Master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely;
But, let him bang his Belly full,
I’ll bear it all for SALLY;
She is the Darling of my Heart,
And she lives in our Alley.

Of all the Days that’s in the Week,
I dearly love but one Day,
And that’s the Day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;
For then I’m drest, all in my best,
To walk abroad with SALLY;
She is the Darling of my Heart,
And she lives in our Alley.

My Master carries me to Church,
And often am I blamed,
Because I leave him in the lurch,
As soon as Text is named:
I leave the Church in Sermon time,
And slink away to SALLY;
She is the Darling of my Heart,
And she lives in our Alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
O then I shall have Money;
I’ll hoard it up, and Box and all
I’ll give it to my Honey:
And, would it were ten thousand Pounds;
I’d give it all to SALLY;
She is the Darling of my Heart,
And she lives in our Alley.

My Master and the Neighbours all,
Make game of me and SALLY;
And (but for her) I’d better be
A Slave and row a Galley:
But when my seven long Years are out,
O then I’ll marry SALLY!
O then we’ll wed and then we’ll bed,
But not in our Alley.

The ARGUMENT.
A Vulgar Error having long prevailed among many Persons, who imagine Sally Salisbury the Subject of this Ballad, the Author begs leave to undeceive and assure them it has not the least allusion to her, he being a stranger to her very Name at the time this Song was composed. For as Innocence and Virtue were ever the Boundaries of his Muse, so in this little Poem he had no other view than to set forth the Beauty of a chaste and disinterested Passion, even in the lowest Class of human Life. The real Occasion was this: A Shoemaker’s ’Prentice making Holiday with his Sweet-heart, treated her with a sight of Bedlam, the Puppet-shews, the Flying-chairs, and all the Elegancies of the Moorfields: From whence proceeding to the Farthing Pye-house, he gave her a Collation of Buns, Cheesecakes, Gammon of Bacon, Stuff’d-beef, and Bottled-ale; through all which Scenes the Author dodged them (charm’d with the Simplicity of their Courtship), from whence he drew this little Sketch of Nature; but being then young and obscure, he was very much ridicul’d by some of his Acquaintance for this Performance; which nevertheless made its way into the polite World, and amply recompenced him by the Applause of the divine Addison, who was pleased (more than once) to mention it with Approbation.

Henry Carey (1687 – 1743, England)

Take, Oh, Take Those Lips Away - John Fletcher

2011-11-25T21:08:00.000Z

Take, oh, take those lips away
That so sweetly were forsworn
And those eyes, like break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn;
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, though sealed in vain.

Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears;
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

John Fletcher (1579 – 1625, England)

The Arrow - William Butler Yeats

2011-11-24T19:57:00.001Z

I thought of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
There’s no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty’s kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.

William Butler Yeats (1865 — 1939, Ireland)

Agamede’s Song - Arthur Upson

2011-11-23T20:52:00.001Z

Grow, grow, thou little tree,
His body at the roots of thee;
Since last year’s loveliness in death
The living beauty nourisheth.

Bloom, bloom, thou little tree,
Thy roots around the heart of me;
Thou canst not blow too white and fair
From all the sweetness hidden there.

Die, die, thou little tree,
And be as all sweet things must be;
Deep where thy petals drift I, too,
Would rest the changing seasons through.

Arthur Upson (1877 — 1908, USA)
Agamede was, by legend (Homer) a Greek doctor with the healing powers of all the plants that grow upon the earth

People are Legends - Kevin Gilbert

2011-11-22T19:48:00.000Z

Kill the legend
Butcher it
With your acute cyncicisms
Your paternal superfluities
With your unwise wisdom
Kill the legend
Obliterate it
With your atheism
Your fraternal hypocrisies
With your primal urge of miscegenation
Kill the legend
Devaluate it
With your sophistry
Your baseless rhetoric
Your lusting material concepts
Your groundless condescension
Kill it
Vitiate the seed
Crush the root-plant
All this
And more you must needs do
In order
To form a husk of a man
To the level and in your own image
Whiteman.

Kevin Gilbert (1933 - 1993, Australia)
Indigenous Australian activist, artist, poet, playwright and printmaker

The Song of Fionn - Finn MacCool (trad.)

2011-11-21T20:44:00.000Z

May-day, delightful time! How beautiful the colour!
The blackbirds sing their full lay. Would that Læg were here!
The cuckoos sing in constant strains. How welcome is the noble
Brilliance of the seasons ever! On the margin of the branching woods
The summer swallows skim the stream: the swift horses seek the pool:
The heather spreads out her long hair: the weak fair bog-down grows.
Sudden consternation attacks the signs; the planets,
in their courses running, exert an influence:
The sea is lulled to rest, flowers cover the earth.

The Song of Finn MacCool (Fionn mac Cumhail), composed after his eating of the Salmon of Knowledge
(Finn MacCool is a legendary Irish figure - for example he supposedly built the Giant's Causeway. This is one of the earliest surviving pieces of Irish poetry)

The Lamb - William Blake

2011-11-20T15:11:00.001Z

Little Lamb, who made thee?
  Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
  Little Lamb, who made thee?
  Dost thou know who made thee?

  Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
  Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and he is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb.
We are called by his name.
  Little Lamb, God bless thee!
  Little Lamb, God bless thee!

William Blake (1757 - 1827)

The Green Isle of Lovers - Robert Charles Sands

2011-11-19T10:27:00.000Z

They say that, afar in the land of the west,
Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest,
Mid ferns where the hunter ne’er ventured to tread,
A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread;
Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers,
In distance seen dimly, the green Isle of Lovers.

There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,
Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume;
And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depressed,
All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east;
There the bright eye of nature in mild glory hovers;
’T is the land of the sunbeam,—the green Isle of Lovers!

Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss
The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss
Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs
Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires
The dance and the revel, mid forests that cover
On high with their shade the green Isle of the Lover.

But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire,
When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire,
Are the warriors to all save the maids of their isle,
Whose law is their will, and whose life is their smile;
From beauty there valor and strength are not rovers,
And peace reigns supreme in the green Isle of Lovers.

And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,
In mazes perplexed, has beheld it no more;
It fleets on the vision, deluding the view,
Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue;
O! who in this vain world of woe shall discover
The home undisturbed, the green Isle of the Lover!

Robert Charles Sands (1799 - 1832, USA)

Spring - Thomas Nashe

2011-11-18T22:29:00.000Z

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet Spring!

Thomas Nashe (1567 – c. 1601, Engl;and)

The Ordinary Man - Robert Service

2011-11-17T19:59:00.000Z

If you and I should chance to meet,
I guess you wouldn't care;
I'm sure you'd pass me in the street
As if I wasn't there;
You'd never look me in the face,
My modest mug to scan,
Because I'm just a commonplace
And Ordinary Man.

But then, it may be, you are too
A guy of every day,
Who does the job he's told to do
And takes the wife his pay;
Who makes a home and kids his care,
And works with pick or pen. . . .
Why, Pal, I guess we're just a pair
Of Ordinary Men.

We plug away and make no fuss,
Our feats are never crowned;
And yet it's common coves like us
Who make the world go round.
And as we steer a steady course
By God's predestined plan,
Hats off to that almighty Force:
THE ORDINARY MAN.

Robert Service (1874-1958, Canada)

Corrymeela - Moira O’Neill

2011-11-16T19:56:00.000Z

Over here in England I’m helpin’ wi’ the hay,
And I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day;
Weary on the English hay, an’ sorra take the wheat!
Och! Corrymeela, an’ the blue sky over it.

There’s a deep dumb river flowin’ by beyont the heavy trees,
This livin’ air is moithered wi’ the hummin’ o’ the bees;
I wisht I’d hear the Claddagh burn go runnin’ through the heat,
Past Corrymeela, wi’ the blue sky over it.

The people that’s in England is richer nor the Jews,
There’s not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes!
I’d give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child,
Och! Corrymeela, an’ the low south wind.

Here’s hands so full o’ money an’ hearts so full o’ care,
By the luck o’ love! I’d still go light for all I did go bare.
“God save ye, colleen dhas,” I said; the girl she thought me wild!
Fair Corrymeela, an’ the low south wind.

D’ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise,
The girls are heavy goin’ here, the boys are ill to plase;
When ones’t I’m out this workin’ hive, ’tis I’ll be back again—
Aye, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain.

The puff o’ smoke from one ould roof before an English town!
For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I’d give a silver crown,
For a curl o’ hair like Mollie’s ye’ll ask the like in vain,
Sweet Corrymeela, an’ the same soft rain.

Moira O’Neill, the pseudonym of Agnes Shakespeare Higginson (1864 - 1955, Ireland)

Eileen Aroon - Gerald Griffin

2011-11-15T19:56:00.000Z

When, like the early rose,
Eileen aroon!
Beauty in childhood blows,
Eileen aroon!
When, like a diadem,
Buds blush around the stem,
Which is the fairest gem?
Eileen aroon!

Is it the laughing eye,
Eileen aroon!
Is it the timid sigh,
Eileen aroon!
Is it the tender tone,
Soft as the stringed harp’s moan?
Oh! it is Truth alone.
Eileen aroon!

When, like the rising day,
Eileen aroon!
Love sends his early ray,
Eileen aroon!
What makes his dawning glow
Changeless through joy or woe?
Only the constant know—
Eileen aroon!

I know a valley fair,
Eileen aroon!
I knew a cottage there,
Eileen aroon!
Far in that valley shade
I knew a gentle maid,
Flower of a hazel glade,
Eileen aroon!

Who in the song so sweet?
Eileen aroon!
Who in the dance so fleet?
Eileen aroon!
Dear were her charms to me,
Dearer her laughter free,
Dearest her constancy,
Eileen aroon!

Were she no longer true,
Eileen aroon!
What should her lover do?
Eileen aroon!
Fly with his broken chain
Far o’er the sounding main,
Never to love again,
Eileen aroon!

Youth must with time decay,
Eileen aroon!
Beauty must fade away,
Eileen aroon!
Castles are sacked in war,
Chieftains are scattered far,
Truth is a fixed star,
Eileen aroon!

Gerald Griffin (1803 – 1840, Ireland)

The Magic Flower - E. Nesbit

2011-11-14T18:47:00.000Z

Through many days and many days
The seed of love lay hidden close;
We walked the dusty tiresome ways
Where never a leaf or blossom grows.
And in the darkness, all the while,
The little seed its heart uncurled,
And we by many a weary mile
Travelled towards it, round the world.

To the hid centre of the maze
At last we came, and there we found—
O happy day, O day of days!
—Twin seed-leaves breaking holy ground.
We dropped life’s joys, a garnered sheaf,
And spell-bound watched, still hour by hour,
Magic on magic, leaf by leaf,
The unfolding of our love’s white flower.

E (Edith) Nesbit (1858 – 1924)

Presence - T.E. Brown

2011-11-13T11:28:00.000Z

Expecting him, my door was open wide:
Then I looked round
If any lack of service might be found,
And saw him at my side:
How entered, by what secret stair,
I know not, knowing only he was there.

T.E. Brown (1830 - 1897)

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43) - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

2011-11-11T22:00:00.003Z

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861)

Karolin’s Song - Ben Jonson

2011-11-10T20:27:00.003Z

Though I am young, and cannot tell,
Either what love, or death is well,
Yet I have heard, yet both bear darts,
And both do aim at human hearts:
And then again, I have been told
Love wounds with heat, as death with cold;
So that I fear, they do but bring
Extremes to touch, and mean one thing.

As in a ruin, we it call
One thing to be blown up, or fall;
Or to our end, like way may have,
By a flash of lightning, or a wave:
So love’s inflamed shaft, or brand,
May kill as soon as death’s cold hand;
Except love’s fires the virtue have
To fright the frost from out the grave.

Ben Jonson (1572 — 1637)

Manchester TRAFFIC - Mark Stubbs

2011-11-09T19:41:00.000Z

There once was a project at Manchester Met
To transform curriculum was the goal that we set
Rewriting every module was the name of the game
Enhancing assessment for learning, our overall aim

An online web form we chose to adapt
So every outcome and assessment had to be mapped
Enter once and re-use wherever it’s needed
Was the call that our system developers heeded

Precise definitions of every assignment
Should allow us to check constructive alignment
But not quite yet as 800 new modules reviewed and approved
Meant “nice-to-haves” just had to be moved

Good news for this project: we’ve lots on which to build!
Bad news: module specs for levels 5 and 6 now need to be filled

Influencing this wholesale re-write is too good to waste
But under this pressure all efforts require haste
Written, approved and timetabled to deliver in September
Brief windows of opportunity from last year we remember
So we’ll make the most of ‘em and try to stay merry
As implementation gives our second bite at the cherry

Mainstreaming innovations will give our biggest return
So we’ll be on the lookout for all we can learn

We’re hoping that our staff will be using their noodle
And doing some innovative assessment with Moodle
We already show students when coursework is due
But there’s so much more our staff want to do:
E-submission, Mahara and Turnitin plug-ins
Extending our core VLE will be a key job for muggins!

Don’t tell Myles, but full-blown BI can come later
We just need assessment practice and outcomes data
Our aim is to include A&F in a module health metric
So that we move continuous improvement beyond normal rhetoric

Our pitch is nearly over, I sense the timer
So I’ll summarize TRAFFIC with this one liner:
We’ll influence the curriculum re-write and support implementation
By mainstreaming assessment and feedback innovation

When You And I Grow Up - Kate Greenaway

2011-11-08T19:33:00.000Z

When you and I
Grow up–Polly–
I mean that you and me,
Shall go sailing in a big ship
Right over all the sea.
We'll wait till we are older,
For if we went to-day,
You know that we might lose ourselves,
And never find the way.

Kate Greenaway (1846 - 1901)

Evanescence - Angelina Weld Grimke

2011-11-07T19:46:00.000Z

You are like a pale purple flower
In the blue spring dusk

You are like a yellow star
Budding and blowing
In an apricot sky
You are like the beauty
Of a voice
Remembered after death

You are like thin, white petals
Falling
And
Floating
Down
Upon the white stilled hushing
Of my soul.

Angelina Weld Grimke (1880 - 1958, USA)

Words on a train - Bruce Levitan

2011-11-06T20:00:00.000Z

On the commuter train home
   listening to two young people
   slagging off their friends:
They talked in consonant free jargon,
   not an H or a T to be heard --
   but the invective was clear and rough.

Would it be the same in Rome?
   Do youths descend from Dante's steeple
   to incoherently speak? The same trends
across our world -- really so far gone
   that we might as well be a herd
   that speaks only in acidic guff?

Would Nietzsche include in his tome
   of humanity's idiocy and evil,
   thoughts on how to cleanse
or how to kill the dragon?
   How far must the spoken word
   be destroyed before we've had enough?