Side by side through the streets at midnight, Roaming together, Through the tumultuous night of London, In the miraculous April weather.
Roaming together under the gaslight, Day’s work over, How the Spring calls to us, here in the city, Calls to the heart from the heart of a lover!
Cool to the wind blows, fresh in our faces, Cleansing, entrancing, After the heat and the fumes and the footlights, Where you dance and I watch your dancing.
Good it is to be here together, Good to be roaming, Even in London, even at midnight, Lover-like in a lover’s gloaming.
You the dancer and I the dreamer, Children together, Wandering lost in the night of London, In the miraculous April weather.
***
«Colored Toys» by Rabindranath Tagore
When I bring to you colored toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of colors on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints —when I give colored toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth —when I sing to make you dance.
When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice —when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.
When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body —when I kiss you to make you smile.
***
«Dance Me to the End of Love by Leonard Cohen
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove Dance me to the end of love Dance me to the end of love Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon Show me slowly what I only know the limits of Dance me to the end of love Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long We’re both of us beneath our love, we’re both of us above Dance me to the end of love Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the children who are asking to be born Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin Dance me through the panic till I’m gathered safely in Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove Dance me to the end of love Dance me to the end of love Dance me to the end of love
***
«Dance-Hall Girls» by Robert William Service
Where are the dames I used to know In Dawson in the days of yore? Alas, it’s fifty years ago, And most, I guess, have “gone before.” The swinging scythe is swift to mow Alike the gallant and the fair; And even I, with gouty toe, Am glad to fill a rocking chair.
Ah me, I fear each gaysome girl Who in champagne I used to toast, or cozen in the waltz’s whirl, In now alas, a wistful ghost. Oh where is Touch The Button Nell? Or Minnie Dale or Rosa Lee, Or Lorna Doone or Daisy Bell? And where is Montreal Maree?
Fair ladies of my lusty youth, I fear that you are dead and gone: Where’s Gertie of the Diamond Tooth, And where the Mare of Oregon? What’s come of Violet de Vere, Claw-fingered Kate and Gumboot Sue? They’ve crossed the Great Divide, I fear; Remembered now by just a few.
A few who like myself can see Through half a century of haze A heap of goodness in their glee And kindness in their wanton ways. Alas, my sourdough days are dead, Yet let me toss a tankard down . . . Here’s hoping that you wed and bred, And lives of circumspection led, Gay dance-hall girls o Dawson Town!
***
«Gratiana Dancing and Singing» by Richard Lovelace
See! with what constant motion, Even, and glorious as the sun, Gratia a steers that noble frame, Soft as her breast, sweet as her voice, That gave each winding law and poise, And swifter than the wings of Fame.
She beat the happy pavement– By such a star made firmament, Which now no more the roof envies! But swells up high, with Atlas even, Bearing the brighter, nobler heaven, And, in her, all the deities.
Each step trod out a lover’s thought, And the ambitious hopes he brought Chained to her brave feet with such arts, Such sweet command and gentle awe, As, when she ceased, we sighing saw The floor lay paved with broken hearts.
So did she move, so did she sing, Like the harmonious spheres that bring Unto their rounds their music’s aid; Which she performed such a way As all the enamoured world will say, ‘The Graces danced, and Apollo played!’
***
«I Am Of Ireland» by William Butler Yeats
‘I am of Ireland, And the Holy Land of Ireland, And time runs on,’ cried she. ‘Come out of charity, Come dance with me in Ireland.’
One man, one man alone In that outlandish gear, One solitary man Of all that rambled there Had turned his stately head. That is a long way off, And time runs on,’ he said, ‘And the night grows rough.’
‘I am of Ireland, And the Holy Land of Ireland, And time runs on,’ cried she. ‘Come out of charity And dance with me in Ireland.’
‘The fiddlers are all thumbs, Or the fiddle-string accursed, The drums and the kettledrums And the trumpets all are burst, And the trombone,’ cried he, ‘The trumpet and trombone,’ And cocked a malicious eye, ‘But time runs on, runs on.’
I am of Ireland, And the Holy Land of Ireland, And time runs on,’ cried she. “Come out of charity And dance with me in Ireland.’
***
«I Cannot Dance upon my Toes» by Emily Dickinson
I cannot dance upon my Toes— No Man instructed me— But oftentimes, among my mind, A Glee possesseth me,
That had I Ballet knowledge— Would put itself abroad In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe— Or lay a Prima, mad,
And though I had no Gown of Gauze— No Ringlet, to my Hair, Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds, One Claw upon the Air,
Nor tossed my shape in Eider Balls, Nor rolled on wheels of snow Till I was out of sight, in sound, The House encore me so—
Nor any know I know the Art I mention—easy—Here— Nor any Placard boast me— It’s full as Opera—
***
«Javanese Dancers» by Arthur Symons
Twitched strings, the clang of metal, beaten drums, Dull, shrill, continuous, disquieting: And now the stealthy dancer comes Undulantly with cat-like steps that cling; Smiling between her painted lids a smile, Motionless, unintelligible, she twines Her fingers into mazy lines, The scarves across her fingers twine the while. One, two, three, four glide forth, and, to and fro, Delicately and imperceptibly, Now swaying gently in a row, Now interthreading slow and rhythmically, Still, with fixed eyes, monotonously still, Mysteriously, with smiles inanimate, With lingering feet that undulate, With sinuous fingers, spectral hands that thrill In measure while the gnats of music whirr, The little amber-coloured dancers move, Like painted idols seen to stir By the idolators in a magic grove.
***
«Jessica Dances» by Eleanor Farjeon
When Joy and Molly on the lawn Danced bare of foot like spirits of dawn Jessica watched in wonderment Until delight would not be pent, And shoe and sock she cast in mirth And felt her naked toes touch earth. Swiftly the fresh green joy shot in Through the fresh young rosy skin, And in a golden glee the child Went dancing innocently-wild Up and down and round and round Like daisies covering the ground, Called sunward by the age-long spell No ages can destroy Of youth that never sighed or sinned,— While elfin Molly and fairy Joy Danced on like lilies in a dell Or harebells in the wind.
***
«Natural Celebration» by Muzahidul Reza
The flowers bloom all days and nights long Spread sense enchanting sweet perfumes, The butterflies fly on their colorful wings And sit on the petals to suck secretions;
The birds chirp, jump, dance, sing sweet songs And fly for fruits, insects and some worms To eat and to feed their cute youngs Which wait making big gap opening in mouths;
The wind blows causing fine lyrical waves Great rhythm sounds around our world And branches, leaves dance all the times Abiding by no termination in day and night;
The sun flashes with full light for all the day The moon and the stars shine at whole night, Under these often clouds and rains nicely play Some irregular calamities sometimes badly hit;
Nature always goes on celebrating these All in it can freely enjoy these celebrations, Observing some observers have been quite famous But some who harm nature are indifferent to it seen.
***
«Oranges And Grapes» by Paul Hartal
Oranges and grapes refuse to grow in the cold. Today I sing and dance, refuse to grow old. Yet all the same, time is tyrant and ruthless, Unfolds my wrinkling years, it is relentless.
Now and then the lots seem to be gentle and kind, But alloyed with fate the somnambulist is blind. Luck and fortuity might act as a soubrette, Life spins our fate like roulette in a film set.
Still, let us drink to life, celebrate, and be glad, Let us sing and dance today, refuse to be sad. Oranges and grapes do not grow in the cold, A warm wind ties ribbons to maple leaves of gold.
My love soars high above trees and towers, Carries to my beloved a bouquet of flowers.
***
«Reasons For Attendance » by Philip Larkin
The trumpet’s voice, loud and authoritative, Draws me a moment to the lighted glass To watch the dancers – all under twenty-five – Solemnly on the beat of happiness.
– Or so I fancy, sensing the smoke and sweat, The wonderful feel of girls. Why be out there ? But then, why be in there? Sex, yes, but what Is sex ? Surely to think the lion’s share Of happiness is found by couples – sheer
Inaccuracy, as far as I’m concerned. What calls me is that lifted, rough-tongued bell (Art, if you like) whose individual sound Insists I too am individual. It speaks; I hear; others may hear as well,
But not for me, nor I for them; and so With happiness. Therefor I stay outside, Believing this, and they maul to and fro, Believing that; and both are satisfied, If no one has misjudged himself. Or lied.
***
«Saturday Night Dance» by Ernestine Northover
Looked forward to the Saturday Night dance We did, all dressed up to ‘shine’, With winkle picker shoes, and layers of net In our petticoats. We felt divine.
The ‘hair do’ backcombed to perfection, The lipstick a bright Roman Pink, The 10 denier stockings, were totally great, And, that handsome Teddy Boy’s wink!
Rock and roll, The Twist, The Locomotion, Were the favourites of the day, And then there was the ‘smoochy’ waltz, When cheek to cheek, we could ‘swoon’ away.
You sat, until some bold young fella, Would have the courage to ask you up, To do ‘The Jive’ or the ‘Cha Cha Cha’, Or to fetch you some wine to sup.
Some lads were delightful to dance with, While others had two left feet, But one would have to suffer them gladly, If you wanted to, leave your seat.
Politeness would rule the evening, And courtesy was really great, When someone would give you a lift back home, If the dance, went on too late.
Gone are those days of feeling feminine, With the boys, debonair and bold, But, Oh, it was so romantic then, When you had a ‘strong’ hand to hold.
There was fun with the band playing loudly. When being female, we dressed to ‘kill’, And when men were Gents and treated us girls, With, respect. Now that was definitely ‘BRILL’!
***
«Sweet Dancer » by William Butler Yeats
The girl goes dancing there On the leaf-sown, new-mown, smooth Grass plot of the garden; Escaped from bitter youth, Escaped out of her crowd, Or out of her black cloud. Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer!
If strange men come from the house To lead her away, do not say That she is happy being crazy; Lead them gently astray; Let her finish her dance, Let her finish her dance. Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer!
***
«The Children Dancing» by Robert Laurence Binyon
Away, sad thoughts, and teasing Perplexities, away! Let other blood go freezing, We will be wise and gay. For here is all heart-easing, An ecstasy at play. The children dancing, dancing, Light upon happy feet, Both eye and heart entrancing Mingle, escape, and meet; Come joyous-eyed and advancing Or floatingly retreat. Now slow, now swifter treading Their paces timed and true, An instant poised, then threading A maze of printless clue, Their motions smoothly wedding To melody anew, They sway in chime, and scatter In looping circles; they Are Music’s airy matter, And their feet move, the way The raindrops shine and patter On tossing flowers in May. As if those flowers were singing For joy of the clean air, As if you saw them springing To dance the breeze, so fair The lissom bodies swinging, So light the flung-back hair. And through the mind enchanted A happy river goes By its own young carol haunted And bringing where it flows What all in the world has wanted And who in this world knows?
***
«The Dance Of Death» by Charles Baudelaire
CARRYING bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves, Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves With all the careless and high-stepping grace, And the extravagant courtesan’s thin face.
Was slimmer waist e’er in a ball-room wooed? Her floating robe, in royal amplitude, Falls in deep folds around a dry foot, shod With a bright flower-like shoe that gems the sod.
The swarms that hum about her collar-bones As the lascivious streams caress the stones, Conceal from every scornful jest that flies, Her gloomy beauty; and her fathomless eyes
Are made of shade and void; with flowery sprays Her skull is wreathed artistically, and sways, Feeble and weak, on her frail vertebrae. O charm of nothing decked in folly! they
Who laugh and name you a Caricature, They see not, they whom flesh and blood allure, The nameless grace of every bleached, bare bone, That is most dear to me, tall skeleton!
Come you to trouble with your potent sneer The feast of Life! or are you driven here, To Pleasure’s Sabbath, by dead lusts that stir And goad your moving corpse on with a spur?
Or do you hope, when sing the violins, And the pale candle-flame lights up our sins, To drive some mocking nightmare far apart, And cool the flame hell lighted in your heart?
Fathomless well of fault and foolishness! Eternal alembic of antique distress! Still o’er the curved, white trellis of your sides The sateless, wandering serpent curls and glides.
And truth to tell, I fear lest you should find, Among us here, no lover to your mind; Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave? The charms of horror please none but the brave.
Your eyes’ black gulf, where awful broodings stir, Brings giddiness; the prudent reveller Sees, while a horror grips him from beneath, The eternal smile of thirty-two white teeth.
For he who has not folded in his arms A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms, Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent, When Horror comes the way that Beauty went.
O irresistible, with fleshless face, Say to these dancers in their dazzled race: “Proud lovers with the paint above your bones, Ye shall taste death, musk scented skeletons!
Withered Antinoьs, dandies with plump faces, Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces, Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath, Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death.
From Seine’s cold quays to Ganges’ burning stream, The mortal troupes dance onward in a dream; They do not see, within the opened sky, The Angel’s sinister trumpet raised on high.
In every clime and under every sun, Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run; And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye And mingles with your madness, irony!”
***
«The Host Of The Air» by William Butler Yeats
O’Driscoll drove with a song The wild duck and the drake From the tall and the tufted reeds Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark At the coming of night-tide, And dreamed of the long dim hair Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed A piper piping away, And never was piping so sad, And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and young girls Who danced on a level place, And Bridget his bride among them, With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers crowded about him And many a sweet thing said, And a young man brought him red wine And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve Away from the merry bands, To old men playing at cards With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom, For these were the host of the air; He sat and played in a dream Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men And thought not of evil chance, Until one bore Bridget his bride Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his atms, The handsomest young man there, And his neck and his breast and his arms Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O’Driscoll scattered the cards And out of his dream awoke: Old men and young men and young girls Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air A piper piping away, And never was piping so sad, And never was piping so gay.
***
«The Night Dance» by Thomas Moore
Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high, And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye, Obey the mute call, and heave into motion. Then, sound notes — the gayest, the lightest, That ever took wing, when heaven look’d brightest Again! Again! Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard In that City of Statues described by romancers, So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirr’d, And statues themselves all start into dancers!
Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears, And the flower of Beauty’s own garden before us — While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres, And, listening to ours, hang wondering o’er us? Again, that strain! — to hear it thus sounding Might set even Death’s cold pulses bounding — Again! Again! Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather, Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May, And mingle sweet song and sunshine together.
***
«While The Fates Sleep» by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Come, let us to the sunways of the west, Hasten, while crystal dews the rose-cups fill, Let us dream dreams again in our blithe quest O’er whispering wold and hill. Castles of air yon wimpling valleys keep Where milk-white mist steals from the purpling sea, They shall be ours in the moon’s wizardry, While the fates, wearied, sleep.
The viewless spirit of the wind will sing In the soft starshine by the reedy mere, The elfin harps of hemlock boughs will ring Fitfully far and near; The fields will yield their trove of spice and musk, And balsam from the glens of pine will fall, Till twilight weaves its tangled shadows all In one dim web of dusk.
Let us put tears and memories away, While the fates sleep time stops for revelry; Let us look, speak, and kiss as if no day Has been or yet will be; Let us make friends with laughter ‘neath the moon, With music on the immemorial shore, Yea, let us dance as lovers danced of yore- The fates will waken soon!
I have walked through tougher Harlem where few strangers dare to go And I’ve been in London City in the rain and in the snow And I’ve worked in inner Melbourne in the searing summer heat And believe me if I tell you I have earned the bread I eat.
I have laboured in deep trenches with my life I’ve took a dare And I’ve worked in cherry pickers ninety foot up in the air And the hands of time keep turning and the years go quickly by And the man who lives on welfare is still better off than I.
And who needs the tag of good worker it’s no big deal anyway He’s a wiser and better off man who sits at home all day And his conscience doesn’t prick him isn’t he the lucky one And must I be one great idiot to go labouring in the sun.
I was low in social ladder and I still am way down low And I feel my life’s been wasted for my years have nought to show Some may say he’s a good worker that’s of little use to me All I need is lots of money I don’t need your sympathy.
I felt happy for a brief while in a green Land miles away In that beautiful green Country where I lived for many a day I felt inwardly contented even though I was quite poor Listening to the pipits piping in the meads of Annagloor.
Till the wanderlust possessed me I grew restless as the wind Pity on all migrant workers, pity on all wandering kind Went to live in foreign city worked with strong hard working men But I’ve nought to show for labour I’m poor now as I was then.
In Ireland I cut down pine trees in the hills where bracken grow And in Wales I picked potatoes many, many years ago I have laboured for a living on myself I have been cruel All the World laughs at an idiot all the World laughs at a fool.
I am getting old and weary and what hair I’ve left is gray And I’m well beyond the fifty and I’ve seen a better day And like the work weary work horse all the better years are gone And I still work as a labourer and I still keep plodding on.
Please don’t say he’s a good worker such words I don’t wish to hear For I’ve nought to show for labour though I’ve worked for many a year Words like ‘good hard working fellow’ does not do a thing for me All I need is lots of money, I don’t need your sympathy.
***
«A Blessing» by James Wright
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom.
***
«A Bushman’s Song» by Banjo Paterson
I’M travellin’ down the Castlereagh, and I’m a station hand, I’m handy with the ropin’ pole, I’m handy with the brand, And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day, But there’s no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. +
So it’s shift, boys, shift, for there isn’t the slightest doubt That we’ve got to make a shift to the stations further out, With the pack-horse runnin’ after, for he follows like a dog, We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog.
This old black horse I’m riding—if you’ll notice what’s his brand, He wears the crooked R, you see—none better in the land. He takes a lot of beatin’, and the other day we tried, For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn’t the slightest doubt That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out; But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog— He’s a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog.
I asked a cove for shearin’ once along the Marthaguy: “We shear non-union here,” says he. “I call it scab,” says I. I looked along the shearin’ floor before I turned to go— There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin’ in a row.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn’t the slightest doubt It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about. So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog, And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog.
I went to Illawarra, where my brother’s got a farm, He has to ask his landlord’s leave before he lifts his arm; The landlord owns the country side—man, woman, dog, and cat, They haven’t the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn’t the slightest doubt Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out; Was I to touch my hat to him?—was I his bloomin’ dog? So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.
But it’s time that I was movin’, I’ve a mighty way to go Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below; Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin’ down, And I’ll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town.
So, it’s shift, boys, shift, for there isn’t the slightest doubt We’ve got to make a shift to the stations further out; The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog, And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.
***
«A Dog’s Mistake» by Banjo Paterson
He had drifted in among us as a straw drifts with the tide, He was just a wand’ring mongrel from the weary world outside; He was not aristocratic, being mostly ribs and hair, With a hint of spaniel parents and a touch of native bear.
He was very poor and humble and content with what he got, So we fed him bones and biscuits, till he heartened up a lot; Then he growled and grew aggressive, treating orders with disdain, Till at last he bit the butcher, which would argue want of brain.
Now the butcher, noble fellow, was a sport beyond belief, And instead of bringing actions he brought half a shin of beef, Which he handed on to Fido, who received it as a right And removed it to the garden, where he buried it at night.
‘Twas the means of his undoing, for my wife, who’d stood his friend, To adopt a slang expression, “went in off the deepest end”, For among the pinks and pansies, the gloxinias and the gorse He had made an excavation like a graveyard for a horse.
Then we held a consultation which decided on his fate: ‘Twas in anger more than sorrow that we led him to the gate, And we handed him the beef-bone as provision for the day, Then we opened wide the portal and we told him, “On your way.”
***
«A Winter Ride» by Amy Lowell
Who shall declare the joy of the running! Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight! Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather, Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light. Everything mortal has moments immortal, Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.
So with the stretch of the white road before me, Shining snowcrystals rainbowed by the sun, Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows, Strong with the strength of my horse as we run. Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight! Joy! With the vigorous earth, I am one.
***
«A Woman Driving» by Thomas Hardy
How she held up the horses’ heads, Firm-lipped, with steady rein, Down that grim steep the coastguard treads, Till all was safe again!
With form erect and keen contour She passed against the sea, And, dipping into the chine’s obscure, Was seen no more by me.
To others she appeared anew At times of dusky light, But always, so they told, withdrew From close and curious sight.
Some said her silent wheels would roll Rutless on softest loam, And even that her steeds’ footfall Sank not upon the foam.
Where drives she now? It may be where No mortal horses are, But in a chariot of the air Towards some radiant star.
***
«Advice To A Prophet» by Richard Wilbur
When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city, Mad-eyed from stating the obvious, Not proclaiming our fall but begging us In God’s name to have self-pity,
Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range, The long numbers that rocket the mind; Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind, Unable to fear what is too strange.
Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race. How should we dream of this place without us?– The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us, A stone look on the stone’s face?
Speak of the world’s own change. Though we cannot conceive Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost, How the view alters. We could believe,
If you told us so, that the white-tailed deer will slip Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy, The lark avoid the reaches of our eye, The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip
On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn As Xanthus once, its gliding trout Stunned in a twinkling. What should we be without The dolphin’s arc, the dove’s return,
These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken? Ask us, prophet, how we shall call Our natures forth when that live tongue is all Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken
In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean Horse of our courage, in which beheld The singing locust of the soul unshelled, And all we mean or wish to mean.
Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding Whether there shall be lofty or long standing When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.
***
«At Grass» by Philip Larkin
The eye can hardly pick them out From the cold shade they shelter in, Till wind distresses tail and mane; Then one crops grass, and moves about – The other seeming to look on – And stands anonymous again
Yet fifteen years ago, perhaps Two dozen distances sufficed To fable them : faint afternoons Of Cups and Stakes and Handicaps, Whereby their names were artificed To inlay faded, classic Junes –
Silks at the start : against the sky Numbers and parasols : outside, Squadrons of empty cars, and heat, And littered grass : then the long cry Hanging unhushed till it subside To stop-press columns on the street.
Do memories plague their ears like flies? They shake their heads. Dusk brims the shadows. Summer by summer all stole away, The starting-gates, the crowd and cries – All but the unmolesting meadows. Almanacked, their names live; they
Have slipped their names, and stand at ease, Or gallop for what must be joy, And not a fieldglass sees them home, Or curious stop-watch prophesies : Only the grooms, and the grooms boy, With bridles in the evening come.
***
«Boot and Saddle» by Robert Browning
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my Castle, before the hot day Brightens the blue from its silvery grey,
“Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”
Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you’d say; Many’s the friend there, will listen and pray “God’s luck to gallants that strike up the lay,
“Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”
Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array: Who laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay,
“Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”
Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, “Nay! I’ve better counsellors; what counsel they?”
(Chorus) “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”
***
«Cirque D’Hiver» by Elizabeth Bishop
Across the floor flits the mechanical toy, fit for a king of several centuries back. A little circus horse with real white hair. His eyes are glossy black. He bears a little dancer on his back.
She stands upon her toes and turns and turns. A slanting spray of artificial roses is stitched across her skirt and tinsel bodice. Above her head she poses another spray of artificial roses.
His mane and tail are straight from Chirico. He has a formal, melancholy soul. He feels her pink toes dangle toward his back along the little pole that pierces both her body and her soul
and goes through his, and reappears below, under his belly, as a big tin key. He canters three steps, then he makes a bow, canters again, bows on one knee, canters, then clicks and stops, and looks at me.
The dancer, by this time, has turned her back. He is the more intelligent by far. Facing each other rather desperately— his eye is like a star— we stare and say, “Well, we have come this far.”
***
«Conscientious Objector» by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death. I hear him leading his horse out of the stall; I hear the clatter on the barn-floor. He is in haste; he has business in Cuba, business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning. But I will not hold the bridle while he clinches the girth. And he may mount by himself: I will not give him a leg up.
Though he flick my shoulders with his whip, I will not tell him which way the fox ran. With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where the black boy hides in the swamp. I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.
I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends nor of my enemies either. Though he promise me much, I will not map him the route to any man’s door. Am I a spy in the land of the living, that I should deliver men to Death? Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.
***
«Don’t Cry For The Horses» by Brenda Riley-Seymore
Don’t cry for the horses that life has set free. A million white horses, forever to be. Don’t cry for the horses now in God’s hands. As they dance and prance to a heavenly band.
They were ours as a gift, but never to keep As they close their eyes, forever to sleep. Their spirits unbound, forever to fly. A million white horses, against the blue sky.
Look up into Heaven. You will see them above. The horse we lost, the horse we loved. Manes and tails flying, they gallop through time. They were never yours, they were never mine.
Don’t cry for the horses, they will be back someday. When our time has come, they will show us the way. Do you hear that soft nicker close to your ear? Don’t cry for the horses, love the ones that are here.
***
«Fate» by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Deep in the man sits fast his fate To mould his fortunes, mean or great: Unknown to Cromwell as to me Was Cromwell’s measure or degree; Unknown to him as to his horse, If he than his groom be better or worse. He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs, With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares, Till late he learned, through doubt and fear, Broad England harbored not his peer: Obeying time, the last to own The Genius from its cloudy throne. For the prevision is allied Unto the thing so signified; Or say, the foresight that awaits Is the same Genius that creates.
***
«Follower» by Seamus Heaney
My father worked with a horse-plough, His shoulders globed like a full sail strung Between the shafts and the furrow. The horse strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing And fit the bright steel-pointed sock. The sod rolled over without breaking. At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round And back into the land. His eye Narrowed and angled at the ground, Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake, Fell sometimes on the polished sod; Sometimes he rode me on his back Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough, To close one eye, stiffen my arm. All I ever did was follow In his broad shadow round the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling, Yapping always. But today It is my father who keeps stumbling Behind me, and will not go away.
***
«Grierson’s Raid» by Hanford Lennox Gordon
Mount to horse mount to horse; Forward, Battalion! Gallop the gallant force; Down with Rebellion! Over hill, creek and plain Clatter the fearless Dash away splash away Led by the Peerless.
Carbines crack foemen fly Hither and thither; Under the death-fire They falter and wither. Burn the bridge tear the track Down with Rebellion! Cut the wires cut the wires! Forward, Battalion! Day and night night and day, Gallop the fearless
Swimming the rivers’ floods Led by the Peerless; Depots and powder-trains Blazing and thundering Masters and dusky slaves Gazing and wondering. Eight hundred miles they ride Dauntless Battalion Down through the Southern Land Mad with Rebellion. Into our lines they dash Brave Cavaliers Greeting our flag with A thunder of cheers.
***
«Having This Day My Horse» by Sir Philip Sidney
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well that I obtain’d the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance, Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think Nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry! The true cause is, Stella look’d on, and from her heav’nly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
***
«Horse» by Elizabeth Madox Roberts
His bridle hung around the post. The sun and the leaves made spots come down; I looked close at him through the fence; The post was drab and he was brown.
His nose was long and hard and still, And on his lip were specks like chalk. But once he opened up his eyes, And he began to talk.
He didn’t talk out with his mouth; He didn’t talk with words or noise. The talk was there along his nose; It seemed and then it was.
He said the day was hot and slow, And he said he didn’t like the flies; They made him have to shake his skin, And they got drowned in his eyes.
He said that drab was just about The same as brown, but he was not A post, he said, to hold a fence. “I’m horse,” he said, “that’s what!”
And then he shut his eyes again. As still as they had been before. He said for me to run along And not to bother him any more.
***
«Horse and Rider» by Kim Schilling
Galloping towards the base of the steep hill, watching the breeze bluster through her mane, with a mild touch I veered her with reign; For a serene moment all time stood still.
Horse and mount journeying with great skill, but collectively as one we must attain; Galloping towards the base of the steep hill, watching the breeze bluster through her mane.
Feeling the power beneath me is a thrill, and racing across the meadowy plane, a feeling rushes over I can’t explain, perhaps the reality of taking a spill; Galloping towards the base of the steep hill.
***
«Hunting Song» by Sir Walter Scott
Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day; All the jolly chase is here With hawk and horse and hunting-spear, Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily, merrily mingle they Waken, lords and ladies gay.
Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray; Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green; Now we come to chant our lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay.
Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the greenwood haste away; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size; We can show the marks he made When ‘gainst the oak his antlers fray’d; You shall see him brought to bay Waken, lords and ladies gay.
Louder, louder chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay! Tell them youth and mirth and glee Run a course as well as we; Time, stern huntsman! who can balk, Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk: Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay!
***
«In Clay» by Madison Julius Cawein
Here went a horse with heavy laboring stride Along the woodland side; Deep in the clay his iron hoof-marks show, Patient and slow, Where with his human burden yesterday He passed this way.
Would that this wind that tramples ’round me here, Among the sad and sere Of winter-weary forests, were a steed, Mighty indeed, And tameless as the tempest of its pace, Upon whom man might place.
The boundless burden of his mortal cares, Life’s griefs, despairs, And ruined dreams that bow the spirit so! And let him go Bearing them far from the sad world, ah me! Leaving it free.
As in that Age of Gold, of which men tell, When Earth was glad and gods came here to dwell.
***
«Madam And Her Madam» by Langston Hughes
I worked for a woman, She wasn’t mean– But she had a twelve-room House to clean.
Had to get breakfast, Dinner, and supper, too– Then take care of her children When I got through.
Wash, iron, and scrub, Walk the dog around– It was too much, Nearly broke me down.
I said, Madam, Can it be You trying to make a Pack-horse out of me?
She opened her mouth. She cried, Oh, no! You know, Alberta, I love you so!
I said, Madam, That may be true– But I’ll be dogged If I love you!
***
«O’Dowd Of The Jefferson Club» by Edwin C. Ranck
A maddened horse comes down the street, With waving mane and flying feet. The crowd scatters in every direction; It looks like a fight at a city election. A big policeman waves his hands, And the air is full of vague commands, While across the street a retail grocer Shrieks to his child as the horse draws closer When suddenly out of the mad hubbub, Steps Jimmie O’Dowd of the Jefferson Club.
Every man there holds his breath– To stop the horse means sudden death. But quick as a flash, O’Dowd makes a dash. With all his might and the horse’s mane, He brings the old plug to a halt again. Then every man there doffs his hat And cries “Well, what do you think of that?” Never since the days of Nero Has there been a greater hero.
***
«Peleg Poague» by Edgar Lee Masters
Horses and men are just alike. There was my stallion, Billy Lee, Black as a cat and trim as a deer, With an eye of fire, keen to start, And he could hit the fastest speed Of any racer around Spoon River. But just as you’d think he couldn’t lose, With his lead of fifty yards or more, He’d rear himself and throw the rider, And fall back over, tangled up, Completely gone to pieces. You see he was a perfect fraud: He couldn’t win, he couldn’t work, He was too light to haul or plow with, And no one wanted colts from him. And when I tried to drive him – well, He ran away and killed me.
***
«Rain And Wind» by Madison Julius Cawein
I hear the hoofs of horses Galloping over the hill, Galloping on and galloping on, When all the night is shrill With wind and rain that beats the pane, And my soul with awe is still.
For every dripping window Their headlong rush makes bound, Galloping up, and galloping by, Then back again and around, Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs, And the draughty cellars sound.
And then I hear black horsemen Hallooing in the night; Hallooing and hallooing, They ride o’er vale and height, And the branches snap and the shutters clap With the fury of their flight.
Then at each door a horseman, With burly bearded lip Hallooing through the keyhole, Pauses with cloak a-drip; And the door-knob shakes and the panel quakes ‘Neath the anger of his whip.
All night I hear their gallop, And their wild halloo’s alarm; The tree-tops sound and vanes go round In forest and on farm; But never a hair of a thing is there, Only the wind and storm.
***
«Reverie» by Walter De La Mare
When slim Sophia mounts her horse And paces down the avenue, It seems an inward melody She paces to.
Each narrow hoof is lifted high Beneath the dark enclust’ring pines, A silver ray within his bit And bridle shines.
His eye burns deep, his tail is arched, And streams upon the shadowy air, The daylight sleeks his jetty flanks, His mistress’ hair.
Her habit flows in darkness down, Upon the stirrup rests her foot, Her brow is lifted, as if earth She heeded not.
‘Tis silent in the avenue, The sombre pines are mute of song, The blue is dark, there moves no breeze The boughs among.
When slim Sophia mounts her horse And paces down the avenue, It seems an inward melody She paces to.
***
«Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening» by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
***
«Strange Fits Of Passion Have I Known» by William Wordsworth
Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover’s ear alone, What once to me befell.
When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening-moon.
Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy’s cot Came near, and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature’s gentlest boon! And all the while my eye I kept On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover’s head! ‘O mercy!’ to myself I cried, ‘If Lucy hould be dead!’
***
«Strathcona’s Horse» by William Henry Drummond
O I was thine, and thou wert mine, and ours the boundless plain, Where the winds of the North, my gallant steed, ruffled thy tawny mane, But the summons hath come with roll of drum, and bugles ringing shrill, Startling the prairie antelope, the grizzly of the hill. ‘Tis the voice of Empire calling, and the child- ren gather fast From every land where the cross bar floats out from the quivering mast; So into the saddle I leap, my own, with bridle swinging free, And thy hoofbeats shall answer the trumpets blowing across the sea. Then proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of the foe to-morrow, For he who dares to stay our course drinks deep of the Cup of Sorrow. Thy form hath pressed the meadow’s breast, where the sullen grey wolf hides, The great red river of the North hath cooled thy burning sides; Together we’ve slept while the tempest swept the Rockies’ glittering chain; And many a day the bronze centaur hath gal- loped behind in vain. But the sweet wild grass of mountain pass, and the battlefields far away, And the trail that ends where Empire trends, is the trail we ride to-day. But proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of the foe to-morrow, For he who bars Strathcona’s Horse, drinks deep of the Cup of Sorrow.
***
«The Bay Horse» by Arthur Conan Doyle
Squire wants the bay horse, For it is the best. Squire holds the mortgage; Where’s the interest? Haven’t got the interest, Can’t raise a sou; Shan’t sell the bay horse, Whatever he may do.
Did you see the bay horse? Such a one to go! He took a bit of ridin’, When I showed him at the Show. First prize the broad jump, First prize the high; Gold medal, Class A, You’ll see it by-and-by.
I bred the bay horse On the Withy Farm. I broke the bay horse, He broke my arm. Don’t blame the bay horse, Blame the brittle bone, I bred him and I’ve fed him, And he’s all my very own.
Just watch the bay horse Chock full of sense! Ain’t he just beautiful, Risin’ to a fence! Just hear the bay horse Whinin’ in his stall, Purrin’ like a pussy cat When he hears me call.
But if Squire’s lawyer Serves me with his writ, I’ll take the bay horse To Marley gravel pit. Over the quarry edge, I’ll sit him tight, If he wants the brown hide, He’s welcome to the white!
***
«The Blood Horse» by Bryan Waller Procter
Gamarra is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within! His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light.
Look,—how ’round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float! Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins; Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire,— Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O’Brien’s blood itself!
He, who hath no peer, was born, Here, upon a red March morn; But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine! And yet,—he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun, By some lone fountain fringed with green: With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived, (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day), And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands.
***
«The Dream» by Louise Bogan
O God, in the dream the terrible horse began To paw at the air, and make for me with his blows, Fear kept for thirty-five years poured through his mane, And retribution equally old, or nearly, breathed through his nose.
Coward complete, I lay and wept on the ground When some strong creature appeared, and leapt for the rein. Another woman, as I lay half in a swound Leapt in the air, and clutched at the leather and chain.
Give him, she said, something of yours as a charm. Throw him, she said, some poor thing you alone claim. No, no, I cried, he hates me; he is out for harm, And whether I yield or not, it is all the same.
But, like a lion in a legend, when I flung the glove Pulled from my sweating, my cold right hand; The terrible beast, that no one may understand, Came to my side, and put down his head in love.
***
«The fly-away horse» by Eugene Field
Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse – Perhaps you have seen him before; Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept
Through the moonlight that floats on the floor. For it’s only at night, when the stars twinkle bright, That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane, Is up on his heels and away! The Moon in the sky, As he gallopeth by, Cries: “Oh! what a marvelous sight!” And the Stars in dismay Hide their faces away In the lap of old Grandmother Night.
It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse Speedeth ever and ever away – Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains, Over streamlets that sing at their play; And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he, While the ships they go sailing below, And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast Adjudge him some portent of woe. “What ho there!” they cry, As he flourishes by With a whisk of his beautiful tail; And the fish in the sea Are as scared as can be, From the nautilus up to the whale!
And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those faraway lands You little folk dream of at night – Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow, And corn-fields with popcorn are white; And the beasts in the wood are ever so good To children who visit them there – What glory astride of a lion to ride, Or to wrestle around with a bear! The monkeys, they say: “Come on, let us play,” And they frisk in the cocoanut-trees: While the parrots, that cling To the peanut-vines, sing Or converse with comparative ease!
Off! scamper to bed – you shall ride him tonight! For, as soon as you’ve fallen asleep, With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away Over forest and hillside and deep! But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear In those beautiful lands over there, Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his faraway course With the wee one consigned to his care. Then grandma will cry In amazement: “Oh, my!” And she’ll think it could never be so; And only we two Shall know it is true – You and I, little precious! shall know!
***
«The Horse» by James Stephens
A sparrow hopped about the street, And he was not a bit afraid; He flew between a horse’s feet, And ate his supper undismayed: I think myself the horse knew well The bird came for the grains that fell.
For his eye was looking down, And he danced the corn about In his nose-bag, till the brown Grains of corn were tumbled out; And I fancy that he said, “Eat it up, young Speckle-Head!”
The driver then came back again, He climbed into the heavy dray; And he tightened up the rein, Cracked his whip and drove away. But when the horse’s ribs were hit, The sparrow did not care a bit.
***
«The Horse Of Your Heart» by William Henry Ogilvie
When you’ve ridden a four-year-old half of the day And, foam to the fetlock, they lead him away, With a sigh of contentment you watch him depart While you tighten the girths on the horse of your heart. There is something between you that both understand As it thrills an old message from bit-bar to hand. As he changes his feet in that plunge of desire To the thud of his hoofs all your courage takes fire. When an afternoon fox is away, when begins The rush down the headland that edges the whins, When you challenge the Field, making sure of a start, Would you ask any horse but this horse of your heart? There’s the rasping big double a green one would shirk, But the old fellow knows it as part of his work; He has shortened his stride, he has measured the task, He is up, on, and over as clean as you’d ask. There’s the water before you-no novice’s test, But a jump to try deeply the boldest and best; Just a tug at the leather, a lift of the ear, And the old horse is over it-twenty foot clear. There is four foot of wall and a take-off in plough, And you’re glad you are riding no tenderfoot now But a seasoned campaigner, a master of art, The perfect performer-the horse of your heart. For here’s where the raw one will falter and baulk, And here’s where the tyro is pulled to a walk, But the horse of your heart never dwells or demurs And is over the top to a touch of the spurs. To you who ride young ones half-schooled and half-broke, What joy to find freedom a while from your yoke! What bliss to be launched with the luck of the start On the old one, the proved one, the horse of your heart !
***
«The Horses» by Katherine Lee Bates
What was our share in the sinning, That we must share the doom? Sweet was our life’s beginning In the spicy meadow-bloom, With children’s hands to pet us And kindly tones to call. To-day the red spurs fret us Against the bayonet wall.
What had we done, our masters, That you sold us into hell? Our terrors and disasters Have filled your pockets well. You feast on our starvation; Your laughter is our groan. Have horses then no nation, No country of their own?
What are we, we your horses, So loyal where we serve, Fashioned of noble forces All sensitive with nerve? Torn, agonized, we wallow On the blood-bemired sod; And still the shiploads follow. Have horses then no God?
***
«The Last Leap» by Adam Lindsay Gordon
All is over! fleet career, Dash of greyhound slipping thongs, Flight of falcon, bound of deer, Mad hoof-thunder in our rear, Cold air rushing up our lungs, Din of many tongues.
Once again, one struggle good, One vain effort;—he must dwell Near the shifted post, that stood Where the splinters of the wood, Lying in the torn tracks, tell How he struck and fell.
Crest where cold drops beaded cling, Small ear drooping, nostril full, Glazing to a scarlet ring, Flanks and haunches quivering, Sinews stiffening, void and null, Dumb eyes sorrowful.
Satin coat that seems to shine Duller now, black braided tress That a softer hand than mine Far away was wont to twine, That in meadows far from this Softer lips might kiss.
All is over! this is death, And I stand to watch thee die, Brave old horse! with bated breath Hardly drawn through tight-clenched teeth, Lip indented deep, but eye Only dull and dry.
Musing on the husk and chaff Gathered where life’s tares are sown, Thus I speak, and force a laugh, That is half a sneer and half An involuntary groan, In a stifled tone—
‘Rest, old friend! thy day, though rife With its toil, hath ended soon; We have had our share of strife, Tumblers in the masque of life, In the pantomime of noon Clown and pantaloon.
‘With a flash that ends thy pain, Respite and oblivion blest Come to greet thee. I in vain Fall: I rise to fall again: Thou hast fallen to thy rest— And thy fall is best!’
***
«The Listeners» by Walter de la Mare
“Is there anybody there?” said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grass Of the forest’s ferny floor; And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller’s head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; “Is there anybody there?” he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, ‘Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:– “Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,” he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.
***
«The Man And His Horse» by Anne Kingsmill Finch
Within a Meadow, on the way, A sordid Churl resolv’d to stay, And give his Horse a Bite; Purloining so his Neighbours Hay, That at the Inn he might not pay For Forage all the Night.
With Heart’s content th’ unloaded Steed Began to neigh, and frisk, and feed; For nothing more he car’d, Since none of all his Master’s breed E’er found such Pasture, at their need, Or half so well had far’d.
When, in the turning of a Hand, Out comes the Owner of the Land, And do’s the Trespass eye; Which puts poor Bayard to a Stand, For now his Master do’s command Him to return and fly.
But Hunger quick’ning up his Wit, And Grass being sweeter than the Bit, He to the Clown reply’d; Shall I for you this Dinner quit, Who to my Back hard Burdens fit, And to the Death wou’d ride?
No; shou’d I as a Stray be found, And seiz’d upon forbidden Ground, I’ll on this Spot stand still; For tho’ new Riders shou’d abound, (Or did Mankind this Field surround) They cou’d but use me ill.
Urge no Man to despair; lest in the Fit He with some Counterblow thy Head may hit.
***
«The Old Horse in the City» by Vachel Lindsay
The moon’s a peck of corn. It lies Heaped up for me to eat. I wish that I might climb the path And taste that supper sweet.
Men feed me straw and scanty grain And beat me till I’m sore. Some day I’ll break the halter-rope And smash the stable-door,
Run down the street and mount the hill Just as the corn appears. I’ve seen it rise at certain times For years and years and years.
***
«The Phantom Horsewoman» by Thomas Hardy
Queer are the ways of a man I know: He comes and stands In a careworn craze, And looks at the sands And in the seaward haze With moveless hands And face and gaze, Then turns to go… And what does he see when he gazes so?
They say he sees as an instant thing More clear than today, A sweet soft scene That once was in play By that briny green; Yes, notes alway Warm, real, and keen, What his back years bring- A phantom of his own figuring.
Of this vision of his they might say more: Not only there Does he see this sight, But everywhere In his brain-day, night, As if on the air It were drawn rose bright- Yea, far from that shore Does he carry this vision of heretofore:
A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried, He withers daily, Time touches her not, But she still rides gaily In his rapt thought On that shagged and shaly Atlantic spot, And as when first eyed Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide.
***
«The Undertaker’s Horse» by Rudyard Kipling
The eldest son bestrides him, And the pretty daughter rides him, And I meet him oft o’ mornings on the Course; And there kindles in my bosom An emotion chill and gruesome As I canter past the Undertaker’s Horse.
Neither shies he nor is restive, But a hideously suggestive Trot, professional and placid, he affects; And the cadence of his hoof-beats To my mind this grim reproof beats: — “Mend your pace, my friend, I’m coming. Who’s the next?”
Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen, I have watched the strongest go — men Of pith and might and muscle — at your heels, Down the plantain-bordered highway, (Heaven send it ne’er be my way!) In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.
Answer, sombre beast and dreary, Where is Brown, the young, the cheery, Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force? You were at that last dread dak We must cover at a walk, Bring them back to me, O Undertaker’s Horse!
With your mane unhogged and flowing, And your curious way of going, And that businesslike black crimping of your tail, E’en with Beauty on your back, Sir, Pacing as a lady’s hack, Sir, What wonder when I meet you I turn pale?
It may be you wait your time, Beast, Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast — Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the glass — Follow after with the others, Where some dusky heathen smothers Us with marigolds in lieu of English grass.
Or, perchance, in years to follow, I shall watch your plump sides hollow, See Carnifex (gone lame) become a corse — See old age at last o’erpower you, And the Station Pack devour you, I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker’s Horse!
But to insult, jibe, and quest, I’ve Still the hideously suggestive Trot that hammers out the unrelenting text, And I hear it hard behind me In what place soe’er I find me: — “‘Sure to catch you sooner or later. Who’s the next?”
***
«Waterin’ Th’ Horses» by Margaret E. Sangster
I took th’ horses to th’ brook—to water ’em you know, Th’ air was cold with just a touch o’ frost; And as we went a-joggin’ down I couldn’t help but think, O’ city folk an’ all the things they lost.
O’ cause they have their lighted streets—their Great White Way an’ such, O’ course they have their buildings large an’ tall; But, my! they never know th’ joy o’ ridin’ ter th’ brook, An’ somehow I don’t envy ’em at all!
Perhaps I’d like it—for awhile—to hear th’ songs an’ laughter, But somehow, I don’t know exactly why; I’d feel th’ country callin’ me; I’d long again fer silence, An’ fer God’s mountains, blue against the sky.
I took th’ horses to th’ brook—to water ’em you know, Th’ day was pretty as a day can be; An’ as we went a-joggin’ down I couldn’t help but think, O’ city folk an’ all they never see!
***
«White Horses» by Rudyard Kipling
Where run your colts at pasture? Where hide your mares to breed? ‘Mid bergs about the Ice-cap Or wove Sargasso weed; By chartless reef and channel, Or crafty coastwise bars, But most the ocean-meadows All purple to the stars!
Who holds the rein upon you? The latest gale let free. What meat is in your mangers? The glut of all the sea. ‘Twixt tide and tide’s returning Great store of newly dead, — The bones of those that faced us, And the hearts of those that fled. Afar, off-shore and single, Some stallion, rearing swift, Neighs hungry for new fodder, And calls us to the drift: Then down the cloven ridges — A million hooves unshod — Break forth the mad White Horses To seek their meat from God!
Girth-deep in hissing water Our furious vanguard strains — Through mist of mighty tramplings Roll up the fore-blown manes — A hundred leagues to leeward, Ere yet the deep is stirred, The groaning rollers carry The coming of the herd!
Whose hand may grip your nostrils — Your forelock who may hold? E’en they that use the broads with us — The riders bred and bold, That spy upon our matings, That rope us where we run — They know the strong White Horses From father unto son.
We breathe about their cradles, We race their babes ashore, We snuff against their thresholds, We nuzzle at their door; By day with stamping squadrons, By night in whinnying droves, Creep up the wise White Horses, To call them from their loves.
And come they for your calling? No wit of man may save. They hear the loosed White Horses Above their fathers’ grave; And, kin of those we crippled, And, sons of those we slew, Spur down the wild white riders To school the herds anew.
What service have ye paid them, Oh jealous steeds and strong? Save we that throw their weaklings, Is none dare work them wrong; While thick around the homestead Our snow-backed leaders graze — A guard behind their plunder, And a veil before their ways.
With march and countermarchings — With weight of wheeling hosts — Stray mob or bands embattled — We ring the chosen coasts: And, careless of our clamour That bids the stranger fly, At peace with our pickets The wild white riders lie.
Trust ye that curdled hollows — Trust ye the neighing wind — Trust ye the moaning groundswell — Our herds are close behind! To bray your foeman’s armies — To chill and snap his sword — Trust ye the wild White Horses, The Horses of the Lord!
***
«Wild Horse of the Prairies» by Isaac McLellan
For other scenes their lights expand, Out in the savage western land, Where wildernesses lone and grand, Their awful glooms extend; Far where the Rocky Mounts upthrow Their pinnacles of rock and snow, White cones, whereon the sunset’s glow, Its roseate hues doth blend.
Around them, woods primeval press, Around them, pastures measureless, Waved by the idle wind’s caress, Reach th’ horizon’s edge. In dark ravine and gulch the bear And tiger-cat have made their lair, The bison range the meadows there, To browse the bending sedge. O’er open plain, in leafy dell, In hollow vale, on upland swell, The wild steeds of the prairies dwell, Free as the mountain wind; No iron bit or curb have they, No galling spur, no trappings gay, No rider to control their way, Their untam’d limbs to bind. Free as the eagle cleaves through space, They curvet or they join in race, Fleeter than wild beasts of the chase, A vast unnumbered throng; They crop the dewy grass at will, In ice cold waters drink their fill, Scour the wild plain or sweep the hill, Unscarr’d by whip or thong. Yet comes at times a yelling crew, The savage with his wild halloo, The painted Blackfoot or Sioux, All greedy for the spoil; It were a thrilling sight to see Those lawless riders fierce and free, Each swinging with a madden’d glee, The lariat’s twisting coil. On, on the frantic horsemen sweep, On, on the snorting wild steeds leap, Down flowery slope, o’er wooded steep, Pursuers and pursued; Then far th’ unerring noose is thrown, The stately bay or lusty roan Fall captive, panting, with a groan, All vanquish’d and subdued.
***
«Winter Evening» by Archibald Lampman
To-night the very horses springing by Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream The streets that narrow to the westward gleam Like rows of golden palaces; and high From all the crowded chimneys tower and die A thousand aureoles. Down in the west The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest, One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly The glorious vision, and the hours shall feel A mightier master; soon from height to height, With silence and the sharp unpitying stars, Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel, Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars, Glittering and still shall come the awful night.
A caterpillar walks in beauty through the sunshine and the rain, leaving sweet memories to ease away the pain.
In time her image changes, and yet her soul remains the same, returning to the heavens from that in which she came.
A butterfly of beauty, dancing upon the reef, softly whispers to me, comforts me in grief.
Do not cry for me. Together we are one. My love for you shines brighter than the ever glowing sun.
Her beauty, the brightest colors, gentle touch of love, fluttering wings casting light, shining through the clouds above.
A caterpillar walked in beauty; a gentle soul was she. Alas, she is now a butterfly. Yet she’ll always be Grandma to me.
***
«A Sacred Spot» by William Hunter
There is a spot to me more dear Than native vale or mountain, A spot for which affection’s tear Springs grateful from its fountain. ‘Tis not where kindred souls abound, Though that is almost heaven; But where I first my Savior found And felt my sins forgiven.
Hard was my toil to reach the shore, Long tossed upon the ocean; Above me was the thunder’s roar, Beneath the wave’s commotion; Darkly the pall of night was thrown Around me, faint with terror; In that dark hour how did my groans Ascend for years of error!
Fainting and panting as for breath I knew not help was near me; I cried, “Oh, save me, Lord, from death! Immortal Jesus, hear me!” Then quick as thought I felt him mine; My Savior stood before me; I saw his brightness round me shine, And shouted, “Glory! Glory!”
O sacred hour! O hallowed spot! Where love divine first found me. Wherever falls my distant lot, My heart still lingers round thee; And when from earth I rise to soar Up to my home in heaven, Down will I cast my eyes once more Where I was first forgiven.
***
«A Sunset Thought Of Heaven» by M. J. E. Crawford
If brighter than that gorgeous cloud The golden gates of heaven shine, Scarce could I shrink from Death’s pale shroud Or dread his cold lips pressed to mine, So I might soar away to see The home of rest prepared for me.
Far sweeter than the richest notes On earth to cheer our spirits given, Must be the ceaseless hymn which floats From angels’ golden harps in heaven; And who would wish to linger long From that blessed land of holy song?
Far stronger than the dearest ties Which hold our yearning hearts below Is that pure love which bids us rise The perfect will of God to know; And can the soul contented rest Away from him who loves us best?
***
«An Appeal To The Blind» by Maria J Dodge
Come, all ye afflicted, and listen to me: With the eyes of faith every one can see; To the voice of your conscience your ear shall attend, And the praise of your heart unto Heaven ascend.
Then keep yourselves gentle, pleasant, and neat, With a smile on your faces, both cheerful and sweet; The seeds of His Kingdom are in your hearts sown; Your eyes shall be opened before His Throne.
Ah, then you shall see His glorious face. When you stand before the throne of grace; Your lips shall sing praises, sweet and clear, And your ears the music of Heaven shall hear.
***
«Angel In Disguise» by Jennifer Rasmussen
The other day I met an angel And when I looked into her eyes I saw a love to pierce the darkness I saw that hate she truly despised
I saw the comfort and compassion When I was broken or would cry She’d embrace me into her arms And sing to me a lullaby
The words so inspirational I’d close my eyes and dream The melody so graceful I was hearing Heaven sing
She taught me many lessons About how to live my life Pleasingly towards Jesus Loving daughter, mother, wife
She taught me ways of wisdom To always speak the truth She taught me the books of the Bible Joshua, Judges, Ruth
Together we play for hours Trains, house, and dolls But soon the sky darkens The sun begins to fall
I look in dismay at the night sky Then back to my angel friend I knew she would be leaving It was time for goodbyes; this was the end
The angel smiled brightly Then revealed her disguise I stood in amazement I gazed into her eyes
Her face brightly glowing Her hair fell down in curls She smiled at me so brightly Wearing a necklace of pearls
We stood staring at each other Then I would realize That there stood my mother Angel in disguise
***
«Be Still, My Soul, Be Still» by Alfred Edward Housman
Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong. Think rather,– call to thought, if now you grieve a little, The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.
Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn; Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry: Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.
Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason, I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun. Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.
Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation; All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain: Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation– Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?
***
«Better Than Gold» by Alex Smart
Better than grandeur, better than gold, Than rank or titles a hundred-fold, Is a healthy body, a mind at ease, And simple pleasures that always please. A heart that can feel for a neighbor’s woe, And share his joy with a friendly glow, With sympathies large enough to infold All men as brothers, is better than gold.
Better than gold is the sweet repose Of the sons of toil when their labors close; Better than gold is the poor man’s sleep, And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep. Better than gold is a thinking mind That in realms of thought and books can find A treasure surpassing Australian ore, And live with the great and good of yore.
Better than gold is a peaceful home, Where all the fireside charities come; The shrine of love and the haven of life, Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. However humble that home may be, Or tried with sorrows by Heaven’s decree, The blessings that never were bought or sold, And centre there, are better than gold.
Better than gold in affliction’s hour Is the balm of love with its soothing power; Better than gold on a dying bed Is the hand that pillows the sinking head. When the pride and glory of life decay, And earth and its vanities fade away, The prostrate sufferer needs not to be told That trust in Heaven is better than gold.
***
«Beyond» by Henry Burton
Never a word is said But it trembles in the air, And the truant voice has sped To vibrate everywhere; And perhaps far off in eternal years The echo may ring upon our ears.
Never are kind acts done To wipe the weeping eyes, But like flashes of the sun They signal to the skies; And up above the angels read How we have helped the sorer need.
Never a day is given, But it tones the after years, And it carries up to heaven Its sunshine or its tears; While the to-morrows stand and wait, — The silent mutes by the outer gate.
There is no end to the sky, And the stars are everywhere, And time is eternity, And the here is over there; For the common deeds of the common day Are ringing bells in the far away.
***
«Birthdays In Heaven» by Elaine P. Keefe
There are no birthdays in heaven, For time has no meaning there. Today is the future as well as the past. A day is the same as a year.
There is no age in heaven, For souls are not physical things. A babe shares the wisdom of the old; The old the fresh outlook youth brings.
There is no heartbreak in heaven, For the heart is meant to be shared. A golden thread joins to the soul The hearts of all who have cared.
There is no sadness in heaven, For love and peace abound. We here on earth cannot understand The joy we have not yet found.
There are no farewells in heaven, Or mountains of grief to climb; For those who reside there know the truth. Life is but a moment in time.
***
«Child Of Mine» by Theresa Cassidy
He’s walking towards me surrounded by light I can’t believe this miraculous sight It can’t be him, I know he is dead But as I look towards him, he’s shaking his head
I did not die, I am still here Look into your heart, I’ve always been near My body died, yes, but not my soul You never had to let me go
Speak my name, talk to me It really is simple if you believe My spirit is here, I’m still around My love for you can still be found
Don’t weep for me, shed no more tears Remember the good times over the years Our time together did not end One day we’ll be together again
Whenever you’re lonely or feeling sad Look back on the wonderful years that we had One day God will call you, and bring you home You’ll be right here with me, where you belong
Until that time comes, live your life well I will be here for you, if you need my help Be happy, be gracious, be loving and kind Please know I’m still with you, child of mine.
***
«Don’t Cry For Me» by Deborah Garcia Gaitan
Don’t cry for me. I will be okay. Heaven is my home now, and this is where I’ll stay.
Don’t cry for me. I’m where I belong. I want you to be happy and try to stay strong.
Don’t cry for me. It was just my time, but I will see you someday on the other side.
Don’t cry for me. I am not alone. The angels are with me to welcome me home.
Don’t cry for me, for I have no fear. All my pain is gone, and Jesus took my tears.
Don’t cry for me. This is not the end. I’ll be waiting here for you when we meet again.
***
«Eternal Tomorrows» by Patricia L. Cisco
Life is full of joy and sorrow, past, present, and tomorrow. Knowing life as I do now, I still have questions of why and how.
I can’t remember my very first cry; will I have any memories after I die? I’d like to believe we’re all here for good reason, and life upon earth is but for a season,
with hopes we long continue on in a much better place after we’ve gone, pondering how very sad it would be if after I die there was nothing of me.
Even so much sadder than this are those loved ones I love and a very last kiss! I can’t imagine how love ever dies the last time that we close our eyes.
There’s something deep inside my being that promises much more than just our seeing! To me there’s only one conclusion. Heaven is real; it’s not a delusion.
Love must be the everlasting key that transcends our souls to eternity. Since our time on earth has been season to season, why wouldn’t God continue His reason?
This heavenly place must truly exist, filled with souls we’ve deeply missed, No more pain, tears, or sorrows. Only loved-filled, joyful eternal tomorrows!
***
«Finding Blessings» by Greta Zwaan
I want to be a tool in the hands of the Master, I want to serve where e’er He desires. I want to be pliable, ready for action, Draw others to Him as the Spirit inspires.
I receive blessings, more than abundant, I have so much to be thankful for; I want to repay some of God’s goodness, My great Creator whom I adore.
What can I offer? How can I please Him? What can I bring that will cause Him delight? He is the owner of all my possessions, He is the ruler o’er the day and the night.
He has no need of whatever I bring Him, All of my possessions He already claims. It’s my submission in line with His guidance, Walking the walk as He constantly trains.
Daily preparing my journey to heaven, Closely observing the road I must take, Vigilant, wary, always responding, Cautiously searching, alert for my sake.
All He desires is my perseverance, Total submission to what He requests, Fully subjected to His complete guidance, My faith will grow strong, I’ll be richly blessed.
***
«God’s Little Star» by Bettina Van Vaerenbergh
God had been missing You for so long; He wanted you with Him, Where you belong.
He opened His arms And whispered: “It’s time. Come, dear little soul, I’ll make you all mine.
You’ve run your race, Did all you had to do. Come to Me, I have a place – Especially for you.
From your labors you may Rest forevermore. No heartache, no tears, No pain anymore.
My angels will carry you; Heaven’s not that far; And for all eternity – You’ll be my shining little star.”
***
«Going to Heaven!» by Emily Dickinson
Going to Heaven! I don’t know when — Pray do not ask me how! Indeed I’m too astonished To think of answering you! Going to Heaven! How dim it sounds! And yet it will be done As sure as flocks go home at night Unto the Shepherd’s arm!
Perhaps you’re going too! Who knows? If you should get there first Save just a little space for me Close to the two I lost — The smallest “Robe” will fit me And just a bit of “Crown” — For you know we do not mind our dress When we are going home —
I’m glad I don’t believe it For it would stop my breath — And I’d like to look a little more At such a curious Earth! I’m glad they did believe it Whom I have never found Since the might Autumn afternoon I left them in the ground.
***
«Hall Of Universal Peace» by Dr. Tulsi Hanumanthu
This midnight bids farewell to parting year Who then, on chariot Time, his seat vacates. The New Year succeeds him as Charioteer: To drive us on, he’s waiting at our gates.
But OURS the choice of paths and destinations: The Charioteer obeys but our instructions. We must, to reach the most coveted station Of PEACE, choose well-lit roads sans obstructions.
Such routes are those of Friendship, Love, Compassion, Justice, Pardon, Truth and Selflessness. The dingy lanes of Greed, Envy, Passion, And Conflict lead to woe and sleeplessness.
Let’s ask the New Year, within time minimal To drive us to a common rendezvous. Let’s there construct the Hall of Universal Peace, each person laying a brick or two.
Let it have Equality-spelling shape – The rotund one that God has given the world. Its doors with COLOURLESS curtains let us drape And let a HUELESS flag be unfurled.
Every year, let’s add a storey more; Let its height increase step by step Till, at last, the threshold of its door Is face to face with our Heaven’s doorstep.
This Heaven-on-Earth – man’s own creation – Who helps to build of his own volition, Won’t he find, after life’s duration, Into Heaven above sure admission?
***
«Happy Heavenly Birthday» by Jodi M. Kucera
No presents bought, no candles blown; this year you walk on streets of gold, And it’s so much more than the stories you’ve been told. The sun is shining on your face, and you’re standing in all of God’s good grace.
There were people there to meet you at that pearly gate. Promise for me there too you will wait. The angels no longer sing from up above; but hand in hand together, you sing about God’s love.
No more pain, no more strife, but the gift of eternal life. The sufferings of this world are left behind. You made your mark; your life was not left undefined.
You told people of your Savior’s love and how he died for you and me so we could spend our time praising him for all eternity. Someday we’ll meet again, for time is just a vapor in the wind.
But until that day comes, I will miss you every day. I just wanted to wish you a happy heavenly birthday.
***
«Heaven» by Daniel C. Colesworthy
There is a glorious land afar, Beyond the brightest burning star, Where peace interminably reigns; Where soft and balmy breezes blow, And golden rivers gently flow, And gladness smiles o’er all the plains.
No groveling thought, no treacherous smile, No word unkind, no act of guile, Will e’er disturb the sacred rest: On every peaceful brow will shine A living beauty all divine, And love pervade the sinless breast.
The ills of life, that hover o’er Our sunniest path, are felt no more; The cares of earth, a dismal train, That follow every step we take, Will there the happy soul forsake, And not molest her peace again.
At evening, when I sink to rest, I dream of heaven, the land so blest, And list to hear the rapturous song. glorious land! I would I were In yon pure clime a worshipper, Amid the bright and sinless throng!
***
«Heaven Holds All To Me» by Tillitt S. Teddlie
Earth holds no treasures but perish with using, However precious they be; Yet there’s a country to which I am going, Heaven holds all to me.
Out on the hill of that wonderful country, Happy, contented and free, Loved ones are waiting and watching my coming, Heaven holds all to me.
Why should I long for the world and its sorrows, When in that home o’er the sea, Millions are singing the wonderful story, Heaven holds all to me.
***
«Her Home In Heaven» by Malcolm D Warren
When God reached down And collected her soul She reached up knowing She had to go
Slipping away peacefully Her body remained One final look back She smiled
Reaching home again A place she’d forgot Past memories came flooding With splendor and awe
God gave back sights We cannot imagine She finally found Her home in heaven
We remember her daily She does the same We love her always It will never change
When it’s my time to go There is one thing I know That she will be smiling All the way home
***
«How Can I Say Goodbye?» by Brinda Carter
Mom, it’s been over a year now since God and His angels called you away. Oh, how the angels rejoiced as you walked Through those pearly gates that day!
Mom, when they said you were going to die I refused to believe it could be true. How could I allow myself to even Imagine saying goodbye to you?
Mom, you were an angel here on earth, I learned so very much from you. You were so gentle and so kind; your Smile would always see me through.
You taught me how to love unconditionally And how to be my very best in all I do. You gave your all to God and your family, Never once stopping to think about you.
You were more than a mother. You were my Best friend and a great listener, too. Oh, how I miss our special talks and All the fun things we used to do.
Mom, I can never say goodbye to you, Because I could never bear the pain. Instead, I say I love you, Mom; Until we meet again.
***
«If You See My Dad In Heaven» by Jac Judy A. Campbell
If you see my dad in Heaven He won’t be hard to find. He’ll be the one to greet you first, For he’s a one-of-a-kind.
He’ll be the one with the softest voice, A veteran’s cap upon his head, Or he’s probably in God’s beautiful Garden, with a shovel in his hand.
He’ll be watching the pretty hummingbirds, A warm smile upon his face, And as he leaves to go about, he’ll Be walking with strength and grace.
He’ll sit among the story tellers, For that’s what he does best. He will tell about his life on earth Before he was called to rest.
He’s with his Mom and Dad now, Embracing them tenderly. Never no longer to miss them or Wonder where they might be.
He may be playing with the children, And there sits one upon his knee Laughing and singing the games of fun, Clapping hands so joyfully.
Now if you haven’t found my Dad yet, He’s probably kneeling by the throne, Surrounded by God’s angels, Praying for his loved ones below.
He wasn’t famous in this world Nor did any heroic deeds. He was a strong, hard-working man, Taking care of those in need.
For you see, he was my hero, Bigger than big to me. He taught me all a son should know And about the love God has for me.
So if you see my Dad in heaven, Tell him I’m doing fine. Let him know how much I miss him, And I think of him most of the time.
You know he was my hero, So will you give him a hug or two? Tell him how much I love him and I’ll be seeing him someday soon.
***
«Joys Of Heaven» by Nancy W. Priest
Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies, Beyond Death’s cloudy portal, There is a land where beauty never dies And love becomes immortal;
A land whose light is never dimmed by shade, Whose fields are ever vernal, Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, But blooms for aye eternal.
We may not know how sweet its balmy air, How bright and fair its flowers; We may not hear the songs that echo there, Through those enchanted bowers;
The city’s shining towers we may not see With our dim earthly vision, For death, the silent warder, keeps the key That open those gates elysian;
But sometimes, where adown the western sky The fiery sunset lingers, Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, Unlocked by silent fingers;
And while they stand a moment half ajar, Gleams from the inner glory Stream lightly through the azure vault afar, And half reveal the story.
Oh, land unknown! Oh, land of love divine! Father all-wise, eternal, Guide, guide, these wandering, way-worn feet of mine Unto those pastures vernal.
***
«Juggler» by Richard Wilbur
A ball will bounce; but less and less. It’s not A light-hearted thing, resents its own resilience. Falling is what it loves, and the earth falls So in our hearts from brilliance, Settles and is forgot. It takes a sky-blue juggler with five red balls
To shake our gravity up. Whee, in the air The balls roll around, wheel on his wheeling hands, Learning the ways of lightness, alter to spheres Grazing his finger ends, Cling to their courses there, Swinging a small heaven about his ears.
But a heaven is easier made of nothing at all Than the earth regained, and still and sole within The spin of worlds, with a gesture sure and noble He reels that heaven in, Landing it ball by ball, And trades it all for a broom, a plate, a table.
Oh, on his toe the table is turning, the broom’s Balancing up on his nose, and the plate whirls On the tip of the broom! Damn, what a show, we cry: The boys stamp, and the girls Shriek, and the drum booms And all come down, and he bows and says good-bye.
If the juggler is tired now, if the broom stands In the dust again, if the table starts to drop Through the daily dark again, and though the plate Lies flat on the table top, For him we batter our hands Who has won for once over the world’s weight.
***
«Lord, Will You Take Me Home?» by Jac Judy A. Campbell
‘ve loved and worshiped my whole life long, I’ve lent a fair hand now and then. I’ve praised the best, I’ve prayed for the rest. I comfort the lonely once again.
I’ve been strong in my faith, I’ve lived by your word. Lord, I’ve obeyed your commands. Now my body and soul are long overdue, So Lord, will you take me home too?
Lord, you’ve taken home the weak, you’ve taken The strong, you’ve taken the old and the new. You’ve taken the ones that I’ve loved the most. So Lord, will you take me home too?
My dear husband I miss, all my friends have gone on. I’ve noticed you called them home too. There’s no one familiar I see around me, So Lord, will you take me home too?
Don’t leave me behind in this crazy old world. I’m not wanting to stay here alone. I’ve prepared myself to meet you real soon, So Lord, will you take me home to.
As the twilight fell on the new crispy morn, She grew still with a small peaceful smile. My prayers have been answered and it’s not too soon. My Lord is taking me home too.
***
«Love’s Philosophy» by Percy Bysshe Shelley
The fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean; The winds of heaven mix forever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In another’s being mingle- Why not I with thine?
See, the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower could be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea; – What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?
***
«Men Are Heaven’s Piers» by Robert Louis Stevenson
MEN are Heaven’s piers; they evermore Unwearying bear the skyey floor; Man’s theatre they bear with ease, Unfrowning cariatides! I, for my wife, the sun uphold, Or, dozing, strike the seasons cold. She, on her side, in fairy-wise Deals in diviner mysteries, By spells to make the fuel burn And keep the parlour warm, to turn Water to wine, and stones to bread, By her unconquered hero-head. A naked Adam, naked Eve, Alone the primal bower we weave; Sequestered in the seas of life, A Crusoe couple, man and wife, With all our good, with all our will, Our unfrequented isle we fill; And victor in day’s petty wars, Each for the other lights the stars. Come then, my Eve, and to and fro Let us about our garden go; And, grateful-hearted, hand in hand Revisit all our tillage land, And marvel at our strange estate, For hooded ruin at the gate Sits watchful, and the angels fear To see us tread so boldly here. Meanwhile, my Eve, with flower and grass Our perishable days we pass; Far more the thorn observe – and see How our enormous sins go free – Nor less admire, beside the rose, How far a little virtue goes.
***
«Preparing For Heaven» by Greta Zwaan
The knob on the door to heaven extends to one side alone, It’s a place of great exaltation with God seated on the throne. No need for a knob on the inside, it’s a home where all long to go, Where great joys are never ending and praises ring to and fro.
The key that lets one enter cannot be bought with gold, No funds or jewels or empires; this key will not be sold. No power, prestige or position, not tittles or honour or fame, It’s the wonderful gift of salvation, purchased with love in Christ’s name.
It’s the sacrifice humans can’t offer, no commitment we make can atone; For sin has tainted our image, it’s Jesus whose holy, alone. And through God’s great act of mercy, forgiving our failures and sin, Can we pass through that door of salvation, Through Christ we’re allowed to come in.
Be assured there’s no other entrance, though many have tried on their own, The efforts of man are all futile, as Scripture so clearly has shown. The call to the lost is, “Come hither, earthly belongings are vain,” Rise to the plea that’s extended, it may not be offered again.
Many are those who will falter, leaving their fate to the last, Forgetting that time’s of the essence, the dye to their future is cast. Show God that you are responding, cast aside all your earthly cares, Prepare for your journey to heaven where all of Christ’s blessings you’ll share.
***
«Present Salvation» by Georgia C. Elliott
Is it just the hope of heaven When this troubled life is o’er, And the thought that there’s a mansion Waiting on the other shore?
Is it just the hope of being Some day pure and white within, And that when across the river, We shall then be free from sin?
Is it just the hope of having Peace and gladness by and by? Though on earth are sighs and sorrows, All is glorious in the sky?
No! the hope I have now gives me Joy and peace beyond compare, And my blessed Lord has taken, All my trials and my care.
Oh! the precious hope we harbor Is an anchor to the soul; Never need the heart be troubled, Though the raging waters roll.
No, we need not cross the river Ere our dark forebodings cease; For just now my heart’s o’erflowing With, a stream of perfect peace.
***
«Rest In Heaven» by Emma V. Sweeten
There are no weary hearts in Heaven, No tired, aching feet But joys and smiles innumerable, As saints each other greet.
When in the new Jerusalem, We’ll walk the golden street, And sing the praises of our Lord, Or sit at Jesus’ feet.
The storms of life which o’er us rise, And darken all our way, Will not be felt beyond the skies, For there ’tis always day.
There in our Father’s home above, The dwelling of the blest, We’ll meet with loved ones ’round the throne, And there forever rest,
A rest from sin, a rest from toil, From suffering and pain; No earthly cares our bliss can mar, We’ll not return again.
Toil on, toil on, ye weary ones, With grief and sorrow pressed, ‘Tis but a little while below, Then joy and endless rest.
***
«Safe» by Kris Barry
I thought you were gone Until deep in my sleep God brought you back And made my heart leap.
I thought you were gone As I cried through the day But God then reminded He had more to say:
I gave my own Son To die on the cross To pay for all debts Of sinners once lost.
That guilt that you feel Is only a trick Of Satan the devil Who beats with a stick.
No need to fear He has no real power Your son is with me Safe in my tower!
***
«The Church Steps» by George T. Foster
Two centuries of steps and then A field of graves! With many a sculptured tale of men Lost in the waves.
You climb and climb, with here and there A seat for breath, To find amid the loftier air A realm of death.
And thus it is with human life Men toil to rise, And lo! above the strain and strife A graveyard lies.
Two centuries of steps, and then Amid the graves A holy house that tells to men Of Him that saves.
O weary men, and women worn, That there have found And find bright hints of heavenly morn On earthly ground!
And so atop the steps of time, If climbed aright, Heaven’s glad and everlasting clime, And home of light.
***
«The Evergreen Mountains Of Life» by James G. Clark
There’s a land far away mid the stars, we are told, Where they know not the sorrows of time; Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold And life is a treasure sublime. ‘Tis the land of our God, ’tis the home of the soul, Where ages of splendor eternally roll, Where the way- weary traveler reaches the goal On the evergreen mountains of life.
Our gaze can not soar to that heavenly land, But our visions have told of its bliss; And our souls by the breeze from its gardens are fanned, When we faint in the deserts of this; And we sometimes have longed for its holy repose, When our spirits are torn with temptations and woes; And we’ve drunk from the tide of the river that flows From the evergreen mountains of life.
Oh, the stars never tread the blue heavens But we think where the ransomed have trod, And the day never smiles from its palace of light But we feel the bright smile of our God. We are traveling homeward through changes and gloom To a kingdom where pleasures unchangingly bloom, And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb From the evergreen mountains of life
***
«The Heavenly City» by Belle Staples
By faith I look beyond the skies And catch a glimpse of paradise; I see the city, bright and fair, With jasper walls and jewels rare, With pearly gates and streets of gold; Its glory never can be told.
It needeth not the sun’s clear light; ‘Tis always day, there is no night; The Lamb of God, the spotless One, Doth take the place of moon and sun; His glory fills that holy place; His loved ones see him face to face.
The nations of the saved are there. Without a sorrow, pain, or care; God lives and moves among his own; They bow in rapture at his throne; He brushes all their tears away; Oh, rapturous hour! Oh, glorious day!
By faith I see the mansions fair, The fadeless crowns the faithful wear, The living fountains sparkling bright. The saints and angels clothed in white. My soul enraptured longs to rise And join the hosts of paradise.
While gazing- at that happy throng, I catch a strain of the glad, new song – “Unto him that washed us in his blood And hath made us kings and priests to God, To him be glory, honor, praise Throughout eternal, endless days.”
Oh, how the heavenly arches ring With the song the angels can not sing! They fold their wings and long to see Into the marvelous mystery Of sinners washed in Jesus’ blood – Redeemed from sin, brought back to God.
***
«The Heavenly Hills of Holland» by Henry Van Dyke
The heavenly hills of Holland,– How wondrously they rise Above the smooth green pastures Into the azure skies! With blue and purple hollows, With peaks of dazzling snow, Along the far horizon The clouds are marching slow.
No mortal foot has trodden The summits of that range, Nor walked those mystic valleys Whose colors ever change; Yet we possess their beauty, And visit them in dreams, While the ruddy gold of sunset From cliff and canyon gleams.
In days of cloudless weather They melt into the light; When fog and mist surround us They’re hidden from our sight; But when returns a season Clear shining after rain, While the northwest wind is blowing, We see the hills again.
The old Dutch painters loved them, Their pictures show them clear, Old Hobbema and Ruysdael, Van Goyen and Vermeer. Above the level landscape, Rich polders, long-armed mills, Canals and ancient cities,– Float Holland’s heavenly hills.
***
«We Build The Ladder» by J. G. Holland
Heaven is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth, to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.
I count this thing to be grandly true: That a noble deed is a step toward God, Lifting the soul from the common clod To a purer air and a broader view.
We rise by the things that are under feet; By what we have mastered of good and gain; By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.
We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, When the morning calls us to life and light, But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.
We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, And we think that we mount the air on wings Beyond the recall of sensual things, While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.
Wings for the angels, but feet for men! We may borrow the wings to find the way— We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray; But our feet must rise, or we fall again.
Only in dreams is a ladder thrown From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.
Heaven is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth, to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit, round by round.
***
«We’ll Understand» by Maxwell N. Cornelius
Not now, but in the coming years, It may be in the better land, We’ll read the meaning of our tears, And there, sometime, we’ll understand.
“We’ll catch the broken thread again, And finish what we here began; Heaven will mysteries explain, And then, ah, then, we’ll understand.
We’ll know why clouds instead of sun Were over many a cherished plan, Why song has ceased when scarce begun; ‘Tis there, sometime, we’ll understand.
Why what we long for most of all, Eludes so oft our eager hand; Why hopes are crushed and castles fall, – Up there, sometime, we’ll understand.
God knows the way, he holds the key, He guides us with unerring hand; Sometime with tearless eyes we’ll see; ‘Tis, there, up there, we’ll understand.
Then, trust in God through all thy days; Fear not, for he doth hold thy hand; Though dark thy way, still sing and praise: Sometime, sometime, we’ll understand.
***
«You Are Never Alone» by Susan C Walkinshaw-Kelly
I open my eyes to a light so bright… Where I’m surrounded by colours, an amazing sight, And a beautiful Angel holds me in her arms. I feel safe and happy, contented and calm.
“I’m so joyful to see you, now you’ve come home. Please don’t be afraid for you’re never alone. You are supported by angels in this heaven above, Each one with open arms and bundles of love.
Maybe you think you’ve come home too soon, But it was in your plan, for you have lots to do. Now you’ve returned to renew your task. Allow me to guide you, that’s all I ask.
You never need miss those you left behind, For you are able to visit, just open your mind. They may not hear you or see you close by, But you will be there with every tear that they cry.
You can go where you chose; you don’t need to walk. Just think yourself there, you’ll arrive in a thought. You’ll never get weary, grow old or feel pain. You can run, jump and skip, again and again!
Wander freely through fields, with animals galore, Yes even lions, stroke their mane, they won’t roar. Every bird that you see will come sit on your hand. You can pet them all freely; now isn’t that grand?
You may pick all the flowers your arms can hold, Our blooms live forever; they never grow old; Just bend down and listen to their music so sweet. They sing as you nudge them with your hands or your feet.
Pick fruit from the trees, enjoy as much as you like. There’s a never-ending supply; go on, take a big bite… Worry not that the juice drips through your fingers. It all returns to source, no mess, nothing lingers.
Now come on, let’s go; there are friends to be found. Just think of your loved ones and they’ll all gather round. They’ve been waiting eagerly for you to return, Excited to hear everything that you’ve learned.”
So it seems we’re all destined for God’s promised land, Where angels gone before us just wait to take our hand. With guidance and with comfort they help us on our way So we can live in peace and love, enjoying every day.
And if you couldn’t walk or talk, or you’d sadly lost your mind, Have no fear, it’s all restored; you leave all that behind. The Lord repairs your body, returning it to new, No sign of any illness, just a happy, healthy you.
I’m seeing so much beauty in this land beyond the veil, Where you suffer no more ailments and all are looking well. Please don’t be sad or grieve for me. I’m never on my own. Just remember I’ll be waiting when it’s your time to come home.
My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water’d shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.
***
«A Life Without Love» by Rachel Fogle
A Sunset without a sun is no sunset at all. A life without love is no life at all. A rainbow without colors is no rainbow at all. And heart without feelings is no human at all.
All these things need something to be, Either a sun or a person or a crayon, If only to create what nature said was meant to be.
A sunset makes us feel as though the world has been born again. A life with love lets us know it’s worth to let someone in. A rainbow with colors thats a moment frozen in time, to be grateful for all that is beautiful and feel all the glory inside. A heart that has feelings, well that would be me. For I love just the thought of you and hope you feel the same for me.
Life without our love, is an emptiness I’m not sure I wish to face. Because I know that time will never be able to erase. I wish our love was as simple as a sunset, ready to be born again. But I know in truth love only comes from within. So I’ll keep watching for my sunset, and looking for that rainbow to shine someday. Then one day maybe our love will find its way again.
***
«After The Rain» by John Carter Brown
A hush had descended, the air was quite still, Nothing was moving beside the old mill; Nature postponed both it’s joys and it’s pain, Holding it’s breath until after the rain.
Waiting for heaven to give up it’s prize Long had creation looked up to the skies, Searching the air for the treasure contained, Soon to be satisfied after the rain.
Pure glistening water now dropped from the sky, Feeding the earth, once so hungry and dry; Soaking and swelling the rivers again, Refreshed and replete now after the rain.
The seasons had ticked with their regular rhythm, The rainbow displayed it’s most colourful prism; The people, like flowers, had come out again, Bathing in sunshine, after the rain.
***
«An Address: To the Rainbow, After a Smart Summer Shower» by Thomas Campbell
Lovely Iris, proudly arching O’er the lately potent storm, On thy top the vapours perching, Yet obscure thy lovely form. See the clouds behind thee hover, Gently drops the falling rain; The prone descending torrent over, Leaves the lately delug’d plain.
Now the sun at even’ descending, Heaves thy towering zenith high, Thy transparent shoulders bending, ‘Neath the burden of the sky. Gilded by thy glowing basis, See the distant mountains shine; From the vale the rustic gazes, At a structure so divine.
Now thy colours how they brighten, Bending o’er the hollow vale, Where the dreary prospects lighten, As the damps again exhale. Light and shade so sweetly blended, Mock the artist’s tissue loom, When the sun with beams extended, Paints thy circle on the gloom.
Say, proud arch—Heaven’s architecture, Built in a celestial taste, Whence thy emblematic structure, Or the end by thee express’d? Auspicious, thou denotes that Heav’n Ne’er will deluge earth again, And this resplendent arch is given, The floating waters off to drain.
***
«April Rain» by Mathilde Blind
The April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers, Then from the furrow shoots the grain, And banks are fledged with nestling flowers; And in grey shaw and woodland bowers The cuckoo through the April rain Calls once again.
The April sun, the April sun, Glints through the rain in fitful splendour, And in grey shaw and woodland dun The little leaves spring forth and tender Their infant hands, yet weak and slender, For warmth towards the April sun, One after one.
And between shower and shine hath birth The rainbow’s evanescent glory; Heaven’s light that breaks on mists of earth! Frail symbol of our human story, It flowers through showers where, looming hoary, The rain-clouds flash with April mirth, Like Life on earth.
***
«Butterfly» by David Herbert Lawrence
Butterfly, the wind blows sea-ward, strong beyond the garden-wall! Butterfly, why do you settle on my shoe, and sip the dirt on my shoe, Lifting your veined wings, lifting them? big white butterfly!
Already it is October, and the wind blows strong to the sea from the hills where snow must have fallen, the wind is polished with snow. Here in the garden, with red geraniums, it is warm, it is warm but the wind blows strong to sea-ward, white butterfly, content on my shoe!
Will you go, will you go from my warm house? Will you climb on your big soft wings, black-dotted, as up an invisible rainbow, an arch till the wind slides you sheer from the arch-crest and in a strange level fluttering you go out to sea-ward, white speck!
***
«Candy Man» by Roald Dahl
Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew Cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two The candy man, the candy man can The candy man can ’cause he mixes it with love And makes the world taste good
Who can take a rainbow, wrap it in a sigh Soak it in the sun and make a strawberry–lemon pie The candy man? The candy man, the candy man can The candy man can ’cause he mixes it with love And makes the world taste good
Willy Wonka makes everything he bakes Satisfying and delicious Talk about your childhood wishes You can even eat the dishes
Who can take tomorrow, dip it in a dream Separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream The candy man, Willy Wonka can, the candy man can The candy man can ’cause he mixes it with love And makes the world taste good
And the world tastes good’ Cause the candy man thinks it should
***
«Cascade» by Robert Desnos
What sort of arrow split the sky and this rock? It’s quivering, spreading like a peacock’s fan Like the mist around the shaft and knot less feathers Of a comet come to nest at midnight.
How blood surges from the gaping wound, Lips already silencing murmur and cry. One solemn finger holds back time, confusing The witness of the eyes where the deed is written.
Silence? We still know the passwords. Lost sentinels far from the watch fires We smell the odor of honeysuckle and surf Rising in the dark shadows.
Distance, let dawn leap the void at last, And a single beam of light make a rainbow on the water Its quiver full of reeds, Sign of the return of archers and patriotic songs.
***
«Casual Replies» by Sarah Persson
All I see is distance, With no spaces inbetween, A rock without a resting place, A deadly fall without the scream.
No light within the darkened sky, No echo when I call, Stranded, lost, in sinking sand, No rainbow after rain fall.
A love lost, both with broken hearts, No justice in the lies, No comfort from the truth I know, All questions hung with casual replies.
***
«Epitaph For A Darling Lady» by Dorothy Parker
All her hours were yellow sands, Blown in foolish whorls and tassels; Slipping warmly through her hands; Patted into little castles.
Shiny day on shiny day Tumble in a rainbow clutter, As she flipped them all away, Sent them spinning down the gutter.
Leave for her a red young rose, Go your way, and save your pity; She is happy, for she knows That her dust is very pretty.
***
«Grief And Hope, Compared To The Rainbow After A Shower» by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott
A gentle shower of sorrow, Best cultivates the muse; For hope, lights up the morrow, And sheds her joys profuse.
Like clouds before a shower, Our better passions move; The darkest cloud hath power, Our faith and hope to prove.
Our trials teach contrition, We bend beneath the storm; Then wait with sweet submission, The rainbow’s lovely form.
Our tears being now subsided, The flowers of hope will spring; In God, we have confided, And now our joys begin.
The lamp of truth is lighted, To guide our doubtful way; And we are now invited, To wait the sun’s bright ray.
See o’er the hills descending, In majesty and love,— With angels, swift, attending, Our “Peace Branch” from above.
This love, thus comprehending, We see a comely form; ‘Tis Jesus—see him bending,— ‘Tis he that lights the storm.
Like Hermon’s dews reviving, Which fell on Zion’s hill; When grief and hope are striving, Hope sees a rainbow still.
***
«Hope Is A Tattered Flag» by Carl Sandburg
Hope is a tattered flag and a dream of time. Hope is a heartspun word, the rainbow, the shadblow in white The evening star inviolable over the coal mines, The shimmer of northern lights across a bitter winter night, The blue hills beyond the smoke of the steel works, The birds who go on singing to their mates in peace, war, peace, The ten-cent crocus bulb blooming in a used-car salesroom, The horseshoe over the door, the luckpiece in the pocket, The kiss and the comforting laugh and resolve— Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder. The spring grass showing itself where least expected, The rolling fluff of white clouds on a changeable sky, The broadcast of strings from Japan, bells from Moscow, Of the voice of the prime minister of Sweden carried Across the sea in behalf of a world family of nations And children singing chorals of the Christ child And Bach being broadcast from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania And tall skyscrapers practically empty of tenants And the hands of strong men groping for handholds And the Salvation Army singing God loves us….
***
«Iris By Night» by Robert Frost
One misty evening, one another’s guide, We two were groping down a Malvern side The last wet fields and dripping hedges home. There came a moment of confusing lights, Such as according to belief in Rome Were seen of old at Memphis on the heights Before the fragments of a former sun Could concentrate anew and rise as one. Light was a paste of pigment in our eyes. And then there was a moon and then a scene So watery as to seem submarine; In which we two stood saturated, drowned. The clover-mingled rowan on the ground Had taken all the water it could as dew, And still the air was saturated too, Its airy pressure turned to water weight. Then a small rainbow like a trellis gate, A very small moon-made prismatic bow, Stood closely over us through which to go. And then we were vouchsafed a miracle That never yet to other two befell And I alone of us have lived to tell. A wonder! Bow and rainbow as it bent, Instead of moving with us as we went (To keep the pots of gold from being found), It lifted from its dewy pediment Its two mote-swimming many-colored ends And gathered them together in a ring. And we stood in it softly circled round From all division time or foe can bring In a relation of elected friends.
***
«Love Poem» by Kathleen Jessie Raine
Yours is the face that the earth turns to me, Continuous beyond its human features lie The mountain forms that rest against the sky. With your eyes, the reflecting rainbow, the sun’s light Sees me; forest and flower, bird and beast Know and hold me forever in the world’s thought, Creation’s deep untroubled retrospect.
When your hand touches mine it is the earth That takes me–the green grass, And rocks and rivers; the green graves, And children still unborn, and ancestors, In love passed down from hand to hand from God. Your love comes from the creation of the world, From those paternal fingers, streaming through the clouds That break with light the surface of the sea.
Here, where I trace your body with my hand, Love’s presence has no end; For these, your arms that hold me, are the world’s. In us, the continents, clouds and oceans meet Our arbitrary selves, extensive with the night, Lost, in the heart’s worship, and the body’s sleep.
***
«Mattins» by George Herbert
I cannot ope mine eyes, But thou art ready there to catch My morning-soul and sacrifice: Then we must needs for that day make a match.
My God, what is a heart? Silver, or gold, or precious stone, Or star, or rainbow, or a part Of all these things or all of them in one?
My God, what is a heart? That thou should’st it so eye, and woo, Pouring upon it all thy art, As if that thou hadst nothing else to do?
Indeed man’s whole estate Amounts (and richly) to serve thee: He did not heav’n and earth create, Yet studies them, not him by whom they be.
Teach me thy love to know; That this new light, which now I see, May both the work and workman show: Then by a sun-beam I will climb to thee.
***
«More Colors To The Rainbow» by Hebert Logerie
The rainbow gets better As we add more colors For a more prosperous future As we include more brothers And more sisters this season.
We have every conceivable reason To create a better environment For the entire world to witness That more hope is better than less Under the ever-changing firmament.
The rainbow is more beautiful When there is fairness and justice When the world is wonderful When all the nations are at peace As we use every available reason.
The Rainbow gets better As we add more flavors Where Mother Nature is happier As we add more colors To create a safer environment.
***
«Ode On Melancholy» by John Keats
No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips; Ay, in the very temple of delight Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
***
«On Broadway» by Claude McKay
About me young careless feet Linger along the garish street; Above, a hundred shouting signs Shed down their bright fantastic glow Upon the merry crowd and lines Of moving carriages below. Oh wonderful is Broadway — only My heart, my heart is lonely.
Desire naked, linked with Passion, Goes trutting by in brazen fashion; From playhouse, cabaret and inn The rainbow lights of Broadway blaze All gay without, all glad within; As in a dream I stand and gaze At Broadway, shining Broadway — only My heart, my heart is lonely.
***
«Once Upon A Summer Day» by Joseph T. Renaldi
Once upon a Summer day, Birds chirped in a musical way, Grass drenched in the morning dew, The sky covered in a vast color of blue.
Once upon a summer day, Flowers bloomed in full array, Bright rays of sunlight spilled Upon my garden on the hill.
Once upon a summer day, Thunder rumbled and prolonged its stay, But after the rain tumbled down, This summer day wore a glorious rainbow crown.
***
«Rainbow on the Mountain» by Ruby Archer
See―the Sky has lent her jewel To the Mountain for an hour Has forgotten to be cruel In a kind caprice of power
And the dusky bosom rounding Wears the opals with an air And a fine content abounding In the sense of looking fair.
Now the Sky demands her crescent― Brightest bauble of her store; Slow it fadeth, evanescent, And the Mountain smiles no more.
***
«Raindrops Keep On Falling» by Cheryl Tutaan
It was raining too hard outside, Couldn’t help but think of you; You are the loveliest person ever, That dwells in my heart, taking me out of the blue.
The sound of the rain rhymed sweetly on my ear, I love you Cheryl, as you whispered my name; From you the love I’ve found, striking loudly in my veins, Singing the love song, strumming my heart deep within.
I do love you too, my lips replied; As I succumbed to the chill of the night; The cold breeze filled the air, Touching the pillow case and linen on my cheeks.
Now the rain has stopped. I wish I could see the rainbow outside; But then I startled, It was just a dream beneath the dark sky, I wish I could kiss you, but we’re miles apart.
Tomorrow the sun will shine once again, I will sleep now with a smile on my face; Tomorrow I will bring you the love that you painted, Believe me, I can make it all through the rain.
***
«Songs Of Joy» by William Henry Davies
Sing out, my soul, thy songs of joy; Sing as a happy bird will sing Beneath a rainbow’s lovely arch In the spring.
Think not of death in thy young days; Why shouldst thou that grim tyrant fear? And fear him not when thou art old, And he is near.
Strive not for gold, for greedy fools Measure themselves by poor men never; Their standard still being richer men, Makes them poor ever.
Train up thy mind to feel content, What matters then how low thy store? What we enjoy, and not possess, Makes rich or poor.
Filled with sweet thought, then happy I Take not my state from other’s eyes; What’s in my mind — not on my flesh Or theirs — I prize.
Sing, happy soul, thy songs of joy; Such as a Brook sings in the wood, That all night has been strengthened by Heaven’s purer flood.
***
«The Expression Of Love» by Freespirit Juneja
The very first dropp of rain Makes my heart go insane Fragrance of the earth’s aroma Enraptures and fills my body’s stoma Ballet of leaves on songs of winds Makes my soul dance and sings Sun’s penultimate rays glistening the twilight Spreading heart’s sight far n wide Rainbow within each dewdrop Helps appreciating versatility of life’s job If I combine all realms of nature The only person whom i feature Whose presence makes me alive Who propels me to strive Who makes me fly high and above O my heart it’s u Embrace me with Your love, your love and your love
***
«The Kingfisher» by William Henry Davies
It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother’s name was Tears, So runs it in my blood to choose For haunts the lonely pools, and keep In company with trees that weep. Go you and, with such glorious hues, Live with proud peacocks in green parks; On lawns as smooth as shining glass, Let every feather show its marks; Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings Before the windows of proud kings. Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; Thou hast no proud, ambitious mind; I also love a quiet place That’s green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a tree Sigh with her bosom over me.
***
«The Old Wooden Bridge» by Susan Williams
in the darkness up ahead just beyond the last fork in the road there is an old wooden bridge eons of years old . it has been there since the beginning of time and it creaks and groans underfoot but it will still take you where you don’t want to go . here is where your ancient enemy waits for you in the gloom and doom of past dark and dreary choices waiting out there on a mossy span for you and you alone waiting out there where no lamp or halo of light has ever shone . he waits out there for thee and me in that darkness that stretches over the sea waits to block the way to the great beyond where we should have could have gone . he waits out there where there is no hope after the last fork in the road is taken this is no cuddly or pretty rainbow bridge and no one you want to meet is waiting there for thee or me.
***
«The Rainbow» by Thomas Campbell
Triumphal arch, that fill’st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art; —
Still seem; as to my childhood’s sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that Optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation’s face Enchantment’s veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws!
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.
When o’er the green, undeluged earth Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine, How came the world’s gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign!
And when its yellow luster smiled O’er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang On earth, delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye Unraptured greet thy beam; Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the prophet’s theme!
The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshened fields, The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle, cast O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam:
For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span; Nor lets the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man.
***
«The Rainbow» by Waller Smith
Love is a rainbow that appears When heaven’s sunshine lights earth’s tears.
All varied colors of the light Within its beauteous arch unite:
There Passion’s glowing crimson hue Burns near Truth’s rich and deathless blue;
And Jealousy’s green lights unfold ‘Mid Pleasure’s tints of flame and gold.
O dark life’s stormy sky would seem, If love’s clear rainbow did not gleam!
***
«The Rainbow» by Charlotte Richardson
Soft falls the shower, the thunders cease!
And see the messenger of peace
Illumes the eastern skies;
Blest sign of firm unchanging love!
While others seek the cause to prove,
That bids thy beauties rise.
My soul, content with humbler views,
Well pleased admires thy varied hues,
And can with joy behold
Thy beauteous form, and wondering gaze
Enraptured on thy mingled rays
Of purple, green, and gold.
Enough for me to deem divine
The hand that paints each glowing line;
To think that thou art given
A transient gleam of that bright place
Where Beauty owns celestial grace,
A faint display of Heaven!
***
«The Rainbow» by John Keble
A fragment of a rainbow bright Through the moist air I see, All dark and damp on yonder height, All bright and clear to me.
An hour ago the storm was here, The gleam was far behind; So will our joys and grief appear, When earth has ceased to blind.
Grief will be joy if on its edge Fall soft that holiest ray, Joy will be grief if no faint pledge Be there of heavenly day.
***
«The Treasure» by Rupert Brooke
When colour goes home into the eyes, And lights that shine are shut again With dancing girls and sweet birds’ cries Behind the gateways of the brain; And that no-place which gave them birth, shall close The rainbow and the rose:—
Still may Time hold some golden space Where I’ll unpack that scented store Of song and flower and sky and face, And count, and touch, and turn them o’er, Musing upon them; as a mother, who Has watched her children all the rich day through Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light, When children sleep, ere night.
***
«When The Lamp Is Shattered» by Percy Bysshe Shelley
When the lamp is shattered, The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow’s glory is shed; When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart’s echoes render No song when the spirit is mute:– No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman’s knell.
When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possessed. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
Its passions will rock thee, As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.
Holidays are an important part of our culture. They are solemn, joyous days and merry folk festivities, or, on the contrary, a holiday just for a couple like Valentine’s Day. Poems like nothing else convey special holiday emotions and feelings from one person to another.
I’d like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me; I’d like to be the help that you’ve been always glad to be; I’d like to mean as much to you each minute of the day As you have meant, old friend of mine, to me along the way.
I’d like to do the big things and the splendid things for you, To brush the gray out of your skies and leave them only blue; I’d like to say the kindly things that I so oft have heard, And feel that I could rouse your soul the way that mine you’ve stirred.
I’d like to give back the joy that you have given me, Yet that were wishing you a need I hope will never be; I’d like to make you feel as rich as I, who travel on Undaunted in the darkest hours with you to lean upon.
I’m wishing at this Christmas time that I could but repay A portion of the gladness that you’ve strewn along the way; And could I have one wish this year, this only would it be: I’d like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me.
***
«A Holiday» by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The Wife The house is like a garden, The children are the flowers, The gardener should come methinks And walk among his bowers, Oh! lock the door on worry And shut your cares away, Not time of year, but love and cheer, Will make a holiday.
The Husband Impossible! You women do not know The toil it takes to make a business grow. I cannot join you until very late, So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.
The Wife The feast will be like Hamlet Without a Hamlet part: The home is but a house, dear, Till you supply the heart. The Xmas gift I long for You need not toil to buy; Oh! give me back one thing I lack – The love-light in your eye.
The Husband Of course I love you, and the children too. Be sensible, my dear, it is for you I work so hard to make my business pay. There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.
The Wife (turning) He does not mean to wound me, I know his heart is kind. Alas! that man can love us And be so blind, so blind. A little time for pleasure, A little time for play; A word to prove the life of love And frighten care away! Tho’ poor my lot in some small cot That were a holiday.
The Husband (musing) She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex – Zounds! but ’tis difficult to please the sex. I’ve housed and gowned her like a very queen Yet there she goes, with discontented mien. I gave her diamonds only yesterday: Some women are like that, do what you may.
***
«A Holiday Prayer» by Joanna Fuchs
I pray for you this holiday That all your dreams come true; I pray the Lord will bless your life All the New Year through.
I pray your holiday gives you all That you’ve been hoping for, Health, comfort, peace and love, These blessings and much more.
***
«A Nation’s Strength» by William Ralph Emerson
What makes a nation’s pillars high And its foundations strong? What makes it mighty to defy The foes that round it throng?
It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand Go down in battle shock; Its shafts are laid on sinking sand, Not on abiding rock.
Is it the sword? Ask the red dust Of empires passed away; The blood has turned their stones to rust, Their glory to decay.
And is it pride? Ah, that bright crown Has seemed to nations sweet; But God has struck its luster down In ashes at his feet.
Not gold but only men can make A people great and strong; Men who for truth and honor’s sake Stand fast and suffer long.
Brave men who work while others sleep, Who dare while others fly… They build a nation’s pillars deep And lift them to the sky.
***
«A Vacation Holiday» by Catherine Pulsifer
A vacation is a holiday One in which to relax A break from routine of everyday With no work setbacks.
Our holidays we look forward to We count down to the day Working all year, this vacation is due We can’t wait for work to go away.
So enjoy your holidays as they often go to fast Make time to relax, recharge and have some fun Leave thoughts of your work in the past And don’t get too much sun!
***
«A Vampire Bit My Neck Last Night» by Kenn Nesbitt
A vampire bit my neck last night. And, though it sounds insane, some zombies chased me down the street and tried to eat my brain.
A mummy shambled after me. Godzilla stomped my face. I nearly I got abducted by an alien from space.
When Frankenstein attacked me I escaped, but then almost got tackled by a skeleton, a werewolf, and a ghost.
A slimy blob engulfed me. Then I woke up with a scream. I’ve never been so overjoyed to wake up from a dream.
Last night I learned a lesson; if you want to keep your head, don’t watch a scary movie right before you go to bed.
***
«After Thanksgiving» by Kenn Nesbitt
It’s after Thanksgiving. I’m full as can be. I haven’t got room left for even a pea.
I probably gobbled too much at our feast. I’m straining in pain and my waistline’s increased.
I’m utterly glutted. My stomach is stuffed. My belly is bulging. My tummy is puffed.
I’m totally bloated. I’m huffing and puffing. I guess it’s not smart to eat nothing but stuffing.
***
«Alpine Holiday» by Robert William Service
He took the grade in second – quite a climb, Dizzy and dangerous, yet how sublime! The road went up and up; it curved around The mountain and the gorge grew more profound. He drove serenely, with no hint of haste; And then she felt his arm go round her waist.
She shrank: she did not know him very well, Being like her a guest at the hotel. Nice, but a Frenchman. On his driving hand He wore like benedicks a golden band . . . Well, how could she with grace refuse a drive So grand it made glad to be alive?
Yet now she heard him whisper in her ear: “Don’t be afraid. With one hand I can steer, With one arm hold you . . . Oh what perfect bliss! Darling, please don’t refuse me just one kiss. Here, nigh to Heaven, let is us rest awhile . . . Nay, don’t resist – give me your lips, your smile . . .”
So there in that remote and dizzy place He wrestled with her for a moment’s space, Hearing her cry: “Oh please, please let me go! Let me get out . . . You brute, release me! No, no, NO!” . . . In that ravine was found their burnt-out car – Their bodies trapped and crisped into a char.
***
«At Christmas» by Edgar Guest
A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year; He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season is here; Then he’s thinking more of others than he’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.
***
«Before The Ice Is In The Pools» by Emily Dickinson
Before the ice is in the pools— Before the skaters go, Or any check at nightfall Is tarnished by the snow—
Before the fields have finished, Before the Christmas tree, Wonder upon wonder Will arrive to me!
What we touch the hems of On a summer’s day— What is only walking Just a bridge away—
That which sings so—speaks so— When there’s no one here— Will the frock I wept in Answer me to wear?
***
«Candy Andy» by Kenn Nesbitt
Hello, my name is Andy. I’m a fan of eating candy. It’s delicious and it’s dandy, and my favorite thing to eat.
When I want some sweets for eating, I’ll be at your door repeating that fantastic, famous greeting… I’ll be shouting, “Trick or treat!”
I’ll be dressed up like a mummy, out in search of something yummy, like a chocolate bar or gummi. I’ll be marching door-to-door.
And, as long as you have dishes full of candy so delicious it can satisfy my wishes, I’ll keep coming back for more.
You might think I’m being sneaky, or perhaps a little cheeky, and some people say it’s freaky, and they often ask me why…
And they tell me that it’s cheating to be on their doorstep beating on the front door, trick-or-treating, in the middle of July.
***
«Chanukah Lights» by Philip M. Raskin
I KINDLED my eight little candles, My Chanukah-candles–and lo! Fair visions and dreams half-forgotten To me came of years long ago.
I musingly gazed at my candles; Meseemed in their quivering flames In golden, in fiery letters I read the old glorious names,
The names of our heroes immortal, The noble, the brave, and the true, A battle-field saw I in vision Where many were conquered by few.
Where trampled in dust lay the mighty, Judea’s proud Syrian foe; And Judas, the brave Maccabaeus, In front of his army I saw.
His eyes shone like bright stars of heaven, Like music rang out his strong voice: “Brave comrades, we fought and we conquered, Now let us, in God’s name, rejoice!”
“We conquered–but know, O brave comrades, No triumph is due to the sword! Remember our glorious watchword, ‘For People and Towns of the Lord!'”
He spoke, and from all the four corners An echo repeated each word; The woods and the mountains re-echoed: “For People and Towns of the Lord!”
And swiftly the message spread, saying: “Judea, Judea is free, Re-kindled the lamp in the Temple, Re-kindled each bosom with glee!”
My Chanukah-candles soon flickered, Around me was darkness of night; But deep in my soul I felt shining A heavenly-glorious light.
***
«Child Holiday Poem» by Joanna Fuchs
My mom is cooking holiday treats; My dad is spending money; They think they’ve hidden all the gifts; It’s really pretty funny.
Now Mom and Dad are whispering; They imagine I don’t hear. I’m really all excited; It’s a happy time of year.
I’ve made my holiday gift list; Whatever I get, I’ll be glad To be a part of my family, And the best holiday I’ve had!
***
«Christmas Bells» by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.”
***
«Christmas Carol» by Sara Teasdale
The kings they came from out the south,
All dressed in ermine fine;
They bore Him gold and chrysoprase,
And gifts of precious wine.
The shepherds came from out the north,
Their coats were brown and old;
They brought Him little new-born lambs—
They had not any gold.
The wise men came from out the east,
And they were wrapped in white;
The star that led them all the way
Did glorify the night.
The angels came from heaven high,
And they were clad with wings;
And lo, they brought a joyful song
The host of heaven sings.
The kings they knocked upon the door,
The wise men entered in,
The shepherds followed after them
To hear the song begin.
The angels sang through all the night
Until the rising sun,
But little Jesus fell asleep
Before the song was done.
***
«Good King Wenceslas» by John Mason Neale
Good King Wenceslas look’d out,
On the Feast of Stephen;
When the snow lay round about,
Deep, and crisp, and even:
Brightly shone the moon that night,
Though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
Gath’ring winter fuel.
“Hither page and stand by me,
If thou know’st it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire, he lives a good league hence.
Underneath the mountain;
Right against the forest fence,
By Saint Agnes’ fountain.”
“Bring me flesh,and bring me wine,
Bring me pine-logs hither:
Thouand I will see him dine,
When we bear them thither.”
Page and monarch forth they went,
Forth they went together;
Through the rudewind’s wild lament,
And the bitter weather.
“Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know now how,
I can go no longer.”
“Mark my footsteps, good my page;
Tread thou in them boldly;
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.”
In his master’s steps he trod,
Where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor,
Shall yourselves find blessing.
***
«Halloween Is Nearly Here» by Kenn Nesbitt
Halloween is nearly here. I’ve got my costume planned. It’s sure to be the most horrific outfit in the land.
If you should see me coming you may scream and hide your head. My get-up will, I guarantee, fill every heart with dread.
My costume may cause nightmares. Yes, my mask may stop your heart. You might just shriek and wet yourself, then squeamishly depart.
And yet, I won’t be dressing as you might expect me to. I will not be a vampire or ghost that hollers “boo!”
I won’t look like a werewolf or a goblin or a ghoul, or even like a slimy blob of deadly, dripping drool.
I will not be a zombie or some other horrid creature. No, this year I’ll be much, much worse… I’m dressing as a teacher.
***
«Holiday Joy» by Julie Hebert
Today is but a holiday, The best one I do think. Hang the decor and bake the food, It’s time to celebrate.
My favourite thing about this is, All the family and friends. Conversation feels like a vacation, Get it all in before it ends.
Today is my favourite thing, A holiday to enjoy. Crafts and baking and decorating, So many wonderful joys.
The best thing about this holiday, Besides all those wonderful things. I get to spend every minute with you, While we talk, dance and even sing.
***
«Holidays» by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart, When the full river of feeling overflows;– The happy days unclouded to their close; The sudden joys that out of darkness start As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart Like swallows singing down each wind that blows! White as the gleam of a receding sail, White as a cloud that floats and fades in air, White as the whitest lily on a stream, These tender memories are;–a fairy tale Of some enchanted land we know not where, But lovely as a landscape in a dream.
***
«Kriss Kringle» by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Just as the moon was fading Amid her misty rings, And every stocking was stuffed With childhood’s precious things,
Old Kriss Kringle looked around, And saw on the elm-tree bough, High hung, an oriole’s nest, Lonely and empty now.
“Quite a stocking,” he laughed, “Hung up there on a tree! I didn’t suppose the birds Expected a present from me!”
Then old Kriss Kringle, who loves A joke as well as the best, Dropped a handful of snowflakes Into the oriole’s empty nest.
***
«Minstrels» by William Wordsworth
The minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage-eaves; While, smitten by a lofty moon, The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, That overpowered their natural green.
Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings: Keen was the air, but could not freeze, Nor check, the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.
And who but listened?—till was paid Respect to every inmate’s claim, The greeting given, the music played In honour of each household name, Duly pronounced with lusty call, And “Merry Christmas” wished to all.
***
«My Christmas Travel Plan» by Kenn Nesbitt
I’m flying south for Christmas to avoid the winter storms. I’m heading to the beaches where the weather’s always warm.
They say we shouldn’t travel now. At least that’s what I’m told. But, even so, I have to go; it’s getting much too cold.
But you don’t need to worry. I assure you I’ll be fine. I think that you’ll feel better once you’ve heard this plan of mine.
I won’t be getting on a plane; that isn’t safe, I’ve heard. I’m flying south for Christmas, and I’m glad that I’m a bird.
***
«Online Christmas» by Kenn Nesbitt
We’re staying home this Christmas. We won’t shop at the mall. We won’t go to department stores or anywhere at all.
We’ll do our shopping all online this year and, I assume, we’re having Christmas dinner with our relatives on Zoom.
We’ll have a celebration too with fun and festive cheer. But that will be on FaceTime, Skype, and Google Meet this year.
We heard that even Santa Claus will celebrate this way, and won’t deliver presents in his bright-red Santa sleigh.
But there’s no need for us to fret; we won’t be out of luck. He said he’ll send our presents in a brown delivery truck.
***
«Our Holiday Shopping» by Kenn Nesbitt
Our parents went holiday shopping online. They ordered the presents and thought it was fine. But, then, they forgot to turn off the computer, and that’s when the baby, who couldn’t be cuter, decided to play with the keyboard awhile. She climbed up and pushed a few keys with a smile.
She bought a new blanket, a book, and a binkie, a bottle, some blocks, and a sled, and a Slinky. She ordered a dozen new puzzles and balls, plus hundreds of teddy bears, diapers, and dolls. And when she was done clicking keys for the day, she giggled and got down and waddled away.
The cat came along and walked over the keys and ordered some cat toys and treatments for fleas. Our puppy jumped up and bought toys he could chew, plus sweaters, and leashes, and tennis balls too. And, lastly, our hamster sat down on the mouse, and clicked to have everything shipped to our house.
The presents arrived just a day or two later. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything greater! The drivers arrived and, before they were gone, left thousands of packages out on our lawn. It’s all so exciting, and will be until our parents receive their next credit card bill.
***
«Ring Out, Wild Bells» by Alfred Tennyson
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more, Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.
***
«Special Holidays» by Joanna Fuchs
We’re thinking of you this time of year, Wishing you happiness, joy, and cheer. May all your days be warm and bright, And your nights enhanced by holiday light.
Enjoy your delectable holiday foods, As parties and gifts create holiday moods. Favorite people play a meaningful part, While treasured rituals warm your heart.
You are special to us in many ways, So we wish you Happy Holidays!
***
«Star Of The East» by Eugene Field
Star of the East, that long ago Brought wise men on their way Where, angels singing to and fro, The Child of Bethlehem lay— Above that Syrian hill afar Thou shinest out to-night, O Star!
Star of the East, the night were drear But for the tender grace That with thy glory comes to cheer Earth’s loneliest, darkest place; For by that charity we see Where there is hope for all and me.
Star of the East! show us the way In wisdom undefiled To seek that manger out and lay Our gifts before the child— To bring our hearts and offer them Unto our King in Bethlehem!
***
«Thanksgiving» by Edgar Guest
Gettin’ together to smile an’ rejoice, An’ eatin’ an’ laughin’ with folks of your choice; An’ kissin’ the girls an’ declarin’ that they Are growin’ more beautiful day after day; Chattin’ an’ braggin’ a bit with the men, Buildin’ the old family circle again; Livin’ the wholesome an’ old-fashioned cheer, Just for awhile at the end of the year.
Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door And under the old roof we gather once more Just as we did when the youngsters were small; Mother’s a little bit grayer, that’s all. Father’s a little bit older, but still Ready to romp an’ to laugh with a will. Here we are back at the table again Tellin’ our stories as women an’ men.
Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer; Oh, but we’re grateful an’ glad to be there. Home from the east land an’ home from the west, Home with the folks that are dearest an’ best. Out of the sham of the cities afar We’ve come for a time to be just what we are. Here we can talk of ourselves an’ be frank, Forgettin’ position an’ station an’ rank.
Give me the end of the year an’ its fun When most of the plannin’ an’ toilin’ is done; Bring all the wanderers home to the nest, Let me sit down with the ones I love best, Hear the old voices still ringin’ with song, See the old faces unblemished by wrong, See the old table with all of its chairs An’ I’ll put soul in my Thanksgivin’ prayers.
***
«Thanksgiving» by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
We walk on starry fields of white And do not see the daisies; For blessings common in our sight We rarely offer praises. We sigh for some supreme delight To crown our lives with splendor, And quite ignore our daily store Of pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way Upon our thought and feeling. They hang about us all the day, Our time from pleasure stealing. So unobtrusive many a joy We pass by and forget it, But worry strives to own our lives And conquers if we let it.
There’s not a day in all the year But holds some hidden pleasure, And looking back, joys oft appear To brim the past’s wide measure. But blessings are like friends, I hold, Who love and labor near us. We ought to raise our notes of praise While living hearts can hear us.
Full many a blessing wears the guise Of worry or of trouble. Farseeing is the soul and wise Who knows the mask is double. But he who has the faith and strength To thank his God for sorrow Has found a joy without alloy To gladden every morrow.
We ought to make the moments notes Of happy, glad Thanksgiving; The hours and days a silent phrase Of music we are living. And so the theme should swell and grow As weeks and months pass o’er us, And rise sublime at this good time, A grand Thanksgiving chorus.
***
«The Day of Days» by Edgar A. Guest
A year is filled with glad events: The best is Christmas day, But every holiday presents Its special round of play, And looking back on boyhood now And all the charms it knew, One day, above the rest, somehow, Seems brightest in review. That day was finest, I believe; Though many grown-ups scoff, When mother said that we could leave Our shoes and stockings off.
Through all the pleasant days of spring We begged to know once more The joy of barefoot wandering And quit the shoes we wore; But always mother shook her head And answered with a smile: “It is too soon, too soon,” she said. “Wait just a little while.” Then came that glorious day at last When mother let us know That fear of taking cold was past And we could barefoot go.
Though Christmas day meant much to me, And eagerly I’d try The first boy on the street to be The Fourth day of July, I think: the summit of my joy Was reached that happy day Each year, when, as a barefoot boy, I hastened out to play. Could I return to childhood fair, That day I think I’d choose When mother said I needn’t wear My stockings and my shoes.
***
«The Holidays» by Jane Taylor
“Ah! don’t you remember, ’tis almost December, And soon will the holidays come; Oh, ’twill be so funny, I’ve plenty of money, I’ll buy me a sword and a drum. ”
Thus said little Harry, unwilling to tarry, Impatient from school to depart; But we shall discover, this holiday lover Knew little what was in his heart.
For when on returning, he gave up his learning, Away from his sums and his books, Though playthings surrounded, and sweetmeats abounded, Chagrin still appear’d in his looks.
Though first they delighted, his toys were now slighted, And thrown away out of his sight; He spent every morning in stretching and yawning, Yet went to bed weary at night.
He had not that treasure which really makes pleasure, (A secret discover’d by few). You’ll take it for granted, more playthings he wanted; Oh naught was something to do.
We must have employment to give us enjoyment And pass the time cheerfully away; And study and reading give pleasure, exceeding The pleasures of toys and of play.
To school now returningto study and learning With eagerness Harry applied; He felt no aversion to books or exertion, Nor yet for the holidays sigh’d.
***
«The Snow Man» by Wallace Stevens
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
***
«Toward the Winter Solstice» by Timothy Steele
Although the roof is just a story high, It dizzies me a little to look down. I lariat-twirl the cord of Christmas lights And cast it to the weeping birch’s crown; A dowel into which I’ve screwed a hook Enables me to reach, lift, drape, and twine The cord among the boughs so that the bulbs Will accent the tree’s elegant design.
Friends, passing home from work or shopping, pause And call up commendations or critiques. I make adjustments. Though a potpourri Of Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, Jews, and Sikhs, We all are conscious of the time of year; We all enjoy its colorful displays And keep some festival that mitigates The dwindling warmth and compass of the days.
Some say that L.A. doesn’t suit the Yule, But UPS vans now like magi make Their present-laden rounds, while fallen leaves Are gaily resurrected in their wake; The desert lifts a full moon from the east And issues a dry Santa Ana breeze, And valets at chic restaurants will soon Be tending flocks of cars and SUVs.
And as the neighborhoods sink into dusk The fan palms scattered all across town stand More calmly prominent, and this place seems A vast oasis in the Holy Land. This house might be a caravansary, The tree a kind of cordial fountainhead Of welcome, looped and decked with necklaces And ceintures of green, yellow, blue, and red.
Some wonder if the star of Bethlehem Occurred when Jupiter and Saturn crossed; It’s comforting to look up from this roof And feel that, while all changes, nothing’s lost, To recollect that in antiquity The winter solstice fell in Capricorn And that, in the Orion Nebula, From swirling gas, new stars are being born.
***
«We Bought A Lot Of Candy Bars» by Kenn Nesbitt
We bought a lot of candy bars. We thought it would be neat to have a ton for all the kids who came to trick-or-treat.
We bought them early in the month when they were all on sale. We dragged the bags in from the car and set them on the scale.
The candy weighed a hundred pounds! I’m sure we got enough. In fact, we may have had too much of all that yummy stuff.
It wouldn’t hurt to just eat one, or two, or three, or four. We bought so much that we could even eat a dozen more.
So every day we had a few; a minuscule amount. How many? I can’t say for sure. I wasn’t keeping count.
Our pile grew smaller every day by ten, fifteen, or twenty. But, still, it didn’t matter. We were certain we had plenty.
When Halloween arrived we checked the candy situation, and found that we had given in to way too much temptation.
A single bar was all we had. We’d eaten all the rest. So, if our lights are off tonight, I think that’s for the best.
***
«When the Year Grows Old» by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I cannot but remember When the year grows old— October—November— How she disliked the cold!
She used to watch the swallows Go down across the sky, And turn from the window With a little sharp sigh.
And often when the brown leaves Were brittle on the ground, And the wind in the chimney Made a melancholy sound,
She had a look about her That I wish I could forget— The look of a scared thing Sitting in a net!
Oh, beautiful at nightfall The soft spitting snow! And beautiful the bare boughs Rubbing to and fro!
But the roaring of the fire, And the warmth of fur, And the boiling of the kettle Were beautiful to her!
I cannot but remember When the year grows old— October—November— How she disliked the cold!
***
«Wonder and Joy» by Robinson Jeffers
The things that one grows tired of—O, be sure They are only foolish artificial things! Can a bird ever tire of having wings? And I, so long as life and sense endure, (Or brief be they!) shall nevermore inure My heart to the recurrence of the springs, Of gray dawns, the gracious evenings, The infinite wheeling stars. A wonder pure Must ever well within me to behold Venus decline; or great Orion, whose belt Is studded with three nails of burning gold, Ascend the winter heaven. Who never felt This wondering joy may yet be good or great: But envy him not: he is not fortunate.
As the ocean waves at me, And the sand greets the sea, The fish swim free, And shells wash up by me.
The sand squishes suddenly, Between my shoeless toes. Then the tide flows over them, And back down it goes.
The salt is on my tongue, The sea’s song is sung, The sun is going down, And so my day at sea is done.
By Melissa Roberson
***
A Day At The Beach
The sun and sand go hand in hand. The sound of constant waves – There’s a smell of salt in the air. The ocean is seen through a haze.
The parents bring their children And watch them play in the sand. They help them jump the waves By holding little hands.
The teens exude vitality and youth. They know they’re coming of age. They strut and prance and dance around As if they were on stage.
Lovers strolling hand in hand Enjoy their day of sun and sand. They seem to think they’re all alone – The crowded beach on which they roam.
The old move slow and steady Thinking it’s no notion. This could be the last time They get to see the ocean.
The seagulls glide in circles. It seems without a care, But really they are searching A crumb to catch mid-air.
Scattered on the beach Are castles made of sand. Some are small and messy – Others big and grand.
If one is lucky, While looking out to sea They may spot some dolphins Swimming gracefully.
A day at the beach is not complete Without catching the perfect wave Or gathering shells along the shore – Souvenirs of a perfect day…
By Marie Matheny
***
A Day AT The Beach
Hot, soft sand under my feet As I walk briskly into the crowded beach Sea breeze presses on my bare skin I start digging a hole and others join in
The wave seems beautiful as it gathers strength But is crashes down on me like a white wash sumo I crawl battered and tired from the swell and paddle to calmer waters to relax and chill
I lie down silently on my board looking up at the harsh sun suddenly I’m feeling drowsy and slow and gently close my eyes
By Declan McBride
***
A Few Lines from Rehoboth Beach
Dear friend, you were right: the smell of fish and foam
and algae makes one green smell together. It clears
my head. It empties me enough to fit down in my own
skin for a while, singleminded as a surfer. The first
day here, there was nobody, from one distance
to the other. Rain rose from the waves like steam,
dark lifted off the dark. All I could think of
were hymns, all I knew the words to: the oldest
motions tuning up in me. There was a horseshoe crab
shell, a translucent egg sack, a log of a tired jetty,
and another, and another. I walked miles, holding
my suffering deeply and courteously, as if I were holding
a package for somebody else who would come back
like sunlight. In the morning, the boardwalk opened
wide and white with sun, gulls on one leg in the slicks.
Cold waves, cold air, and people out in heavy coats,
arm in arm along the sheen of waves. A single boy
in shorts rode his skimboard out thigh-high, making
intricate moves across the March ice-water. I thought
he must be painfully cold, but, I hear you say, he had
all the world emptied, to practice his smooth stand.
By Fleda Brown
***
A Parable
Between the sandhills and the sea A narrow strip of silver sand, Whereon a little maid doth stand, Who picks up shells continually, Between the sandhills and the sea.
Far as her wondering eyes can reach, A vastness heaving gray in gray To the frayed edges of the day Furls his red standard on the breach Between the sky-line and the beach.
The waters of the flowing tide Cast up the sea-pink shells and weed; She toys with shells, and doth not heed The ocean, which on every side Is closing round her vast and wide.
It creeps her way as if in play, Pink shells at her pink feet to cast; But now the wild waves hold her fast, And bear her off and melt away, A vastness heaving gray in gray.
By Mathilde Blind
***
Beach Glass
While you walk the water’s edge,
turning over concepts
I can’t envision, the honking buoy
serves notice that at any time
the wind may change,
the reef-bell clatters
its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra
to any note but warning. The ocean,
cumbered by no business more urgent
than keeping open old accounts
that never balanced,
goes on shuffling its millenniums
of quartz, granite, and basalt.
It behaves
toward the permutations of novelty–
driftwood and shipwreck, last night’s
beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up
residue of plastic–with random
impartiality, playing catch or tag
or touch-last like a terrier,
turning the same thing over and over,
over and over. For the ocean, nothing
is beneath consideration.
The houses
of so many mussels and periwinkles
have been abandoned here, it’s hopeless
to know which to salvage. Instead
I keep a lookout for beach glass–
amber of Budweiser, chrysoprase
of Almadén and Gallo, lapis
by way of (no getting around it,
I’m afraid) Phillips’
Milk of Magnesia, with now and then a rare
translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst
of no known origin.
The process
goes on forever: they came from sand,
they go back to gravel,
along with treasuries
of Murano, the buttressed
astonishments of Chartres,
which even now are readying
for being turned over and over as gravely
and gradually as an intellect
engaged in the hazardous
redefinition of structures
no one has yet looked at.
By Amy Clampitt
***
Beach Reflections
sitting knees bent on sandy shore eyes half closed, listening steady approach of tides
now ease away
secretly taking my whispers back to their watery depths
watching footprints fade slowly, before my eyes heaven’s magic show awake the child inside
ocean rhythm breaking near clearing my thoughts to a hush crystal sound evaporating leaving me suspended somewhere between the warm
beating sand and your touch
by Sherry Anne
***
By the Sea
On either hand A sweep of tawny sand With gentle curve extending, smooth and wide, On which bold rocks look down With dark and sullen frown, Slopes out to meet the fast incoming tide.
The sunbeams leap And frolic o’er the deep, And where their light is most intensely pour’d, Strike from its surface keen Flashes of diamond sheen, Dazzling the eyes that gaze out thitherward.
A cloud or two Drifts lightly ‘mid the blue; And, like a faint white blot upon the sky, Up yonder you can trace The day moon’s dim drowned face, Whose light will flood all heaven by-and-by.
The rythmical Hoarse sounds that rise and fall, Thund’rous, upon the ear from out at sea, The tumult nearer land, And splash upon the sand Of breaking waves, compose one harmony.
By Elsie Cooper
***
Don’T Go Far Off
Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because — because — I don’t know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you’ll have gone so far I’ll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
By Pablo Neruda
***
Dover Beach
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
By MATTHEW ARNOLD
***
Ebb Tide
When the long day goes by And I do not see your face, The old wild, restless sorrow Steals from its hiding place.
My day is barren and broken, Bereft of light and song, A sea beach bleak and windy That moans the whole day long.
To the empty beach at ebb tide, Bare with its rocks and scars, Come back like the sea with singing, And light of a million stars.
By Sara Teasdale
***
Evening, Near the Sea
Light ebbs from off the Earth; the fields are strange, Dark, trackless, tenantless; now the mute sky Resigns itself to Night and Memory, And no wind will yon sunken clouds derange, No glory enrapture them; from cot or grange The rare voice ceases; one long-breathed sigh, And steeped in summer sleep the world must lie; All things are acquiescing in the change.
Hush! while the vaulted hollow of the night Deepens, what voice is this the sea sends forth, Disconsolate iterance, a passionless moan? Ah! now the Day is gone, and tyrannous Light, And the calm presence of fruit-bearing Earth: Cry, Sea! it is thy hour; thou art alone.
By Edward Dowden
***
Fragile
Falling asleep with the sound of beach waves, The soothing noise as they crash on the shore, Fading emptiness when they would engrave. I still hear it when I open the door.
The freshness and saltiness of the breeze, It is powerful and very peaceful, The type of peace that brings me to my knees. These waves understand me more than people.
Without waves, I float into dark abyss. Nothing feels right anymore, I’m lonely. Without all these ocean waves, I would miss. Even when It’s cold here, I am cozy.
I’m at peace, I finally found meaning. Waves carry me; they keep me from leaving.
By Callie Pedersen
***
Happy Dog
I’m a happy dog at the beach If I had the power of speech I would tell you all To throw my ball I’m a happy dog at the beach
I’m a happy dog at the beach There are no new tricks you can teach I’m bouncy and glad And my tail wags like mad I’m a happy dog at the beach
I’m a happy dog at the beach My joy is always in reach Whatever the talk It’s the best place to walk I’m a happy dog at the beach
I’m a happy dog at the beach As I hear the seagulls screech I chase and I bark Long into the dark I’m a happy dog at the beach
I’m a happy dog at the beach And I don’t want to start to preach But if you ask me The best thing to see Is a happy dog at the beach
By Flying Lemming
***
Later Life
Something this foggy day, a something which Is neither of this fog nor of today, Has set me dreaming of the winds that play Past certain cliffs, along one certain beach,
And turn the topmost edge of waves to spray: Ah pleasant pebbly strand so far away, So out of reach while quite within my reach, As out of reach as India or Cathay!
I am sick of where I am and where I am not, I am sick of foresight and of memory, I am sick of all I have and all I see, I am sick of self, and there is nothing new;
Oh weary impatient patience of my lot! Thus with myself: how fares it, Friends, with you?
By Christina Georgina Rossetti
***
Meadow and Sea
I watch the children play beside the sea Upon an upland meadow lifted high, The ocean large before them, wave and sky A boundless panorama wild and free. The clouds in floating companies agree. White ships allure the fondly following eye, And all the glowing prospect far or nigh
Is Nature’s meditative jubilee And yet the children toss their little ball, Shouting and rioting in heedless play, Unmindful of the glory of it all, Nor thinking once beyond their meadow gay. Among the buttercups they leap and fall The ocean wide before them—what care they?
By Amos Russel Wells
***
Meeting At Night
The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!
By Robert Browning
***
On the Beach in November
My heart’s Ideal, that somewhere out of sight Art beautiful and gracious and alone,— Haply, where blue Saronic waves are blown On shores that keep some touch of old delight,— How welcome is thy memory, and how bright, To one who watches over leagues of stone These chilly northern waters creep and moan From weary morning unto weary night.
O Shade-form, lovelier than the living crowd, So kind to votaries, yet thyself unvowed, So free to human fancies, fancy-free, My vagrant thought goes out to thee, to thee, As wandering lonelier than the Poet’s cloud, I listen to the wash of this dull sea.
By Edward Cracroft LeFroy
***
On the Dunes
Here all night on the dunes In the rocking wind we sleep, Watched by sentry stars, Lulled by the drone of the deep.
Till hark, in the chill of the dawn A field lark wakes and cries, And over the floor of the sea We watch the round sun rise.
The world is washed once more In a tide of purple and gold, And the heart of the land is filled With desires and dreams untold.
By Bliss Carman
***
Sandpiper
The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake. He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet of interrupting water comes and goes and glazes over his dark and brittle feet. He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.
– Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs, he stares at the dragging grains.
The world is a mist. And then the world is minute and vast and clear. The tide is higher or lower. He couldn’t tell you which. His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,
looking for something, something, something. Poor bird, he is obsessed! The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.
By Elizabeth Bishop
***
Silent Conversations
Sitting in a hammock, the wind rocks me to sleep. The warm sun wraps me up and holds me tight.
The salt in the air fills my nose, and I can’t help but love the feeling of sand between my toes.
The waves roll up on the sandy shore, singing me to sleep. I lie lifeless. Not a care in the world, not a single peep.
The art of doing nothing really is something.
By Lexi Baylor
***
Simple Pleasures
Watching all of the sweet smiles on a loved ones face Running around the race track and keeping up the pace Touching the dew drops glistening on the wet ground Going out to dinner then stepping out on the town
Getting together for a picnic in a lush green park Laughing and playing many games long after the dark Walking barefoot over the soft warm sand at the beach Looking up at the stars at night that’s too far to reach
Sitting and talking on the porch gazing up at the moon Wondering how awesome not wanting to go to bed too soon Humming a lively tune or singing a medley of love songs Thinking about what went right and not about the wrongs
Tasting sweet honey from a hive freshly made by the bees Smelling the fresh aromas emanating from magnolia trees Listening to the voice and sounds of every living thing Enjoying the many blessings that a brand new day can bring
Remembering the good old times that you and others shared Hugging and kissing in showing others how much you cared Giving a helping hand to some who show they are in need Sitting there with the lonely showing someone a kind deed
Savoring the taste of a succulent and very delightful dish Watching a shooting star at night and then making a wish Reaching out your hands to others always with a tender touch Telling your friends and loved ones how you love them so much
Reading a bedtime story to a young child sitting on your lap Getting together with the youth just for a little time to rap Wrote a letter then picked up the phone to dial an old friend Enjoy the simple pleasures in life for soon it’ll come to an end
By Patricia Grantham
***
Swoosh, Boom, Crunch, Howl
The sun rises higher and higher, like a blossoming flower, as the children play… Beach, Beach, Beach The zephyr catches my skin like a wide receiver playing football… Swoosh, Swoosh, Swoosh The crashing waves sound like a head-on collision… Boom, Boom, Boom The sand crunches under my feet like cereal in my mouth… Crunch, Crunch, Crunch The salty water is carried with the wind… Howl, Howl, Howl The gulls soar higher than the clouds… Swoosh, Swoosh, Swoosh The child crashes to the ground like a rock slide… Boom, Boom, Boom The man walks on shells that feel like needles… Crunch, Crunch, Crunch The dog is angered by the birds… Howl, Howl, Howl The kite flutters like a plane… Swoosh, Swoosh, Swoosh The afternoon thunder blasts like a cannon… Boom, Boom, Boom The child snacks on some chips that sound like glass… Crunch, Crunch, Crunch The night has fallen and the coyotes holler like babies… Howl, Howl, Howl The sun rises again higher and higher, like a blossoming flower as the children play… Beach, Beach, Beach
By Hayden Myer
***
The Hard
Here on the Hard, you’re welcome to pull up and stay; there’s a flat fee of a quid for parking all day.
And wandering over the dunes, who wouldn’t die for the view: an endless estate of beach, the sea
kept out of the bay by the dam-wall of the sky. Notice the sign, with details of last year’s high tides.
Walk on, drawn to the shipwreck, a mirage of masts a mile or so out, seemingly true and intact
but scuttled to serve as a target, and fixed on by eyeballs staring from bird-hides lining the coast.
The vast, weather-washed, cornerless state of our mind begins on the Hard; the Crown lays claim to the shore
between low tide and dry land, the country of sand, but the moon is law. Take what you came here to find.
Stranger, the ticket you bought for a pound stays locked in the car, like a butterfly trapped under glass;
stamped with the time, it tells us how taken you are, how carried away by now, how deep and how far.
By Simon Armitage
***
The Little Beach-Bird
Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o’er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!
Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wail,— What doth it bring to me?
Thou call’st along the sand, and haunt’st the surge, Restless, and sad; as if, in strange accord With the motion and the roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge— The Mystery—the Word.
Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall, Old Ocean! A requiem o’er the dead, From out thy gloomy cells, A tale of mourning tells,— Tells of man’s woe and fall, His sinless glory fled.
Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit nevermore. Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing.
By Richard Henry Dana
***
The Sandpiper
Across the lonely beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, but by bit, The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud, black and swift, across the sky: Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white light-houses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Nor flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye; Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My drift-wood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not God’s children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
By Celia Thaxter
***
The Sea
The sea is a hungry dog, Giant and grey. He rolls on the beach all day. With his clashing teeth and shaggy jaws Hour upon hour he gnaws The rumbling, tumbling stones, And ‘Bones, bones, bones, bones! ‘ The giant sea-dog moans, Licking his greasy paws.
And when the night wind roars And the moon rocks in the stormy cloud, He bounds to his feet and snuffs and sniffs, Shaking his wet sides over the cliffs, And howls and hollos long and loud.
But on quiet days in May or June, When even the grasses on the dune Play no more their reedy tune, With his head between his paws He lies on the sandy shores, So quiet, so quiet, he scarcely snores.
By James Reeves
***
The Sea Is Me
I glance across the moon lit beach, The grains of sand squelch under feet, Impossibilities, become real But all that’s real is out of reach.
Reality overwhelms each day, Confusion begs my mind to play But all at once I’m insecure, Which way to turn? I’m not quite sure.
Each wave that crashes, pounds the sand, The rhythm writhes inside, I find That with each breath, each heart felt beat, My turmoil sounds and it repeats.
I close my eyes and all I hear, Is thunder from my inner ear, A beating heart, my rhythmic drum, The sea is me and I’ve become.
By Sarah Persson
***
The Sea Mist
It crept—crept—crept— Into the rooms where people slept, And breathed on the mirrors till they wept. In hungry mood It stole to the pantry crammed with food And left the taste of its saltness there. It sat in my chair And molded the leather. It filled the air With a great gray ghostly horror that was not light Nor dark, but a pall and a blight. It crawled through the trees, And changed the woods into islanded seas. It prowled—prowled—prowled, And all that it touched it fouled. It was not the sea, My splendid, brave, and glittering sea, But it held the ocean as it held me, And hushed its waves with its mystery.
It was not the sea, for out of the sea there came, With a cheery burst of jubilant flame, My comrade the sun that put it to shame, And thrust it away With its trallings gray, And its shattered horror that had to obey, When, lo, a crystalline day! But still, in the midst of the warmth and glow, The clearness and fairness, I know. I know, That out somewhere, beneath the horizon’s rim, Lurks the spectre grim, And soon, if I turn to sleep, It will creep—creep—creep— With its empty mysterious dole Back into the world and back into my soul.
By Amos Russel Wells
***
The Summer
The saffron-yellow sun grins on top of the beige sand, and the aquamarine waves wash up onto the seashore. The towering palm trees sway from side to side as the gentle wind whistles through the beach.
The field of vivid flowers dance and smile underneath the lime colored grass, and the flap of a monarch butterfly’s wings soar through the broad meadow. The coconut and lemon ice cream dripping down my hand as the sun melts it like ice.
The swimmers sitting on the silver seats and speaking to each other and watching the surfers surf on their surfboards. The sun drifting down as it suddenly gets darker and darker…
By Sydney Harris
***
There’s A Regret
There’s a regret So grinding, so immitigably sad, Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad. … Do you not know it yet?
For deeds undone Rnakle and snarl and hunger for their due, Till there seems naught so despicable as you In all the grin o’ the sun.
Like an old shoe The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie About the beach of Time, till by and by Death, that derides you too —
Death, as he goes His ragman’s round, espies you, where you stray, With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way And then — and then, who knows
But the kind Grave Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm, In that black bridewell working out his term, Hanker and grope and crave?
“Poor fool that might — That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be, Think of it, here and thus made over to me In the implacable night!”
And writhing, fain And like a triumphing lover, he shall take, His fill where no high memory lives to make His obscene victory vain.
By William Ernest Henley
***
Water Baby
beach day with salt matted hair brown tan legs and chiffon flare blue skies and ocean symphony caressing skin in ripple harmony
feeling sand cover my toes silk and powder sprinkling gold sinking velvet touch in every step this is where I am my best
if i had gills I would swim away with the bluest deepest ocean wave my heart would swell in underwater ecstasy for I was born a water baby
by Sherry Anne
***
While Walking On The Beach
You look out into the water; The waves make the most beautiful sound. A place you find peace and comfort, Walking hand in hand and looking around.
As you walk toward the water, Sand coats the bottom of your feet. The smell of the sea salt drawing you closer,. The view is so beautiful, oh so sweet.
Almost as if it is calling you. Sometimes it’s only in your mind. A place to clear your thoughts And leave everything very far behind.
You find shells, rocks, and other things. The warmth is like a kiss from up above. Looking out into the Gulf Coast Can only remind you of true love.
As the waves come crashing in, Time seems to be standing still. The sun is shining down on you As you walk the beach at your will.
Paradise you thought you could never reach. Out in the distance you can see the ships sailing by. Tears of joy for the scene God has put before you, As the moment makes you cry.
Two shadows are together as one, A sign of great unity. A great day full of fun While walking at the beach.
By Ralph P Quinonez
***
Whispering Waves
Waves come crashing to grey sullen shores. Powerful and strong, it breathes and roars. Cascading and caressing each grain of sand, A warm embrace between sea and land.
High above, a seagull soars high. Wings of purity it spreads to fly. Battling high against darkened cloud, In a wind that blows fiercely, flying graceful and proud.
Beneath, the sand is soft and warm. Sculpted by nature, it’s weathered the storm. A passionate battle between calmness and rage, A new chapter’s beginning; don’t turn the last page.
I listen again to the whispering waves, Music of nature calming and brave. Its power unknown, its stillness untamed, Mysterious and magical, a treasure earth claims.
By Edel T. Copeland
***
Your Words Of Love
I have seemingly missed your words of love, Those words that were written in the sand And erased by the first wave. Do you remember, my love? I have enclosed them hermetically With that last kiss. And, after that, Another kiss And another exotic beach And another feeling, autumnal feeling, Of another ostensible seemingly love Fulfilled my nothingness… Among corals and shells, Dried by the winds of the sea, I awake in following my lost steps, Taken by the waves And redirected to the great unknown in the sea, That great eternal….. I still love you, I love you more, miss you more. Yes, I still miss you And I realize that all I can do now Is to lodge near the moan of the sea sand, Which feels like a silk slipped worn-out dress, When I touch it. And slantingly I elect the oblivion, When I want to kiss again and again Your gray-haired temple, But, in reverting, I receive only The kiss of our child…
Poems about the Sun are poems not only about the astronomical star, but also about a «sunny» man, about a good mood, and about a peaceful sky overhead. Because the Sun is a symbol of peace, creation, and stability. Poems about the sun will give you a good mood. The Sun is not greedy, it is always ready to share its warmth and light with us.
After all the rain, the sun Shines on hill and grassy mead; Fly into the garden, child, You are very glad indeed.
For the days have been so dull, Oh, so special dark and drear, That you told me, “Mr. Sun Has forgotten we live here.”
Dew upon the lily lawn, Dew upon the garden beds; Daintly from all the leaves Pop the little primrose heads.
And the violets in the copse With their parasols of green Take a little peek at you; They’re the bluest you have seen.
On the lilac tree a bird Singing first a little not, Then a burst of happy song Bubbles in his lifted throat.
O the sun, the comfy sun! This the song that you must sing, “Thank you for the birds, the flowers, Thank you, sun, for everything.”
***
«A Good Boy» by Robert Louis Stevenson
I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day, I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play.
And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood, And I am very happy, for I know that I’ve been good.
My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair, And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer.
I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise, No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes.
But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn, And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn.
***
«A Little Song» by Amy Lowell
When you, my Dear, are away, away, How wearily goes the creeping day. A year drags after morning, and night Starts another year of candle light. O Pausing Sun and Lingering Moon! Grant me, I beg of you, this boon.
Whirl round the earth as never sun Has his diurnal journey run. And, Moon, slip past the ladders of air In a single flash, while your streaming hair Catches the stars and pulls them down To shine on some slumbering Chinese town. O Kindly Sun! Understanding Moon! Bring evening to crowd the footsteps of noon.
But when that long awaited day Hangs ripe in the heavens, your voyaging stay. Be morning, O Sun! with the lark in song, Be afternoon for ages long. And, Moon, let you and your lesser lights Watch over a century of nights.
***
«A Miracle For Breakfast» by Elizabeth Bishop
At six o’clock we were waiting for coffee, waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb that was going to be served from a certain balcony –like kings of old, or like a miracle. It was still dark. One foot of the sun steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.
The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river. It was so cold we hoped that the coffee would be very hot, seeing that the sun was not going to warm us; and that the crumb would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle. At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.
He stood for a minute alone on the balcony looking over our heads toward the river. A servant handed him the makings of a miracle, consisting of one lone cup of coffee and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb, his head, so to speak, in the clouds–along with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under the sun was he trying to do, up there on his balcony! Each man received one rather hard crumb, which some flicked scornfully into the river, and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee. Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.
I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle. A beautiful villa stood in the sun and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee. In front, a baroque white plaster balcony added by birds, who nest along the river, –I saw it with one eye close to the crumb–
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb my mansion, made for me by a miracle, through ages, by insects, birds, and the river working the stone. Every day, in the sun, at breakfast time I sit on my balcony with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee. A window across the river caught the sun as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
***
«An Evening Song» by Sidney Lanier
Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea, How long they kiss in sight of all the lands. Ah! longer, longer, we.
Now in the sea’s red vintage melts the sun, As Egypt’s pearl dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra night drinks all. ‘Tis done, Love, lay thine hand in mine.
Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven’s heart; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. O night! divorce our sun and sky apart Never our lips, our hands.
***
«April Rain» by Mathilde Blind
The April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers, Then from the furrow shoots the grain, And banks are fledged with nestling flowers; And in grey shaw and woodland bowers The cuckoo through the April rain Calls once again.
The April sun, the April sun, Glints through the rain in fitful splendour, And in grey shaw and woodland dun The little leaves spring forth and tender Their infant hands, yet weak and slender, For warmth towards the April sun, One after one.
And between shower and shine hath birth The rainbow’s evanescent glory; Heaven’s light that breaks on mists of earth! Frail symbol of our human story, It flowers through showers where, looming hoary, The rain-clouds flash with April mirth, Like Life on earth.
***
«Brown And Agile Child» by Pablo Neruda
Brown and agile child, the sun which forms the fruit And ripens the grain and twists the seaweed Has made your happy body and your luminous eyes And given your mouth the smile of water.
A black and anguished sun is entangled in the twigs Of your black mane when you hold out your arms. You play in the sun as in a tidal river And it leaves two dark pools in your eyes.
Brown and agile child, nothing draws me to you, Everything pulls away from me here in the noon. You are the delirious youth of bee, The drunkedness of the wave, the power of the wheat.
My somber heart seeks you always I love your happy body, your rich, soft voice. Dusky butterfly, sweet and sure Like the wheatfiled, the sun, the poppy, and the water.
***
«Dance of the Sunbeams» by Bliss Carman
When morning is high o’er the hilltops, On river and stream and lake, Wherever a young breeze whispers, The sun-clad dancers wake.
One after one up-springing, They flash from their dim retreat. Merry as running laughter Is the news of their twinkling feet.
Over the floors of azure Wherever the wind-flaws run, Sparkling, leaping, and racing, Their antics scatter the sun.
As long as water ripples And weather is clear and glad, Day after day they are dancing, Never a moment sad.
But when through the field of heaven The wings of storm take flight, At a touch of the flying shadows They falter and slip from sight.
Until at the gray day’s ending, As the squadrons of cloud retire, They pass in the triumph of sunset With banners of crimson fire.
***
«God’s Gold» by Annette Wynne
God placed a gold mint in the sky— Large and bright, a heaping store— So earth can every day have more, He keeps it high,
He scatters gold abroad at day In shining beams; then far and near Dandelions gold appear Along the way.
This is God’s gold dropped from the skies, He gives it lavishly to earth— O take it, spend it, learn its worth— All ye with eyes!
***
«I’ll tell you how the sun rose» by Emily Dickinson
I’ll tell you how the sun rose, – A ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, “That must have been the sun!”
But how he set, I know not. There seemed a purple stile. Which little yellow boys and girls Were climbing all the while
Till when they reached the other side, A dominie in gray Put gently up the evening bars, And led the flock away.
***
«If I Were A Sunbeam» by Alice Cary
“If I were a sunbeam, I know what I’d do; I would seek white lilies, Roaming woodlands through. I would steal among them, Softest light I’d shed, Until every lily Raised its drooping head.
“If I were a sunbeam, I know where I’d go; Into lowly hovels, Dark with want and woe: Till sad hearts looked upward, I would shine and shine; Then they’d think of heaven, Their sweet home and mine.”
Are you not a sunbeam, Child, whose life is glad With an inner brightness Sunshine never had? Oh, as God has blessed you, Scatter light divine! For there is no sunbeam But must die or shine.
***
«In Summer Time» by Paul Laurence Dunbar
When summer time has come, and all The world is in the magic thrall Of perfumed airs that lull each sense To fits of drowsy indolence; When skies are deepest blue above, And flow’rs aflush,—then most I love To start, while early dews are damp, And wend my way in woodland tramp Where forests rustle, tree on tree, And sing their silent songs to me; Where pathways meet and pathways part,— To walk with Nature heart by heart, Till wearied out at last I lie Where some sweet stream steals singing by A mossy bank; where violets vie In color with the summer sky,— Or take my rod and line and hook, And wander to some darkling brook, Where all day long the willows dream, And idly droop to kiss the stream, And there to loll from morn till night— Unheeding nibble, run, or bite— Just for the joy of being there And drinking in the summer air, The summer sounds, and summer sights, That set a restless mind to rights When grief and pain and raging doubt Of men and creeds have worn it out; The birds’ song and the water’s drone, The humming bee’s low monotone, The murmur of the passing breeze, And all the sounds akin to these, That make a man in summer time Feel only fit for rest and rhyme. Joy springs all radiant in my breast; Though pauper poor, than king more blest, The tide beats in my soul so strong That happiness breaks forth in song, And rings aloud the welkin blue With all the songs I ever knew. O time of rapture! time of song! How swiftly glide thy days along Adown the current of the years, Above the rocks of grief and tears! ‘Tis wealth enough of joy for me In summer time to simply be.
***
«In The Puddles» by Ernestine Northover
Rain bashing, rain crashing, In the puddles, children splashing, Mother’s tongue has started lashing, Everyone is wet!
Rain slopping, rain stopping, In the puddles, children hopping, Mother’s hands have started mopping, Everyone, I bet!
Sun waking, sun breaking, In the puddles, children quaking, Mother’s arms have started shaking, Everyone, she’ll net!
Sun applying, sun drying, In the puddles, children crying, Mother’s breath is now a sighing, Everyone’s upset!
Sun gleaming, sun scheming, In the puddles, children steaming! Mother’s smile, now is beaming, Everyone’s her pet!
***
«Mining the Sunshine» by Amos Russel Wells
Some day, when the hollow mines Yield their final, grudging toll, When from out those drear confines Comes the last black lump of coal, Then, in chill and dark despair We shall learn to look on high To the quarry of the air, To the coal-fields of the sky!
Where the sun in quietness Bends his ample daily course, There descends to cheer and bless A Niagara of force. Steadily ’tis pouring down, An incessant, copious yield, On the house-tops of the town, On the reaches of the field
Here no strike and no combine Will disturb the course of trade Every man will boldly mine In the sunfield unafraid Every man will take his own Fuel to his utmost need And the sun upon his throne Will rebuke our human greed
***
«My Sunset» by Theo Williams
The sun sets on the horizon from the distant land, Where birds chirp and couples lay hand in hand. I look at the sun to say goodbye, To the beautiful colours that paint the sky.
Shades of orange, yellow and pink, Fluffy white clouds, into my heart they sink. And although I hate to see the sun go, Its beauty and love has been my show.
I’ve seen the sunset so many times, Yet it’s still the most favourite sight of mine. Its exquisiteness strikes warm in the month December, Its irreplaceable memory I will always remember.
There will be no sadness, nor any sorrow, Because my sun, you will rise tomorrow. I won’t feel hurt, nor feel any pain, Because on your way down, your beauty will reign.
***
«Ode to the Sun» by Eloise Bibb
How many scenes, O sun, Hast thou not shone upon! How many tears, O light, Have dropped before thy sight! How many heart-felt sighs, How many piercing cries, How many deeds of woe, Dost thy bright light not know!
How many broken hearts, That are pierced by sorrow’s darts; How many maddened brains, That are wild with passion’s rains; How many soul-sick lives, Stabbed with despair’s sharp knives, Hast thou above the skies, Not seen with thy radiant eyes!
Shine on, majestic one! Shine on, O glorious sun! And never fail to cheer My life so dark and drear. Whene’er thou shinest bright, And show thy brilliant light, The cares I know each day Silently steal away.
***
«Sonnet 8» by Henry Howard
Set me where as the sun doth parch the green,
Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice;
In temperate heat where he is felt and seen;
With proud people, in presence sad and wise;
Set me in base, or yet in high degree,
In the long night, or in the shortest day,
In clear weather, or where mists thickest be,
In lost youth, or when my hairs be grey;
Set me in earth, in heaven, or yet in hell,
In hill, in dale, or in the foaming flood;
Thrall, or at large, alive where so I dwell,
Sick, or in health, in ill fame or good:
Yours will I be, and with that only thought
Comfort myself when that my hope is nought.
***
«Summer Song» by George Barker
I looked into my heart to write And found a desert there. But when I looked again I heard Howling and proud in every word The hyena despair.
Great summer sun, great summer sun, All loss burns in trophies; And in the cold sheet of the sky Lifelong the fishlipped lovers lie Kissing catastrophes.
O loving garden where I lay When under the breasted tree My son stood up behind my eyes And groaned: Remember that the price Is vinegar for me.
Great summer sun, great summer sun, Turn back to the designer: I would not be the one to start The breaking day and the breaking heart For all the grief in China.
My one, my one, my only love, Hide, hide your face in a leaf, And let the hot tear falling burn The stupid heart that will not learn The everywhere of grief.
Great summer sun, great summer sun, Turn back to the never-never Cloud-cuckoo, happy, far-off land Where all the love is true love, and True love goes on for ever.
***
«Summer Sun» by Robert Louis Stevenson
Great is the sun, and wide he goes Through empty heaven without repose; And in the blue and glowing days More thick than rain he showers his rays.
Though closer still the blinds we pull To keep the shady parlour cool, Yet he will find a chink or two To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic spider-clad, He, through the keyhole, maketh glad; And through the broken edge of tiles, Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
Meantime his golden face around He bares to all the garden ground, And sheds a warm and glittering look Among the ivy’s inmost nook.
Above the hills, along the blue, Round the bright air with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The gardener of the World, he goes.
***
«The Sun» by Annette Wynne
Long before the postman comes The sun begins to rise, Far in the East if you should look You’d find it in the skies. At first it’s just a streak of light Then all at once the world gets bright. Then in the sky from East to West The happy sun goes on its way. And all day long it shines its best To give us pleasant day. Dear God, who made the day and night, We thank Thee for the sun’s good light.
***
«The Sun Rising» by John Donne
Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.
She’s all states, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus.
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.
***
«The Sun Travels» by Robert Louis Stevenson
The sun is not a-bed, when I At night upon my pillow lie; Still round the earth his way he takes, And morning after morning makes.
While here at home, in shining day, We round the sunny garden play, Each little Indian sleepy-head Is being kissed and put to bed.
And when at eve I rise from tea, Day dawns beyond the Atlantic Sea; And all the children in the West Are getting up and being dressed.
***
«The Sunbeam» by Richard Coe
The sunbeam, the sunbeam, It cheers the drooping heart To see the glorious sunbeam Its golden light impart.
The sunbeam, the sunbeam, It smiles on the earth; And through the jewels of the sky The rainbow springs to birth.
So, like the sunbeam, let us strive That our glad light be given To bless and beautify the earth, And turn our thoughts to heaven!
***
«The Sun’s Wooing» by Emily Dickinson
The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.
She felt herself supremer, — A raised, ethereal thing; Henceforth for her what holiday! Meanwhile, her wheeling king
Trailed slow along the orchards His haughty, spangled hems, Leaving a new necessity, — The want of diadems!
The morning fluttered, staggered, Felt feebly for her crown, — Her unanointed forehead Henceforth her only one.
***
«The Sunshine Has a Pleasant Way» by Annette Wynne
The sunshine has a pleasant way Of shining on us all the day, It makes the little window bright, And fills the room with pretty light.
It goes into the garden bed, And shines on every flower head; It warms each leaf and bud and seed Till all the world is glad, indeed.
It creeps into the children’s faces And climbs into the highest places, It makes me want to work and sing And do my best in everything.
I’m glad the sunshine comes each day To help me work and laugh and play; To keep the little window bright And fill the room with pretty light.
***
«To Summer» by William Blake
O Thou who passest thro’ our vallies in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Oft pitched’st here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car Rode o’er the deep of heaven; beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy vallies, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream: Our vallies love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are fam’d who strike the silver wire: Our youth are bolder than the southern swains: Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance: We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
***
«When The Sun Come After Rain» by Robert Louis Stevenson
WHEN the sun comes after rain And the bird is in the blue, The girls go down the lane Two by two.
When the sun comes after shadow And the singing of the showers, The girls go up the meadow, Fair as flowers.
When the eve comes dusky red And the moon succeeds the sun, The girls go home to bed One by one.
And when life draws to its even And the day of man is past, They shall all go home to heaven, Home at last.
***
«Women Washing Their Hair» by Carl Sandburg
They have painted and sung the women washing their hair, and the plaits and strands in the sun, and the golden combs and the combs of elephant tusks and the combs of buffalo horn and hoof.
The sun has been good to women, drying their heads of hair as they stooped and shook their shoulders and framed their faces with copper and framed their eyes with dusk or chestnut.
The rain has been good to women. If the rain should forget, if the rain left off for a year— the heads of women would wither, the copper, the dusk and chestnuts, go.
They have painted and sung the women washing their hair— reckon the sun and rain in, too.
***
«You Are My Sunrise» by Theo Williams
The sun is smiling as I open my eyes Birds serenading the awoken sky. I watch from my window the sun climbing a hill Spreading its glimmer so beautiful.
Trees catch the amber and red glow Rising sun embracing me with love she bestows. Caresses the clouds with her pink gleams And sees her reflection in the crystal blue stream.
I look up at the cerulean sky I feel God deposit heaven in my eyes. This view is that of celestial Giving a blessing upon the terrestrial.
She gives me hope to conquer my day Free my problems and take my sorrows away. She quenches my soul with kind bliss And injects myself with tenderness.
My dear girl you have me in a paradise My dear beauty you have me mesmerised Because you are my lovely sun rise. I love you.
Smiles and laughter are an essential part of our lives. When we laugh, we truly live. Here is a selection of poems about smiles and laughter. Let it lift your spirits! Read touching and sweet poems and do not forget to smile and enjoy every moment of your life.
Perhaps she is one who is not free of guile But she is one who has such a beautiful smile And a beautiful smile carries one a long way It does more for one than words can ever say, No doubt she’s not perfect we all have our flaws The feline who often purrs is known to use her claws But a smile from a stranger just in passing by Can bring to your day a small flutter of joy, On my cares and worries i did silently brood As i walked down the street in an out of sorts mood But a beautiful smile and a warm hello From a lovely young woman one i did not know Helped for to bring a little joy to my day For the best things in life we do not need to pay.
***
«A Reason To Smile» by Lisa French
A reason to smile Is that it looks better than a frown It makes you feel happy With no sense of feeling down
A reason to smile Is that your smiles so bright You could replace our sun Your smiles full of light
A reason to smile Is you’ll always look your best Even though you always do You’ll feel more blessed
A reason to smile Is others look up to you They want to be the same Someone who is true
A reason to smile Is that it shows who you are So go on and smile And shine like a star
***
«A Smile» by Daniel C. Colesworthy
A smile! – who will refuse a smile, The sorrowing breast to cheer, And turn to love the heart of guile, And check the falling tear
It speaks of kindness and of love, A generous sympathy; And lifts, on golden wings above, The child of penury.
A pleasant smile for every face Oh, ’tis a blessed thing! It will the lines of care erase, And spots of beauty bring.
‘Twill calm the passions, and subdue The ingrate’s fiercest rage; With buds and blossoms sweetly strew The path of youth and age.
***
«Awake To Smile » by Robert William Service
When I blink sunshine in my eyes And hail the amber morn, Before the rosy dew-drop dries With sparkle on the thorn; When boughs with robin rapture ring, And bees hum in the may,– Then call me young, with heart of Spring, Though I be grey.
But when no more I know the joy And urgence of that hour, As like a happy-hearted boy I leap to land aflower; When gusto I no longer feel, To rouse with glad hooray,– Then call me old and let me steal From men away.
Let me awaken with a smile And go to garden glee, For there is such a little while Of living left to me; But when star-wist I frail away, Lord, let the hope beguile That to Ecstatic Light I may Awake to smile.
***
«Baby Picture» by Anne Sexton
It’s in the heart of the grape where that smile lies. It’s in the good-bye-bow in the hair where that smile lies. It’s in the clerical collar of the dress where that smile lies. What smile? The smile of my seventh year, caught here in the painted photograph.
It’s peeling now, age has got it, a kind of cancer of the background and also in the assorted features. It’s like a rotten flag or a vegetable from the refrigerator, pocked with mold. I am aging without sound, into darkness, darkness.
Anne, who are you?
I open the vein and my blood rings like roller skates. I open the mouth and my teeth are an angry army. I open the eyes and they go sick like dogs with what they have seen. I open the hair and it falls apart like dust balls. I open the dress and I see a child bent on a toilet seat. I crouch there, sitting dumbly pushing the enemas out like ice cream, letting the whole brown world turn into sweets.
Anne, who are you?
Merely a kid keeping alive.
***
«Beauty’s Song» by Charles Lamb
What’s Life still changing ev’ry hour? Tis all the seasons in a Day! The Smile, the Tear, the Sun, the Shows Tis now December, now tis May At morn we hail some envied Queen; At eve she sinks some Cottage guest; Yet if contentment gilds the scene Contentment makes the Cottage blest.
Who more than I, this truth can feel? I feel it yet am charm’d to find While thus I turn the spinning-wheel The station humbles not the mind. Ah no! in days of youth and health Nature will smile tho’ fortune frown Be this my song Content is wealth’ And duty ev’ry toil shall crown.
***
«It Starts With A Smile» by Catherine Pulsifer
It starts with a smile then a chuckle Before you know it laughter explodes like a bubble From the bottom of your toes Laughter rises up to your nose.
Laughter when heard Causes smiles inward And when children laugh It can double you in half.
A good laugh can cure Any little old sore It can make you feel happy and glad A much better feeling than being sad.
Laughter is good for you It will help in all you do. Spread it around and see People will be more happy!
***
«It’s Better To Smile» by David V. Bush
Lose temper, and all must perish; Smile, and you’ll put er through! An angry frown puts your true self down – So smile, and dare, and do!
When your rage seems too hot to smother. And the world bears a crimson hue, Don’t play the fool – take a moment to cool – Just smile, and you’ll push ‘er through!
When you feel like tearing and rending. Just pause for a saner view. There is naught to gain from your wrathful pain- So smile, and you’ll push ‘er through!
Lose your temper, and you are vanquished: Smile, and you’ll put ‘er through; For anger’s the first of your foes – and worst – So smile, and dare, and do!
***
«Keep On Smiling» by Alexandra Skiathitis
If at times you feel you want to cry And life seems such a trial, Above the clouds there’s a bright blue sky, So make your tears a smile.
As you travel on life’s way With its many ups and downs, Remember it’s quite true to say One smile is worth a dozen frowns.
Among the world’s expensive things, A smile is very cheap. And when you give a smile away, You get one back to keep.
Happiness comes at times to all, But sadness comes unbidden, And sometimes a few tears must fall Among the laughter hidden.
So when friends have sadness on their face And troubles round them piled, The world will seem a better place And all because you smiled.
***
«Laughter» by Edgar A. Guest
Laughter sort o’ settles breakfast better than digestive pills; Found it, somehow in my travels, cure for every sort of ills; When the hired help have riled me with their slipshod, careless ways, An’ I’m bilin’ mad an’ cussin’ an’ my temper’s all ablaze, If the calf gets me to laughin’ while they’re teachin’ him to feed Pretty soon I’m feelin’ better, ’cause I’ve found the cure I need.
Like to start the day with laughter; when I’ve had a peaceful night, An’ can greet the sun all smilin’, that day’s goin’ to be all right. But there’s nothing goes to suit me, when my system’s full of bile; Even horses quit their pullin’ when the driver doesn’t smile, But they’ll buckle to the traces when they hear a glad giddap, Just as though they like to labor for a cheerful kind o’ chap.
Laughter keeps me strong an’ healthy. You can bet I’m all run down, Fit for doctor folks an’ nurses when I cannot shake my frown. Found in farmin’ laughter’s useful, good for sheep an’ cows an’ goats; When I’ve laughed my way through summer, reap the biggest crop of oats. Laughter’s good for any business, leastwise so it seems to me Never knew a smilin’ feller but was busy as could be.
Sometimes sit an’ think about it, ponderin’ on the ways of life, Wonderin’ why mortals gladly face the toil an care an’ strife, Then I come to this conclusion–take it now for what it’s worth It’s the joy of laughter keeps us plodding on this stretch of earth. Men the fun o’ life are seeking–that’s the reason for the calf Spillin’ mash upon his keeper–men are hungry for a laugh.
***
«Let’s Be Clowns» by Wilhelmina Stitch
Chalk-white faces, spangled gowns, Airs and graces, capering clowns! Noses painted (reds and browns); Look! they’ve fainted; foolish clowns! East and west, cities, towns, clap with zest circus clowns. Speak no word – verbs or nouns.
Quite absurd, much-loved clowns. What a fall! Smiles, no frowns. Best of all- these agile clowns. Daddy roars, so does mother. That clown scores, smacks his brother. Life must bring ups and downs.
In life’s ring let’s be clowns! Learn their way to make folk smile; Dullest day, hardest mile. In life’s ring let’s be clowns; Laugh and sing at ups and downs!
***
«Mona Lisa’s Smile» by Marilyn Lott
She has a mysterious smile Folks wonder what it means It’s been written in the text books And envisioned in some dreams
Nat King Cole crooned a song About Mona Lisa’s smile Folks have wondered curiously And studied her awhile
Did she smile because of love? That wistful little grin A thought perhaps in her mind As she remembered him?
Did her face appear in a dream Her talented artist had one night? Or was it, in fact, the face of the man Who sketched his own mirrored sight?
Of course no one will ever know The true story of the smile But it’s great fun, don’t you think? For she truly could beguile!
***
«My Adorable Friend» by Sonali Ganguly
a friend so loving, adorable and rare; a heart so tender, full of care. special is the relation which we do share; which returned smile to my every single tear. lets the bond be strong, so time may not dare; to kill it into pieces and break it ever. relations never die being far or near; let us promise to be friends forever. affectionate as ever you have been; such a pure soul had i never seen. lost those smile you’ll regain; may life shower on you a joyous rain. may the starts ever shine upon you; filling your life with a golden hue. to make the pages of life complete and fine; lucky i’m to have you as friend of mine.
***
«November» by William Cullen Bryant
Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air, Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds ran, Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare. One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, And the blue Gentian flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skim the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, And man delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.
***
«Only A Smile» by Mathilde Blind
No butterfly whose frugal fare Is breath of heliotrope and clove, And other trifles light as air, Could live on less than doth my love.
That childlike smile that comes and goes About your gracious lips and eyes, Hath all the sweetness of the rose, Which feeds the freckled butterflies.
I feed my love on smiles, and yet Sometimes I ask, with tears of woe, How had it been if we had met, If you had met me long ago,
Before the fast, defacing years Had made all ill that once was well? Ah, then your smiling breeds such tears As Tantalus may weep in hell.
***
«Reason To Smile» by Lendl Ian Servillon
How can one smile such sweet smiles, When one is so saddened by sorrows for miles, How can I smile the same smiles, When life brings me nothing but tears,
I wondered for so long, What reason you had to smile that long, To keep smiling though troubles come, And still remain sweet and silently overcome,
It’s such a mystery to me, Your smiles from heaven with glee, I adore and yet envy thee, But I’d rather you smile those at me,
I feel happy when I see you smile, Even if I’m sad and lonely, Your smiles bring me somewhere, I don’t even know where,
But it was you, You gave me the reason to smile, To smile with no reason, To smile for a smile,
I guess life is just like that, We need not a reason to smile, For a smile is the reason itself, To rejoice and open-heartedly give thanks,
I learned to smile because of you, Because your smiles bring me joy when blue, It proves how well and powerful, A simple sweet smile can become so beautiful,
Smile for the sake of a smile, Smile for the sake of happiness, Smile for the sake of life, Smile because of hope left in life,
Smile my friends, Smile for me my Love, Smile those same sweet smiles, Smile so the world can be a peaceful dove…
***
«Smile At Me» by Ernestine Northover
Can’t you just smile back at me When I send a smile to you, Why is it that your lips are tight And seem so frosty blue, Can’t you let your mouth just raise Both sides a little bit, Or is it that my face just doesn’t, In your mind, quite fit. If you would smile, your face would be A very handsome one, And I believe that you and I Could have a lot of fun, But until you give a welcome grin, There’s nothing I can do, Except, when you look across at me, I’ll keep smiling back at you.
***
«Smile, Smile, Smile» by Walterrean Salley
A smile will pick you up When you are down. It’ll make you feel better— Turn your day around. So get yourself a smile, And get rid of the frown. Smile. Smile. Smile.
Smile at the sky, Smile at the sun. Smile at the flowers Just for fun. Smile if you’re dragging Or on the run. Smile. Smile. Smile.
Smile when you’re happy And when you are sad. Smile when you’re grumpy, It’ll make you feel glad. It could be the best day You’ve ever had If you Smile. Smile. Smile.
Smile at the sky, Smile at the sun. Smile at the flowers Just for fun. Smile if you’re dragging Or on the run. Smile. Smile. Smile. Do yourself a favor and smile
***
«Smiles» by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Smile a little, smile a little, As you go along, Not alone when life is pleasant, But when things go wrong. Care delights to see you frowning, Loves to hear you sigh; Turn a smiling face upon her – Quick the dame will fly.
Smile a little, smile a little, All along the road; Every life must have its burden, Every heart its load. Why sit down in gloom and darkness With your grief to sup? As you drink Fate’s bitter tonic, Smile across the cup.
Smile upon the troubled pilgrims Whom you pass and meet; Frowns are thorns, and smiles are blossoms Oft for weary feet. Do not make the way seem harder By a sullen face; Smile a little, smile a little, Brighten up the place.
Smile upon your undone labour; Not for one who grieves O’er his task waits wealth or glory; He who smiles achieves. Though you meet with loss and sorrow In the passing years, Smile a little, smile a little, Even through your tears.
***
«Sunshine Of Your Smile» by David Harris
Everyday that I wake something wonderful waits for me the sunshine of your smile, that I what I wake to see. Outside maybe gloomy, dark clouds may mar the blue, but then I look around, and what do I see, the sunshine of your smile, that warms the heart of me. No tears of sorrow, at what tomorrow might bring, because your face is lit up, with the sunshine of your smile.
***
«The Cost Of A Smile» by Catherine Pulsifer
Can you put a dollar on Can you pretend and con Can you just turn the dial And bring on a common smile.
Priceless is a smile or a grin For someone whose life feels dim Money can never replace That common smile on your face.
What has never gone out of style Why it is that common smile. It cost you nothing to give So smile, grin, laugh and live!
***
«The Gladness Of Nature» by William Cullen Bryant
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?
There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
The clouds are at play in the azure space, And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale.
There’s a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There’s a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There’s a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles; Ay, look, and he’ll smile thy gloom away.
***
«The Made To Order Smile» by Paul Laurence Dunbar
When a woman looks up at you with a twist about her eyes, And her brows are half uplifted in a nicely feigned surprise As you breathe some pretty sentence, though she hates you all the while, She is very apt to stun you with a made to order smile.
It’s a sublte combination of a sneer and a caress, With a dash of warmth thrown in to relieve its iciness, And she greets you when she meets you with that look as if a file Had been used to fix and fashion out the made to order smile.
I confess that I’m eccentric and am not a woman’s man, For they seem to be constructed on the bunko fakir plan, And it somehow sets me thinking that her heart is full of guile When a woman looks up at me with a made to order smile.
Now, all maidens, young and aged, hear the lesson I would teach: Ye who meet us in the ballroom, ye who meet us at the beach, Pray consent to try and charm us by some other sort of wile And relieve us from the burden of that made to order smile.
***
«The Moon Is A Painter» by Vachel Lindsay
He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor In that devoted way.
And in the end it pleased her, But bowed him more with care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly, Her soul-smile was not there.
That night he groped without a lamp To find a cloak, a book, And on the vexing portrait By moonrise chanced to look.
The color-scheme was out of key, The maiden rose-smile faint, But through the blessed darkness She gleamed, his friendly saint.
The comrade, white, immortal, His bride, and more than bride— The citizen, the sage of mind, For whom he lived and died.
***
«The Service Of Smiles» by W. C. Martin
Go smiling through this world of care, And make the days more bright and fair. So much the clouds o’erspread the sky, So many hopes and comforts die, And we can all some cheer impart To soothe a dull and careworn heart. He serves the Lord who thus beguiles The gloom from souls with sunny smiles.
Go smiling through this world of care; ‘Twill easy make the loads to bear, And bring some rest and sweet relief To souls borne down by care and grief. In each one’s heart some sadness lies, And tears have bathed all human eyes. He serves the Master who beguiles The gloom away with sunny smiles.
Go smiling all the way along, And fill the days with joy and song; Go speak a word of hope and cheer To every soul that passes near: For each of them as well as thee That blood was shed on Calvary. Ah, Christlike he is who beguiles Away both care and grief with smiles.
***
«The Smile» by William Blake
There is a Smile of Love
And there is a Smile of Deceit
And there is a Smile of Smiles
In which these two Smiles meet
And there is a Frown of Hate
And there is a Frown of disdain
And there is a Frown of Frowns
Which you strive to forget in vain
For it sticks in the Hearts deep Core
And it sticks in the deep Back bone
And no Smile that ever was smild
But only one Smile alone
That betwixt the Cradle & Grave
It only once Smild can be
But when it once is Smild
Theres an end to all Misery
***
«The Transformation» by G. Luther Weibel
When the clouds obscure the sky, And the world seems all awry; And the rain comes pouring down, And there’s trouble all around; When someone speaks a word unkind, And worries seem to fill the mind; When my thoughts are very blue Because there’s so much to do; I place a smile upon my face And note the change that’s taking place. The clouds just seem to fade away, The world and all around seems gay; The rains have washed the face of earth, Revealing much that is of worth; And other faces seem to shine Into the smiling face of mine; The task that seemed so hard to do Was quickly done, and better, too; The world seemed happier to be Because there was a smile on me.
***
«The Vital Accompaniment» by Strickland Gillilan
The wise admonition goes deeper, they say, If you smile when you give it. Your righteous life lures other feet to the Way If you smile while you live it. The word of good cheer finds the heart you had meant – Sinks into the spirit to which it was sent – Lends all of the help it was meant to have lent If you smile when you give it.
The money you handed that brother in need – Did you smile when you gave it? His pride may have hurt till it made his heart bleed – Nought but smiling could save it. Not an impudent smirk or a meaningless grin, Not a smile just as deep as your outermost skin – But a love-laden smile, with sweet confidence in – That will help him to brave it.
***
«Times When I Smile» by Sandra Osborne
You may not even know me, Or know what I mean, Understand my world, Or hear me when I scream.
You may not ever see me, Or ever touch my mind, Because all that is real Are only dreams in time.
Don’t try to fit me in To your ridged mold, All the world is free, At least, thats what I’m told.
So please, don’t scream and worry Or cry for me at night. No matter how I’m different, I will win my fight.
I will be the victor Of all my many trials, Because all that’s real are dreams, And times when I smile.
***
«To The Evening Star» by William Blake
Thou fair-haired angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed! Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy west wing sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon, Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, And the lion glares through the dun forest. The fleeces of our flocks are covered with Thy sacred dew; protect with them with thine influence.
***
«Value It Brings» by Catherine Pulsifer
Value it brings to everyone It is like a little burst of sun. Never underestimate the thing That a friendly smile will bring.
You may think that little grin Could start a smile within It’s like a chuckle for the fellow Who breaks into a laugh and bellows
Smiles have a value you see And even better they are free So give one of yours away And brighten someone else’s day!
***
«Worth Its Weight in Gold» by Catherine Pulsifer
Is a smile is worth its weight in gold It is something that can’t be bought or sold. A smile is worth so much more It is a facial expression we adore.
Is a smile worth going the extra mile for When your smilin’ you won’t be bored A smile given in forgiveness is pure To stop an argument it can cure.
A smile is worth opening the door You’ll be amazed at what is in store You see a smile is worth its weight in gold It is welcome and never old.
***
«Worth While» by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
It is easy enough to be pleasant, When life flows by like a song, But the man worth while is one who will smile, When everything goes dead wrong. For the test of the heart is trouble, And it always comes with the years, And the smile that is worth the praises of earth Is the smile that shines through tears.
It is easy enough to be prudent, When nothing tempts you to stray, When without or within no voice of sin Is luring your soul away; But it’s only a negative virtue Until it is tried by fire, And the life that is worth the honor of earth Is the one that resists desire.
By the cynic, the sad, the fallen, Who had no strength for the strife, The world’s highway is cumbered to-day; They make up the sum of life. But the virtue that conquers passion, And the sorrow that hides in a smile, It is these that are worth the homage on earth For we find them but once in a while.
***
«Your Beautiful Smile» by Freespirit Juneja
Your Beautiful Smile
Life is a mystical winding Woven around happy and sad things It flows like ripples of water Turned me into perpetual carter Mirth & peace play games of guile But I never realized It’s next to me, your beautiful smile
Rarely, blink my eye on odd notion Life’s filled with dreary commotion Whole year seems concised in a day My own shadow made me partying bay Happiness seemed to be so labile But I never realized, It’s always next to me, your beautiful smile
The Smile Beautifully unzips around your face Annihilate griefs without trace Arouse me to pinnacle of elation Embraces me this beautiful creation Melodramatic life made me fragile Protected and cared by your beautiful smile
The stars have fascinated poets for centuries. It is a fundamental, beautiful, and unexplored mystery. What we are able to see from Earth gives us no idea of it. The stars have played an enormous role throughout history. They have been grouped into constellations and used in astrology. The creators of the first calendars also drew their theories from the night sky. Poets beautifully and romantically describe these celestial decorations in these lines.
Beautiful star with the crimson lips And flagrant daffodil hair, Come back, come back, in the shaking ships O’er the much-overrated sea, To the hearts that are sick for thee With a woe worse than mal de mer- O beautiful stars with the crimson lips And the flagrant daffodil hair. – O ship that shakes on the desolate sea, Neath the flag of the wan White Star, Thou bringest a brighter star with thee From the land of the Philistine, Where Niagara’s reckoned fine And Tupper is popular- O ship that shakes on the desolate sea, Neath the flag of the wan White Star.
***
«A Song Of Eternity In Time» by Sidney Lanier
Once, at night, in the manor wood My Love and I long silent stood, Amazed that any heavens could Decree to part us, bitterly repining. My Love, in aimless love and grief, Reached forth and drew aside a leaf That just above us played the thief And stole our starlight that for us was shining.
A star that had remarked her pain Shone straightway down that leafy lane, And wrought his image, mirror-plain, Within a tear that on her lash hung gleaming. “Thus Time,” I cried, “is but a tear Some one hath wept ‘twixt hope and fear, Yet in his little lucent sphere Our star of stars, Eternity, is beaming.”
***
«A Star in a Stoneboat» by Robert Frost
Never tell me that not one star of all That slip from heaven at night and softly fall Has been picked up with stones to build a wall.
Some laborer found one faded and stone-cold, And saving that its weight suggested gold And tugged it from his first too certain hold,
He noticed nothing in it to remark. He was not used to handling stars thrown dark And lifeless from an interrupted arc.
He did not recognize in that smooth coal The one thing palpable besides the soul To penetrate the air in which we roll.
He did not see how like a flying thing It brooded ant eggs, and bad one large wing, One not so large for flying in a ring,
And a long Bird of Paradise’s tail (Though these when not in use to fly and trail It drew back in its body like a snail);
Nor know that be might move it from the spot— The harm was done: from having been star-shot The very nature of the soil was hot
And burning to yield flowers instead of grain, Flowers fanned and not put out by all the rain Poured on them by his prayers prayed in vain.
He moved it roughly with an iron bar, He loaded an old stoneboat with the star And not, as you might think, a flying car,
Such as even poets would admit perforce More practical than Pegasus the horse If it could put a star back in its course.
He dragged it through the plowed ground at a pace But faintly reminiscent of the race Of jostling rock in interstellar space.
It went for building stone, and I, as though Commanded in a dream, forever go To right the wrong that this should have been so.
Yet ask where else it could have gone as well, I do not know—I cannot stop to tell: He might have left it lying where it fell.
From following walls I never lift my eye, Except at night to places in the sky Where showers of charted meteors let fly.
Some may know what they seek in school and church, And why they seek it there; for what I search I must go measuring stone walls, perch on perch;
Sure that though not a star of death and birth, So not to be compared, perhaps, in worth To such resorts of life as Mars and Earth—
Though not, I say, a star of death and sin, It yet has poles, and only needs a spin To show its worldly nature and begin
To chafe and shuffle in my calloused palm And run off in strange tangents with my arm, As fish do with the line in first alarm.
Such as it is, it promises the prize Of the one world complete in any size That I am like to compass, fool or wise.
***
«Aeolian Harp» by William Allingham
O pale green sea, With long, pale, purple clouds above – What lies in me like weight of love ? What dies in me With utter grief, because there comes no sign Through the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line ?
O salted air, Blown round the rocky headland still, What calls me there from cove and hill? What calls me fair From thee, the first-born of the youthful night, Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight ?
O yellow Star, Quivering upon the rippling tide – Sendest so far to one that sigh’d? Bendest thou, Star, Above, where the shadows of the dead have rest And constant silence, with a message from the blest?
***
«Blue-Eyed Grass of May» by Annette Wynne
Star, high star, far in the blue, I have stars more near than you, Shining from the blue-eyed grass, Peeping at me as I pass.
Star, high star, far in the blue, I wish that I could pick you, too, I know I’d love you better, star, If you were not so high and far.
My little friendly stars are found Right close to me upon the ground; You shine all night, they shine all day- They are the blue-eyed grass of May!
***
«Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art» by John Keats
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
***
«Daisies» by Frank Dempster Sherman
At evening when I go to bed I see the stars shine overhead; They are the little daisies white That dot the meadow of the Night.
And often while I’m dreaming so, Across the sky the Moon will go; It is a lady, sweet and fair, Who comes to gather daisies there.
For, when at morning I arise, There’s not a star left in the skies; She’s picked them all and dropped them down Into the meadows of the town.
***
«Evening Star» by William Blake
Thou fair hair’d angel of the evening, Now, while the sun rests on the mountains light, Thy bright torch of love; Thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed! Smile on our loves; and when thou drawest the Blue curtains, scatter thy silver dew On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full, soon, Dost thou withdraw; Then, the wolf rages wide, And the lion glares thro’ the dun forest. The fleece of our flocks are covered with Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence.
***
«Fall Of The Evening Star» by Kenneth Patchen
Speak softly; sun going down Out of sight. Come near me now.
Dear dying fall of wings as birds complain against the gathering dark…
Exaggerate the green blood in grass; the music of leaves scraping space;
Multiply the stillness by one sound; by one syllable of your name…
And all that is little is soon giant, all that is rare grows in common beauty
To rest with my mouth on your mouth as somewhere a star falls
And the earth takes it softly, in natural love… Exactly as we take each other… and go to sleep…
***
«From Sunset To Star Rise» by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not: I am no summer friend, but wintry cold, A silly sheep benighted from the fold, A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot. Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot, Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold; Lest you with me should shiver on the wold, Athirst and hungering on a barren spot. For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back, My heart goes sighing after swallows flown On sometime summer’s unreturning track.
***
«Go And Catch A Falling Star» by John Donne
Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil’s foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy’s stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be’st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee, Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me, All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear, No where Lives a woman true, and fair. If thou find’st one, let me know, Such a pilgrimage were sweet; Yet do not, I would not go, Though at next door we might meet; Though she were true, when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two, or three.
***
«Hymn to the North Star» by William Cullen Bryant
The sad and solemn night Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires; All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they: Through the blue fields afar, Unseen, they follow in his flaming way: Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him.
And thou dost see them rise, Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set. Alone, in thy cold skies, Thou keep’st thy old unmoving station yet, Nor join’st the dances of that glittering train, Nor dipp’st thy virgin orb in the blue western main.
There, at morn’s rosy birth, Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, And eve, that round the earth Chases the day, beholds thee watching there; There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven’s azure walls.
Alike, beneath thine eye, The deeds of darkness and of light are done; High towards the star-lit sky Towns blaze—the smoke of battle blots the sun— The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud— And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud.
On thy unaltering blaze The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, Fixes his steady gaze, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right.
And, therefore, bards of old, Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful way.
***
«I Go Out On The Road Alone» by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
Alone I set out on the road; The flinty path is sparkling in the mist; The night is still. The desert harks to God, And star with star converses.
The vault is overwhelmed with solemn wonder The earth in cobalt aura sleeps. . . Why do I feel so pained and troubled? What do I harbor: hope, regrets?
I see no hope in years to come, Have no regrets for things gone by. All that I seek is peace and freedom! To lose myself and sleep!
But not the frozen slumber of the grave… I’d like eternal sleep to leave My life force dozing in my breast Gently with my breath to rise and fall;
By night and day, my hearing would be soothed By voices sweet, singing to me of love. And over me, forever green, A dark oak tree would bend and rustle.
***
«Influence» by Emma Lazarus
The fervent, pale-faced Mother ere she sleep, Looks out upon the zigzag-lighted square, The beautiful bare trees, the blue night-air, The revelation of the star-strewn deep, World above world, and heaven over heaven. Between the tree-tops and the skies, her sight Rests on a steadfast, ruddy-shining light, High in the tower, an earthly star of even. Hers is the faith in saints’ and angels’ power, And mediating love–she breathes a prayer For yon tired watcher in the gray old tower. He the shrewd, skeptic poet unaware Feels comforted and stilled, and knows not whence Falls this unwonted peace on heart and sense.
***
«It Isn’t Only Flakes That Fall» by Annette Wynne
It isn’t only flakes that fall On the street and roof and all, All the day and evening hours, But white and shining stars and flowers.
A million, million tiny stars, Dropping from the cloudy bars, Falling softly all around, On my sleeve and on the ground.
A million, million flowers white, Falling softly day and night— But not a leaf or stem at all— It isn’t only flakes that fall.
***
«Japanese Lullaby» by Eugene Field
Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,– Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes; Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging– Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Away out yonder I see a star,– Silvery star with a tinkling song; To the soft dew falling I hear it calling– Calling and tinkling the night along.
In through the window a moonbeam comes,– Little gold moonbeam with misty wings; All silently creeping, it asks, “Is he sleeping– Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?”
Up from the sea there floats the sob Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore, As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning– Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,– Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; Am I not singing?–see, I am swinging– Swinging the nest where my darling lies.
***
«Love Lies Sleeping» by Elizabeth Bishop
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks that cross the sky from cinder star to star, coupling the ends of streets to trains of light.
now draw us into daylight in our beds; and clear away what presses on the brain: put out the neon shapes that float and swell and glare
down the gray avenue between the eyes in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs. Hang-over moons, wane, wane! From the window I see
an immense city, carefully revealed, made delicate by over-workmanship, detail upon detail, cornice upon facade,
reaching up so languidly up into a weak white sky, it seems to waver there. (Where it has slowly grown in skies of water-glass
from fused beads of iron and copper crystals, the little chemical “garden” in a jar trembles and stands again, pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)
The sparrows hurriedly begin their play. Then, in the West, “Boom!” and a cloud of smoke. “Boom!” and the exploding ball of blossom blooms again.
(And all the employees who work in a plants where such a sound says “Danger,” or once said “Death,” turn in their sleep and feel the short hairs bristling
on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off. A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line. Along the street below the water-wagon comes
throwing its hissing, snowy fan across peelings and newspapers. The water dries light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern of the cool watermelon.
I hear the day-springs of the morning strike from stony walls and halls and iron beds, scattered or grouped cascades, alarms for the expected:
queer cupids of all persons getting up, whose evening meal they will prepare all day, you will dine well on his heart, on his, and his,
so send them about your business affectionately, dragging in the streets their unique loves. Scourge them with roses only, be light as helium,
for always to one, or several, morning comes whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed, whose face is turned so that the image of
the city grows down into his open eyes inverted and distorted. No. I mean distorted and revealed, if he sees it at all.
***
«Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck» by William Shakespeare
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy; But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind, Or say with princes if it shall go well By oft predict that I in heaven find. But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And, constant stars, in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert: Or else of thee this I prognosticate, Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.
***
«Song of the Stars» by William Cullen Bryant
When the radiant morn of creation broke, And the world in the smile of God awoke, And the empty realms of darkness and death Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame From the void abyss by myriads came,— In the joy of youth as they darted away, Through the widening wastes of space to play, Their silver voices in chorus rung, And this was the song the bright ones sung.
“Away, away, through the wide, wide sky,— The fair blue fields that before us lie,— Each sun, with the worlds that round him roll, Each planet, poised on her turning pole; With her isles of green, and her clouds of white, And her waters that lie like fluid light.
“For the source of glory uncovers his face, And the brightness o’erflows unbounded space; And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides In our ruddy air and our blooming sides: Lo, yonder the living splendours play; Away, on our joyous path, away!
“Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, In the infinite azure, star after star, How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass! How the verdure runs o’er each rolling mass! And the path of the gentle winds is seen, Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean.
“And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower; And the morn and eve, with their pomp of hues, Shift o’er the bright planets and shed their dews; And ‘twixt them both, o’er the teeming ground, With her shadowy cone the night goes round!
“Away, away! in our blossoming bowers, In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours, In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, See, Love is brooding, and Life is born, And breathing myriads are breaking from night, To rejoice like us, in motion and light.
“Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, To weave the dance that measures the years; Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent, To the farthest wall of the firmament,— The boundless visible smile of Him, To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim.”
***
«Star Light, Star Bright» by Dorothy Parker
Star, that gives a gracious dole, What am I to choose? Oh, will it be a shriven soul, Or little buckled shoes?
Shall I wish a wedding-ring, Bright and thin and round, Or plead you send me covering- A newly spaded mound? Gentle beam, shall I implore Gold, or sailing-ships, Or beg I hate forevermore A pair of lying lips?
Swing you low or high away, Burn you hot or dim; My only wish I dare not say- Lest you should grant me him.
***
«Star Of My Heart» by Vachel Lindsay
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.
***
«Star of the east» by Eugene Field
Star of the East, that long ago Brought wise men on their way Where, angels singing to and fro, The Child of Bethlehem lay– Above that Syrian hill afar Thou shinest out to-night, O Star!
Star of the East, the night were drear But for the tender grace That with thy glory comes to cheer Earth’s loneliest, darkest place; For by that charity we see Where there is hope for all and me.
Star of the East! show us the way In wisdom undefiled To seek that manger out and lay Our gifts before the child– To bring our hearts and offer them Unto our King in Bethlehem!
***
«Star Of The East» by Eugene Field
Star of the East, that long ago Brought wise men on their way Where, angels singing to and fro, The Child of Bethlehem lay– Above that Syrian hill afar Thou shinest out to-night, O Star!
Star of the East, the night were drear But for the tender grace That with thy glory comes to cheer Earth’s loneliest, darkest place; For by that charity we see Where there is hope for all and me.
Star of the East! show us the way In wisdom undefiled To seek that manger out and lay Our gifts before the child– To bring our hearts and offer them Unto our King in Bethlehem!
***
«Starlight» by William Meredith
Going abruptly into a starry night
It is ignorance we blink from, dark, unhoused;
There is a gaze of animal delight
Before the human vision. Then, aroused
To nebulous danger, we may look for easy stars,
Orion and the Dipper; but they are not ours,
These learned fields. Dark and ignorant,
Unable to see here what our forebears saw,
We keep some fear of random firmament
Vestigial in us. And we think, Ah,
If I had lived then, when these stories were made up, I
Could have found more likely pictures in haphazard sky.
But this is not so. Indeed, we have proved fools
When it comes to myths and images. A few
Old bestiaries, pantheons and tools
Translated to the heavens years ago—
Scales and hunter, goat and horologe—are all
That save us when, time and again, our systems fall.
And what would we do, given a fresh sky
And our dearth of image? Our fears, our few beliefs
Do not have shapes. They are like that astral way
We have called milky, vague stars and star-reefs
That were shapeless even to the fecund eye of myth—
Surely these are no forms to start a zodiac with.
To keep the sky free of luxurious shapes
Is an occupation for most of us, the mind
Free of luxurious thoughts. If we choose to escape,
What venial constellations will unwind
Around a point of light, and then cannot be found
Another night or by another man or from other ground.
As for me, I would find faces there,
Or perhaps one face I have long taken for guide;
Far-fetched, maybe, like Cygnus, but as fair,
And a constellation anyone could read
Once it was pointed out; an enlightenment of night,
The way the pronoun you will turn dark verses bright.
***
«Stars» by Sara Teasdale
Alone in the night On a dark hill With pines around me Spicy and still,
And a heaven full of stars Over my head, White and topaz And misty red;
Myriads with beating Hearts of fire That aeons Cannot vex or tire;
Up the dome of heaven Like a great hill, I watch them marching Stately and still,
And I know that I Am honored to be Witness Of so much majesty.
***
«Stars» by Emily Brontë
Ah! why, because the dazzling sun Restored our Earth to joy, Have you departed, every one, And left a desert sky?
All through the night, your glorious eyes Were gazing down in mine, And, with a full heart’s thankful sighs, I blessed that watch divine.
I was at peace, and drank your beams As they were life to me; And revelled in my changeful dreams, Like petrel on the sea.
Thought followed thought, star followed star Through boundless regions, on; While one sweet influence, near and far, Thrilled through, and proved us one!
Why did the morning dawn to break So great, so pure, a spell; And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek, Where your cool radiance fell?
Blood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight, His fierce beams struck my brow; The soul of nature sprang, elate, But mine sank sad and low!
My lids closed down, yet through their veil I saw him, blazing, still, And steep in gold the misty dale, And flash upon the hill.
I turned me to the pillow, then, To call back night, and see Your worlds of solemn light, again, Throb with my heart, and me!
It would not do the pillow glowed, And glowed both roof and floor; And birds sang loudly in the wood, And fresh winds shook the door;
The curtains waved, the wakened flies Were murmuring round my room, Imprisoned there, till I should rise, And give them leave to roam.
Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night; Oh, night and stars, return! And hide me from the hostile light That does not warm, but burn;
That drains the blood of suffering men; Drinks tears, instead of dew; Let me sleep through his blinding reign, And only wake with you!
***
«Stars» by Robert Frost
How countlessly they congregate O’er our tumultuous snow, Which flows in shapes as tall as trees When wintry winds do blow!–
As if with keeness for our fate, Our faltering few steps on To white rest, and a place of rest Invisible at dawn,–
And yet with neither love nor hate, Those starts like somw snow-white Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes Without the gift of sight.
***
«Stars and the Soul» by Henry Van Dyke
“Two things,” the wise man said, “fill me with awe: The starry heavens and the moral law.” Nay, add another wonder to thy roll, — The living marvel of the human soul!
Born in the dust and cradled in the dark, It feels the fire of an immortal spark, And learns to read, with patient, searching eyes, The splendid secret of the unconscious skies.
For God thought Light before He spoke the word; The darkness understood not, though it heard: But man looks up to where the planets swim, And thinks God’s thoughts of glory after Him.
What knows the star that guides the sailor’s way, Or lights the lover’s bower with liquid ray, Of toil and passion, danger and distress, Brave hope, true love, and utter faithfulness?
But human hearts that suffer good and ill, And hold to virtue with a loyal will, Adorn the law that rules our mortal strife With star-surpassing victories of life.
So take our thanks, dear reader of the skies, Devout astronomer, most humbly wise, For lessons brighter than the stars can give, And inward light that helps us all to live.
The world has brought the laurel-leaves to crown The star-discoverer’s name with high renown; Accept the flower of love we lay with these For influence sweeter than the Pleiades!
***
«Sunset» by Rainer Maria Rilke
Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors which it passes to a row of ancient trees. You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.
leaving you, not really belonging to either, not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent, not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing that turns to a star each night and climbs-
leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads) your own life, timid and standing high and growing, so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out, one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.
***
«The Heart of Night» by Bliss Carman
When all the stars are sown Across the night-blue space, With the immense unknown, In silence face to face.
We stand in speechless awe While Beauty marches by, And wonder at the Law Which wears such majesty.
How small a thing is man In all that world-sown vast, That he should hope or plan Or dream his dream could last!
O doubter of the light, Confused by fear and wrong, Lean on the heart of night And let love make thee strong!
The Good that is the True Is clothed with Beauty still. Lo, in their tent of blue, The stars above the hill!
***
«The Light of Stars» by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky.
There is no light in earth or heaven But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars.
Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? Oh no! from that blue tent above, A hero’s armour gleams.
And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star.
Oh star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again.
Within my breast there is no light But the cold light of stars: I give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars.
The star of the unconquer’d will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possess’d.
And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm.
Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.
***
«The Morning Star» by George William Russell
IN the black pool of the midnight Lu has slung the morning star, And its foam in rippling silver whitens into day afar Falling on the mountain rampart piled with pearl above our glen, Only you and I, beloved, moving in the fields of men.
In the dark tarn of my spirit, love, the morning star, is lit; And its halo, ever brightening, lightens into dawn in it. Love, a pearl-grey dawn in darkness, breathing peace without desire; But I fain would shun the burning terrors of the mid-day fire.
Through the faint and tender airs of twilight star on star may gaze, But the eyes of light are blinded in the white flame of the days, From the heat that melts together oft a rarer essence slips, And our hearts may still be parted in the meeting of the lips.
What a darkness would I gaze on when the day had passed the west, If my eyes were dazed and blinded by the whiteness of a breast? Never through the diamond darkness could I hope to see afar Where beyond the pearly rampart burned the purer evening star.
***
«The Star» by Hannah Flagg Gould
Ever beaming, still I hang, Bright as when my birth I sang From chaotic night, In the boundless, azure dome Where I’ve made my constant home, Till thousand, thousand years have come To sweep earth’s things from sight!
Mortals, I unchanging view Every change that sports with you On your shadowy ball. All below my native skies, Here I mark how soon it dies; How your proudest empires rise, Flourish, shake and fall!
Wealth and splendor, pomp and pride, I’ve beheld you laid aside; Love and hate forgot! Fame, ambition, glory, power, You I’ve seen enjoy your hour; Beauty, withering, as a flower, While I altered not!
Him, whose sceptre swayed the world, I have seen aghast, and hurled From his holy throne. Monarch’s form and vassal’s clay Turned to dust and swept away: E’en to tell where once they lay, I am left alone!
When I’ve been from age to age, Questioned by the lettered sage What a star might be, I’ve answered not; for soon, I knew, He’d have a clearer, nobler view, And look the world of mysteries through In vast eternity!
Mortals, since ye pass as dew, Seize the promise made for you Ere your day is o’er. The righteous, says a page divine, Are as the firmament to shine; And like the stars, when I and mine Are quenched to beam no more!
***
«The Star» by Jane Taylor
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is set, And the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveler in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark, He could not see where to go If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
***
«The Star» by Henry Vaughan
Whatever ’tis, whose beauty here below
Attracts thee thus and makes thee stream and flow,
And wind and curl, and wink and smile,
Shifting thy gate and guile;
Though thy close commerce nought at all imbars
My present search, for eagles eye not stars,
And still the lesser by the best
And highest good is blest;
Yet, seeing all things that subsist and be,
Have their commissions from divinity,
And teach us duty, I will see
What man may learn from thee.
First, I am sure, the subject so respected
Is well dispos’d, for bodies once infected,
Deprav’d, or dead, can have with thee
No hold, nor sympathy.
Next, there’s in it a restless, pure desire
And longing for thy bright and vital fire,
Desire that never will be quench’d,
Nor can be writh’d, nor wrench’d.
These are the magnets which so strongly move
And work all night upon thy light and love,
As beauteous shapes, we know not why,
Command and guide the eye.
For where desire, celestial, pure desire
Hath taken root, and grows, and doth not tire,
There God a commerce states, and sheds
His secret on their heads.
This is the heart he craves, and who so will
But give it him, and grudge not, he shall feel
That God is true, as herbs unseen
Put on their youth and green.
***
«The Star and the Water Lily» by Oliver Wendell Holmes
The sun stepped down from his golden throne. And lay in the silent sea, And the lily had folded her satin leaves, For a sleepy thing was she; What is the Lily dreaming of? Why crisp the waters blue? See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid! Her white leaves are glistening through!
The Rose is cooling his burning cheek In the lap of the breathless tide;— The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair, That would lie by the Rose’s side; He would love her better than all the rest, And he would be fond and true;— But the Lily unfolded her weary lids, And looked at the sky so blue.
Remember, remember, thou silly one, How fast will thy summer glide, And wilt thou wither a virgin pale, Or flourish a blooming bride? “O the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold, And he lives on earth,” said she; “But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, And he shall my bridegroom be.”
But what if the stormy cloud should come, And ruffle the silver sea? Would he turn his eye from the distant sky, To smile on a thing like thee? O no, fair Lily, he will not send One ray from his far-off throne; The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou will be left alone.
There is not a leaf on the mountain top, Nor a drop of evening dew, Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore, Nor a pearl in the waters blue, That he has not cheered with his fickle smile, And warmed with his faithless beam,— And will he be true to a pallid flower, That floats on the quiet stream?
Alas for the Lily! she would not heed, But turned to the skies afar, And bared her breast to the trembling ray That shot from the rising star; The cloud came over the darkened sky, And over the waters wide: She looked in vain through the beating rain, And sank in the stormy tide.
***
«The Stars Above the Sea» by Amos Russel Wells
Far, far away one mystery greets Another vast and high, The infinite of waters meets The infinite of sky.
The stars are singing hymns of calm Above the sea’s unrest; Can ever that majestic psalm Dwell in the ocean’s breast?
What far horizon dim and low The sweet solution finds, Where earth’s tumultuous yearnings know The peace of heavenly minds?
And still the sky’s imperial grace The tossing ocean mars; We cannot see the meeting place, But we can see the stars.
***
«The Stars and the Falling Dew» by Hannah Flagg Gould
The sun, like a hero, whose chariot rolled In glory, has reached the west; And wrapped in his mantle of crimson and gold, Has sunken away to rest. The stars from the skies Look forth like the eyes Of Angels, the earth to view; While timid and soft, Their light form aloft, Comes down with the falling dew.
The flowers, that, oppressed by the monarch of day, Have bowing confessed his power, Are lifting their foreheads, relieved of his ray, To the cool of the evening hour. And each holding up Her emerald cup, Her delicate draught to renew, Their trust is repaid, While their thirst is allayed By the drops of the falling dew.
The birds are at rest in their own little homes, Their songs are forgotten in sleep; And low and uncertain the murmuring comes From over the slumbering deep. The breezes that sighed Have fainted and died In the boughs they were quivering through, And motion and sound Have ceased from around To yield to the falling dew.
And gently it comes, as the shadowy wing Of night o’er the earth is unfurled; A silent, refreshing and spirit-like thing, To brighten and solace the world! As the face of a friend. When in sorrow we bend— Like a heart ever tender and true, When darkness is ours, To the earth and the flowers, Are the stars and the falling dew.
***
«The Twelfth Night Star» by Bliss Carman
It is the bitter time of year When iron is the ground, With hasp and sheathing of black ice The forest lakes are bound, The world lies snugly under snow, Asleep without a sound.
All the night long in trooping squares The sentry stars go by, The silent and unwearying hosts That bear man company, And with their pure enkindling fires Keep vigils lone and high.
Through the dead hours before the dawn, When the frost snaps the sill, From chestnut-wooded ridge to sea The earth lies dark and still, Till one great silver planet shines Above the eastern hill.
It is the star of Gabriel, The herald of the Word In days when messengers of God With sons of men conferred, Who brought the tidings of great joy The watching shepherds heard;
The mystic light that moved to lead The wise of long ago, Out of the great East where they dreamed Of truths they could not know, To seek some good that should assuage The world’s most ancient woe.
O well, believe, they loved their dream, Those children of the star, Who saw the light and followed it, Prophetical, afar, — Brave Gaspar, clear-eyed Melchior, And eager Balthasar.
Another year slips to the void, And still with omen bright Above the sleeping doubting world The day-star is alight, — The waking signal flashed of old In the blue Syrian night.
But who are now as wise as they Whose faith could read the sign Of the three gifts that shall suffice To honor the divine, And show the tread of common life Ineffably benign?
Whoever wakens on a day Happy to know and be, To enjoy the air, to love his kind, To labor, to be free,— Already his enraptured soul Lives in eternity.
For him with every rising sun The year begins anew; The fertile earth receives her lord, And prophecy comes true, Wondrously as a fall of snow, Dear as a drench of dew.
Who gives his life for beauty’s need, King Gaspar could no more; Who serves the truth with single mind Shall stand with Melchior; And love is all that Balthasar In crested censer bore.
***
«To A Much Too Unfortunate Lady» by Dorothy Parker
He will love you presently If you be the way you be. Send your heart a-skittering. He will stoop, and lift the thing. Be your dreams as thread, to tease Into patterns he shall please. Let him see your passion is Ever tenderer than his…. Go and bless your star above, Thus are you, and thus is Love.
He will leave you white with woe, If you go the way you go. If your dreams were thread to weave He will pluck them from his sleeve. If your heart had come to rest, He will flick it from his breast. Tender though the love he bore, You had loved a little more…. Lady, go and curse your star, Thus Love is, and thus you are.
***
«To a Star» by Lucretia Maria Davidson
Thou brightly-glittering star of even, Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven Oh! were this fluttering spirit free, How quick ‘t would spread its wings to thee.
How calmly, brightly dost thou shine, Like the pure lamp in Virtue’s shrine! Sure the fair world which thou may’st boast Was never ransomed, never lost.
There, beings pure as Heaven’s own air, Their hopes, their joys together share; While hovering angels touch the string, And seraphs spread the sheltering wing.
There cloudless days and brilliant nights, Illumed by Heaven’s refulgent lights; There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, And unregretted by the soul.
Thou little sparkling star of even, Thou gem upon an azure Heaven, How swiftly will I soar to thee, When this imprisoned soul is free!
***
«To the Stars» by William B. Tappan
Fair stars! upon the brow of night Ye look, from yonder fields of blue, Where ye, ‘mid melody of light, Bright wheeling worlds! your way pursue.
Ye never tire,–pure diadems, The marshalled sentinels on high, Ye shine, and ever shine, the gems That fringe the curtain of the sky.
Minstrels are ye–your early song Followed the Voice Ompnipotent, When light and music flowed along Over the spangled firmament.
Ye stars! if aught ’tis yours to know, Beyond your own returnless bourne, With pity have ye not below Glanced on these vales where mortals mourn?
O, as I scan your nightly march, Your anthems steal upon mine ears; As sprinkled o’er yon glittering arch, Ye wake the music of the spheres.
‘Tis fancy!–yet the empyrean strains Impart kind gilead to my breast; They tell of brighter, fairer plains, Where troubles cease, where pilgrims rest.
***
«Under the Stars» by William Stanley Braithwaite
I take my soul in my hand, I give it, a bounding ball (Over Love’s sea and land), For you to toss and let fall At command.
Dear, as we sit here together — Silence and alternate speech, Dreams that are loose from the tether, Stars in an infinite reach Of dark ether:
Over and under and through Silence and stars and the dreams, How my emotions pursue, With a still passion that teems Full of you.
O what can the stars desire, And what can the night fulfil, Of a thousand thoughts on fire That burns on my soul’s high hill Like a pyre.
Does the flame leap upward, Where God feels — and heat makes human, Pity, in His heart —a snare To win worship for a woman Unaware?
If He made all Time for this, O beloved, shall we not dare To crown His dream with a kiss, While each new-born star makes fair Night’s abyss?
***
«When The Shy Star Goes Forth In Heaven» by James Joyce
When the shy star goes forth in heaven All maidenly, disconsolate, Hear you amid the drowsy even One who is singing by your gate. His song is softer than the dew And he is come to visit you.
O bend no more in revery When he at eventide is calling. Nor muse: Who may this singer be Whose song about my heart is falling? Know you by this, the lover’s chant, ‘Tis I that am your visitant.
Talking about the weather is part of the etiquette and traditions of the modern world. The weather really does affect our lives every day anyway. The weather can make a nice day or destroy all our plans, it can make us sad or happy. It is something we just have to accept because as we know, nature has no bad weather.
In the blue sky just a few specks of gray In the evening of a beautiful day Though last night it rained and more rain on the way And that more rain is needed ‘twould be fair to say On a gum tree in the park the white backed magpie sing He sings all year round from the Summer to Spring But in late Winter and Spring he even sings at night So nice to hear him piping in the moonlight Spring it is with us and Summer is near And beautiful weather for the time of year Such beauty the poets and the artists inspire Of talking of Nature could one ever tire Her green of September Mother Nature wear And the perfumes of blossoms in the evening air.
***
«A Crosstown Breeze» by Henry Taylor
A drift of wind when August wheeled brought back to mind an alfalfa field
where green windrows bleached down to hay while storm clouds rose and rolled our way.
With lighthearted strain in our pastoral agon we raced the rain with baler and wagon,
driving each other to hold the turn out of the weather and into the barn.
A nostalgic pause claims we saved it all, but I’ve known the loss of the lifelong haul;
now gray concrete and electric light wear on my feet and dull my sight.
So I keep asking, as I stand here, my cheek still basking in that trick of air,
would I live that life if I had the chance, or is it enough to have been there once?
***
«A Line-storm Song» by Robert Frost
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.
The birds have less to say for themselves In the wood-world’s torn despair Than now these numberless years the elves, Although they are no less there: All song of the woods is crushed like some Wild, easily shattered rose. Come, be my love in the wet woods; come, Where the boughs rain when it blows.
There is the gale to urge behind And bruit our singing down, And the shallow waters aflutter with wind From which to gather your gown. What matter if we go clear to the west, And come not through dry-shod? For wilding brooch shall wet your breast The rain-fresh goldenrod.
Oh, never this whelming east wind swells But it seems like the sea’s return To the ancient lands where it left the shells Before the age of the fern; And it seems like the time when after doubt Our love came back amain. Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.
***
«A Madrigal» by William Shakespeare
Crabbed Age and Youth Cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, Age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, Age like winter bare: Youth is full of sports, Age’s breath is short, Youth is nimble, Age is lame: Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold, Youth is wild, and Age is tame:- Age, I do abhor thee; Youth, I do adore thee; O! my Love, my Love is young! Age, I do defy thee- O sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stay’st too long.
***
«A MATCH» by Algernon Charles Swinburne
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pasture or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death,
We’d shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling
And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy,
We’d play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.
If you were April’s lady,
And I were lord in May,
We’d throw with leaves for hours
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady
And night were bright like day;
If you were April’s lady,
And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We’d hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.
***
«A Process In The Weather Of The Heart» by Dylan Thomas
A process in the weather of the heart Turns damp to dry; the golden shot Storms in the freezing tomb. A weather in the quarter of the veins Turns night to day; blood in their suns Lights up the living worm.
A process in the eye forwarns The bones of blindness; and the womb Drives in a death as life leaks out.
A darkness in the weather of the eye Is half its light; the fathomed sea Breaks on unangled land. The seed that makes a forest of the loin Forks half its fruit; and half drops down, Slow in a sleeping wind.
A weather in the flesh and bone Is damp and dry; the quick and dead Move like two ghosts before the eye.
A process in the weather of the world Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child Sits in their double shade. A process blows the moon into the sun, Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin; And the heart gives up its dead.
***
«A Touch Of Verse» by Sandra Fowler
Light has exposed the landscape to its form. Mood is rebuked of all its artifice. Wind moves like winter through the naked trees. I ask you for a leaf, but there is none.
Instead, you offer me a weather coat, Gray as warm words reduced to whispering. You tell me that November loves old bones. Your frost accent is quite believable.
You paint a picture of our private sky. The light falls faint upon my closing eyes. Held close within a margin of rare words, Stillness sings like a fragile, yellow bird.
Against the glass old memories ebb and flow. A touch of verse becomes a touch of snow. Our tiny world is slipping into space. Only your precious hands hold it in place.
***
«After the Winter Rain» by Ina Coolbrith
After the winter rain, Sing, robin! Sing, swallow! Grasses are in the lane, Buds and flowers will follow.
Woods shall ring, blithe and gay, With bird-trill and twitter, Though the skies weep to-day, And the winds are bitter.
Though deep call unto deep As calls the thunder, And white the billows leap The tempest under;
Softly the waves shall come Up the long, bright beaches, With dainty, flowers of foam And tenderest speeches…
After the wintry pain, And the long, long sorrow, Sing, heart!—for thee again Joy comes with the morrow.
***
«Against Winter» by Charles Simic
The truth is dark under your eyelids. What are you going to do about it? The birds are silent; there’s no one to ask. All day long you’ll squint at the gray sky. When the wind blows you’ll shiver like straw.
A meek little lamb you grew your wool Till they came after you with huge shears. Flies hovered over open mouth, Then they, too, flew off like the leaves, The bare branches reached after them in vain.
Winter coming. Like the last heroic soldier Of a defeated army, you’ll stay at your post, Head bared to the first snow flake. Till a neighbor comes to yell at you, You’re crazier than the weather, Charlie.
***
«An Abandoned Factory, Detroit» by Philip Levine
The gates are chained, the barbed-wire fencing stands, An iron authority against the snow, And this grey monument to common sense Resists the weather. Fears of idle hands, Of protest, men in league, and of the slow Corrosion of their minds, still charge this fence.
Beyond, through broken windows one can see Where the great presses paused between their strokes And thus remain, in air suspended, caught In the sure margin of eternity. The cast-iron wheels have stopped; one counts the spokes Which movement blurred, the struts inertia fought,
And estimates the loss of human power, Experienced and slow, the loss of years, The gradual decay of dignity. Men lived within these foundries, hour by hour; Nothing they forged outlived the rusted gears Which might have served to grind their eulogy.
***
«An April Jest» by Ruby Archer
On a rough March day with a sky half gray, The wind with the sunshine plead: “Come with me and creep where the blossoms sleep, And waken them all,” he said.
And the sun laughed, “Yea.” So they sped away, All the night-capped flowers to find; And they touched the heads in the deep soft beds With a delicate leaf-mould lined,
‘Till the flow’rets dreamed that a rainbow gleamed, And a murmuring zephyr sang; And their night-caps soft in a trice they doffed, And lo—from their beds up sprang.
As each wee sprout flung its fingers out And soft pushed the earth away, Wily wind and sun in their impish fun Made the March world laugh like May.
When the flower heads fair felt the silk-soft air, They nodded in artless glee; And each conceived as it happily leaved, It was strong as a plant need be.
Nor with wind and sun were the favors done. They cradled and kissed the flowers, While March crept past, in caprice at last, With crotchets and petulant showers.
When March had departed, the wind icy-hearted Blew fiercely the poor plants around; ‘Till frightened they quivered, and fearfully shivered, And laid their sweet heads on the ground.
The sunshine grew naughty, and feigned to be haughty By hooding himself with a cloud: The darkness came quickly, the clouds gathered thickly, And every bright leaflet was cowed.
Then a white despair clutched the gasping air, And the plants lay prone in their woe; For the awful white meant the fatal blight In the touch of the pitiless snow.
Then the sunshine peered from his hood and jeered, “‘Twas a jest! Silly plants! April fool!” And the wind shrieked past in a cutting blast, “April fool! April fool! April fool!”
***
«April» by Ella Higginson
Ah, who is this with twinkling feet, With glad, young eyes and laughter sweet, Who tosses back her strong, wild hair, And saucy kisses flings to Care, The while she laughs at her? Beware— You who this winsome maiden meet!
She dances on a daisied throne, About her waist a slender zone Of dandelion’s gold; her eyes Are softer than the summer skies, And blue as violets; and lies A tearful laughter in her tone.
She reaches dimpled arms and bare; Her breath is sweet as wild-rose air; She sighs, she smiles, she glances down, Her brows meet in a sudden frown; She laughs; then tears the violets drown— If you should meet her—ah, beware!
***
«Aspens» by Edward Thomas
All day and night, save winter, every weather, Above the inn, the smithy and the shop, The aspens at the cross-roads talk together Of rain, until their last leaves fall from the top.
Out of the blacksmith’s cavern comes the ringing Of hammer, shoe and anvil; out of the inn The clink, the hum, the roar, the random singing – The sounds that for these fifty years have been.
The whisper of the aspens is not drowned, And over lightless pane and footless road, Empty as sky, with every other sound No ceasing, calls their ghosts from their abode,
A silent smithy, a silent inn, nor fails In the bare moonlight or the thick-furred gloom, In the tempest or the night of nightingales, To turn the cross-roads to a ghostly room.
And it would be the same were no house near. Over all sorts of weather, men, and times, Aspens must shake their leaves and men may hear But need not listen, more than to my rhymes.
Whatever wind blows, while they and I have leaves We cannot other than an aspen be That ceaselessly, unreasonably grieves, Or so men think who like a different tree.
***
«Autumn Song» by Katherine Mansfield
Now’s the time when children’s noses All become as red as roses And the colour of their faces Makes me think of orchard places Where the juicy apples grow, And tomatoes in a row.
And to-day the hardened sinner Never could be late for dinner, But will jump up to the table Just as soon as he is able, Ask for three times hot roast mutton– Oh! the shocking little glutton.
Come then, find your ball and racket, Pop into your winter jacket, With the lovely bear-skin lining. While the sun is brightly shining, Let us run and play together And just love the autumn weather.
***
«Battery Recharge» by Ernestine Northover
Why are Winter’s dull days, so depressing, And if it’s cold as well, very distressing. Especially, if it’s damp, It gives one’s joints the cramp, This type of weather becomes really quite stressing.
Yet when the sun shines, we then feel elated, Our spirits rise, and are regenerated, It makes one raise a smile, And then, after a while, One feels that one’s whole being’s rejuvenated.
So roll on Summer with your sunny haze, When one can, in your warmth, lay back and gaze, And let the sun renew, One’s batteries, which are due, Thus setting one up for next Winter’s dreary days.
***
«Bells in the Rain» by Elinor Wylie
Sleep falls, with limpid drops of rain, Upon the steep cliffs of the town. Sleep falls; men are at peace again While the small drops fall softly down.
The bright drops ring like bells of glass Thinned by the wind; and lightly blown; Sleep cannot fall on peaceful grass So softly as it falls on stone.
Peace falls unheeded on the dead Asleep; they have had deep peace to drink; Upon a live man’s bloody head It falls most tenderly, I think.
***
«Braggart» by Dorothy Parker
The days will rally, wreathing Their crazy tarantelle; And you must go on breathing, But I’ll be safe in hell.
Like January weather, The years will bite and smart, And pull your bones together To wrap your chattering heart.
The pretty stuff you’re made of Will crack and crease and dry. The thing you are afraid of Will look from every eye.
You will go faltering after The bright, imperious line, And split your throat on laughter, And burn your eyes with brine.
You will be frail and musty With peering, furtive head, Whilst I am young and lusty Among the roaring dead.
***
«Cold» by Holly Heron
I’m cold. You drew me out of my shell, You kept me warm in winter, Then you saw another, Brighter, Kinder, Warmer, You walked away, And left me in winters wasteland, You walked away, Left me to freeze, You drew me out of my shell, Left me here to die, To starve without your love, To freeze without your presence, You’ve left me now in a barren wasteland, In winters cold embrace, You left.
***
«December» by Christopher Pearce Cranch
No more the scarlet maples flash and burn Their beacon-fires from hilltop and from plain; The meadow-grasses and the woodland fern In the bleak woods lie withered once again.
The trees stand bare, and bare each stony scar Upon the cliffs; half frozen glide the rills; The steel-blue river like a scimitar Lies cold and curved between the dusky hills.
Over the upland farm I take my walk, And miss the flaunting flocks of golden-rod; Each autumn flower a dry and leafless stalk, Each mossy field a track of frozen sod.
I hear no more the robin’s summer song Through the gray network of the wintry woods; Only the cawing crows that all day long Clamor about the windy solitudes.
Like agate stones upon earth’s frozen breast, The little pools of ice lie round and still; While sullen clouds shut downward east and west In marble ridges stretched from hill to hill.
Come once again, O southern wind,—once more Come with thy wet wings flapping at my pane; Ere snow-drifts pile their mounds about my door, One parting dream of summer bring again.
Ah, no! I hear the windows rattle fast; I see the first flakes of the gathering snow, That dance and whirl before the northern blast. No countermand the march of days can know.
December drops no weak, relenting tear, By our fond summer sympathies ensnared; Nor from the perfect circle of the year Can even winter’s crystal gems be spared.
***
«Even the Rain» by Agha Shahid Ali
What will suffice for a true-love knot? Even the rain? But he has bought grief’s lottery, bought even the rain.
“Our glosses / wanting in this world”—“Can you remember?” Anyone!—“when we thought / the poets taught” even the rain?
After we died—That was it!—God left us in the dark. And as we forgot the dark, we forgot even the rain.
Drought was over. Where was I? Drinks were on the house. For mixers, my love, you’d poured—what?—even the rain.
Of this pear-shaped orange’s perfumed twist, I will say: Extract Vermouth from the bergamot, even the rain.
How did the Enemy love you—with earth? air? and fire? He held just one thing back till he got even: the rain.
This is God’s site for a new house of executions? You swear by the Bible, Despot, even the rain?
After the bones—those flowers—this was found in the urn: The lost river, ashes from the ghat, even the rain.
What was I to prophesy if not the end of the world? A salt pillar for the lonely lot, even the rain.
How the air raged, desperate, streaming the earth with flames— To help burn down my house, Fire sought even the rain.
He would raze the mountains, he would level the waves; he would, to smooth his epic plot, even the rain.
New York belongs at daybreak to only me, just me— To make this claim Memory’s brought even the rain.
They’ve found the knife that killed you, but whose prints are these? No one has such small hands, Shahid, not even the rain.
***
«Here In This Spring» by Dylan Thomas
Here in this spring, stars float along the void; Here in this ornamental winter Down pelts the naked weather; This summer buries a spring bird.
Symbols are selected from the years’ Slow rounding of four seasons’ coasts, In autumn teach three seasons’ fires And four birds’ notes.
I should tell summer from the trees, the worms Tell, if at all, the winter’s storms Or the funeral of the sun; I should learn spring by the cuckooing, And the slug should teach me destruction.
A worm tells summer better than the clock, The slug’s a living calendar of days; What shall it tell me if a timeless insect Says the world wears away?
***
«In April» by James Hearst
This I saw on an April day:
Warm rain spilt from a sun-lined cloud,
A sky-flung wave of gold at evening,
And a cock pheasant treading a dusty path
Shy and proud.
And this I found in an April field:
A new white calf in the sun at noon,
A flash of blue in a cool moss bank,
And tips of tulips promising flowers
To a blue-winged loon.
And this I tried to understand
As I scrubbed the rust from my brightening plow:
The movement of seed in furrowed earth,
And a blackbird whistling sweet and clear
From a green-sprayed bough.
***
«In April» by Rainer Maria Rilke
Again the woods are odorous, the lark Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark, Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.
After long rainy afternoons an hour Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings Them at the windows in a radiant shower, And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.
Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies; And cradled in the branches, hidden deep In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.
***
«Joint Laughter» by Ernestine Northover
We laugh at the same funny things, Our quick sense of humour just springs From being together, Whatever the weather, It’s wonderful what such laughter brings.
We can each see the funny side, that’s true, But of course we can sometimes be blue, But if one of us is down, Then the others a clown Enticing a smile to break through.
Sometimes, when we’re both very tired, And we feel that we’re electrically wired, Something just makes us smile, And after a while, We can laugh, which is just what’s required.
I won’t say there’s not sadness in life, But try looking beyond all the strife, We keep smiling along, Till the sadness has gone, That’s the delight of being ‘husband and wife’.
***
«June Sunset» by Sarojini Naidu
Here shall my heart find its haven of calm, By rush-fringed rivers and rain-fed streams That glimmer thro’ meadows of lily and palm. Here shall my soul find its true repose Under a sunset sky of dreams Diaphanous, amber and rose. The air is aglow with the glint and whirl Of swift wild wings in their homeward flight, Sapphire, emerald, topaz, and pearl. Afloat in the evening light.
A brown quail cries from the tamarisk bushes, A bulbul calls from the cassia-plume, And thro’ the wet earth the gentian pushes Her spikes of silvery bloom. Where’er the foot of the bright shower passes Fragrant and fresh delights unfold; The wild fawns feed on the scented grasses, Wild bees on the cactus-gold.
An ox-cart stumbles upon the rocks, And a wistful music pursues the breeze From a shepherd’s pipe as he gathers his flocks Under the pipal-trees. And a young Banjara driving her cattle Lifts up her voice as she glitters by In an ancient ballad of love and battle Set to the beat of a mystic tune, And the faint stars gleam in the eastern sky To herald a rising moon.
***
«Kid, this is the first rain» by Jeffrey Bean
of November. It strips off the rest of the leaves, reminds trees how to shiver. I think to Earth it looks like the first first rain, the water of the beginning, swirling down hot into gassy soup. The bubbling stuff that imagined trees to begin with, and also mountains, kangaroos, dolphin cartilage, stoplights. And you, tearing down hills on Arnold street, a blur of training wheels and streamers. And me in the ’80s, crunching Life cereal on the couch beside my night-owl mother, blue in the light of David Letterman’s grin.
Try to remember, everything that is solid is not solid. But slowly, always melting. The road cracks, wrinkles like a folded map. Huge trees lie down, throb into pulp inside termites. And the ground drinks you, though you grow, a tall drink of water, going down easy. It swallows me faster and faster. But don’t worry. Look at our neighbor’s roof—those fake gray shingles are crumbling, growing a thick pelt of moss. Eventually we all wake up as forest.
***
«May Day» by Sara Teasdale
A delicate fabric of bird song Floats in the air, The smell of wet wild earth Is everywhere.
Red small leaves of the maple Are clenched like a hand, Like girls at their first communion The pear trees stand.
Oh I must pass nothing by Without loving it much, The raindrop try with my lips, The grass with my touch;
For how can I be sure I shall see again The world on the first of May Shining after the rain?
***
«Nightwind» by John Clare
Darkness like midnight from the sobbing woods
Clamours with dismal tidings of the rain,
Roaring as rivers breaking loose in floods
To spread and foam and deluge all the plain.
The cotter listens at his door again,
Half doubting whether it be floods or wind,
And through the thickening darkness looks afraid,
Thinking of roads that travel has to find
Through night’s black depths in danger’s garb arrayed.
And the loud glabber round the flaze soon stops
When hushed to silence by the lifted hand
Of fearing dame who hears the noise in dread
And thinks a deluge comes to drown the land;
Nor dares she go to bed until the tempest drops.
***
«Now Winter Nights Enlarge» by Thomas Campion
Now winter nights enlarge
This number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o’erflow with wine,
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers’ long discourse;
Much speech hath some defense,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well:
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys
They shorten tedious nights.
***
«October’s Bright Blue Weather» by Helen Hunt Jackson
O suns and skies and clouds of June, And flowers of June together, Ye cannot rival for one hour October’s bright blue weather;
When loud the bumblebee makes haste, Belated, thriftless vagrant, And goldenrod is dying fast, And lanes with grapes are fragrant;
When gentians roll their fingers tight To save them for the morning, And chestnuts fall from satin burrs Without a sound of warning;
When on the ground red apples lie In piles like jewels shining, And redder still on old stone walls Are leaves of woodbine twining;
When all the lovely wayside things Their white-winged seeds are sowing, And in the fields still green and fair, Late aftermaths are growing;
When springs run low, and on the brooks, In idle golden freighting, Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush Of woods, for winter waiting;
When comrades seek sweet country haunts, By twos and twos together, And count like misers, hour by hour, October’s bright blue weather.
O sun and skies and flowers of June, Count all your boasts together, Love loveth best of all the year October’s bright blue weather.
***
«Pirate Story» by Robert Louis Stevenson
Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing, Three of us abroad in the basket on the lea. Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring, And waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea.
Where shall we adventure, to-day that we’re afloat, Wary of the weather and steering by a star? Shall it be to Africa, a-steering of the boat, To Providence, or Babylon or off to Malabar?
Hi! but here’s a squadron a-rowing on the sea– Cattle on the meadow a-charging with a roar! Quick, and we’ll escape them, they’re as mad as they can be, The wicket is the harbour and the garden is the shore.
***
«Rainbow on the Mountain» by Ruby Archer
See―the Sky has lent her jewel To the Mountain for an hour Has forgotten to be cruel In a kind caprice of power
And the dusky bosom rounding Wears the opals with an air And a fine content abounding In the sense of looking fair.
Now the Sky demands her crescent― Brightest bauble of her store; Slow it fadeth, evanescent, And the Mountain smiles no more.
***
«Raindrops» by Mrs. Minot Carter
Have you heard the raindrops On a field of corn, Pattering ov’r the green leaves Dusty and forlorn? Did you ever fancy They were little feet Hurrying out with water Thirsty ones to meet?
Have you seen the raindrops Falling on the lake? How they flash and sparkle Tiny splashes make. Did you ever fancy They were diamonds rare Scattered by an aeroplane Sailing through the air?
***
«Rhythm of Rain» by Lynn Riggs
Out of the barrenness of earth, And the meager rain— Mile upon mile of exultant Fields of grain.
Out of the dimness of morning— Sudden and stark, A hot sun dispelling The hushed dark.
Out of the bleakness of living, Out of the unforgivable wrongs, Out of the thin, dun soil of my soul— These songs.
Only the rhythm of the rain Can ease my sorrow, end my pain.
He was a wilful lad, Laughter the burden he had;
Songs unsung haunted his mouth, Velvet as soft airs from the languid south;
He was sprung from the dawn, Flame-crested. He is gone!
Only the lashing, silver whips Of the rain can still my lips…
***
«River Snow» By Mark Van Doren
The flakes are a little thinner where I look, For I can see a circle of grey shore, And greyer water, motionless beyond. But the other shore is gone, and right and left Earth and sky desert me. Still I stand And look at the dark circle that is there— As if I were a man blinded with whiteness, And one grey spot remained. The flakes descend, Softly, without a sound that I can tell— When out of the further white a gull appears, Crosses the hollow place, and goes again… There was no flap of wing; no feather fell. But now I hear him crying, far away, And think he may be wanting to return… The flakes descend… And shall I see the bird? Not one path is open through the snow.
***
«Snow» by Eliza Cook
Brave Winter and I shall ever agree, Though a stern and frowning gaffer is he. I like to hear him, with hail and rain, Come tapping against the window pane; I joy to see him come marching forth Begirt with the icicle gems of the north; But I like him best when he comes bedight In his velvet robes of stainless white.
A cheer for the snow—the drifting snow! Smoother and purer than beauty’s brow! The creature of thought scarce likes to tread On the delicate carpet so richly spread. With feathery wreaths the forest is bound, And the hills are with glittering diadems crown’d; ’Tis the fairest scene we can have below. Sing, welcome, then, to the drifting snow!
The urchins gaze with eloquent eye To see the flakes go dancing by. In the thick of the storm how happy are they To welcome the first deep snowy day; Shouting and pelting—what bliss to fall Half-smother’d beneath the well-aim’d ball! Men of fourscore, did ye ever know Such sport as ye had in the drifting snow?
I’m true to my theme, for I loved it well. When the gossiping nurse would sit and tell The tale of the geese—though hardly believed— I doubted and question’d the words that deceived. I rejoice in it still, and love to see The ermine mantle on tower and tree. ’Tis the fairest scene we can have below. Hurrah! then, hurrah! for the drifting snow!
***
«Song of the Moon» by Priscilla Jane Thompson
Oh, a hidden power is in my breast, A power that none can fathom; I call the tides from seas of rest, They rise, they fall, at my behest; And many a tardy fisher’s boat, I’ve torn apart and set afloat, From out their raging chasm.
For I’m an enchantress, old and grave; Concealed I rule the weather; Oft set I, the lover’s heart a blaze, With hidden power of my fulgent rays, Or seek I the souls of dying men, And call the sea-tides from the fen, And drift them out together.
I call the rain from the mountain’s peak, And sound the mighty thunder; When I wax and wane from week to week, The heavens stir, while vain men seek, To solve the myst’ries that I hold, But a bounded portion I unfold, So nations pass and wonder.
Yea, my hidden strength no man may know; Nor myst’ries be expounded; I’ll cause the tidal waves to flow, And I shall wane, and larger grow, Yet while man rack his shallow brain, The secrets with me still remain, He seeks in vain, confounded.
***
«Song of the Storm-Swept Plain» by William D. Hodjkiss
The wind shrills forth From the white cold North Where the gates of the Storm-god are; And ragged clouds, Like mantling shrouds, Engulf the last, dim star.
Through naked trees, In low coulees, The night-voice moans and sighs; And sings of deep, Warm cradled sleep, With wind-crooned lullabies.
He stands alone Where the storm’s weird tone In mocking swells; And the snow-sharp breath Of cruel Death The tales of its coming tells.
The frightened plaint Of his sheep sound faint Then the choking wall of white— Then is heard no more, In the deep-toned roar, Of the blinding, pathless night.
No light nor guide, Save a mighty tide Of mad fear drives him on; ‘Till his cold-numbed form Grows strangely warm; And the strength of his limbs is gone.
Through the storm and night A strange, soft light O’er the sleeping shepherd gleams; And he hears the word Of the Shepherd Lord Called out from the bourne of dreams.
Come, leave the strife Of your weary life; Come unto Me and rest From the night and cold, To the sheltered fold, By the hand of love caressed.
The storm shrieks on, But its work is done— A soul to its God has fled; And the wild refrain Of the wind-swept plain, Sings requiem for the dead.
***
«Spring» by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Birds’ love and birds’ song Flying here and there, Birds’ songand birds’ love And you with gold for hair! Birds’ songand birds’ love Passing with the weather, Men’s song and men’s love, To love once and forever.
Men’s love and birds’ love, And women’s love and men’s! And you my wren with a crown of gold, You my queen of the wrens! You the queen of the wrens — We’ll be birds of a feather, I’ll be King of the Queen of the wrens, And all in a nest together.
***
«Storm-Sun» by Ruby Archer
Come and marvel at the sunset! Lo—a storm is brooding near,— All the thirsty world imploring, In a mood akin to fear.
Like a beaker in her fingers Holds the world the valley high, Mountain-lipped and cañon-hearted, To the largess of the sky.
But the sky, capricious ever, Hides the storm unbroken still; And the pallid, sun-born nectar Doth the beaker brimming fill.
See the weirdly golden essence Lurk along, the shades between, ‘Till it drowns and rolls above them In triumphant glare of sheen.
***
«The First Grass» by Robinson Jeffers
It rained three autumn days; then close to frost
Under clear starlight the night shivering was.
The dawn rose cold and colorless as glass,
And when we wakened rains and clouds were lost.
The ocean surged and shouted stormy-tossed.
I went down to companion him. Alas,
What faint voice by the way? The sudden grass
Cried with thin lips as I the valley crossed,
Saying blade by blade, “Although the warm sweet rain
Awakened us, this world is all too cold.
We never dreamed it thus.”—”Your champion bold
Is risen,” I said; “he in an hour or twain
Will comfort you.” I passed. Above the dune
Stood the wan splendorless daylight-waning moon.
***
«The First Snow» by Philip M. Raskin
Fairy-like on earth advancing, All transforming, all entrancing, Playing on their way and dancing, Soil-untarnished yet,
Silver stars from sky are dropping, Little fairies skipping, hopping, On the roofs and turrets popping, Crowns with diamonds set.
Greeting nature’s silver wedding, Argent splendor they are shedding, And a bridal veil outspreading, Like a silver net;
Till town-alleys, foul and tainted, Turn cathedral-aisles ensainted, Carved with gorgeous, ermine-painted, Ornamental fret.
How all changed by elfin power! Every house a magic tower, Every tree with lilac-flower Lures like a coquette.
Following in their magic traces, Hidden joy each heart embraces, Sparkling eyes and brightened faces Everywhere are met.
How I love you, white-robed city, Maiden-pure, and maiden-pretty! But my love is—what a pity!— Tempered with regret.
Truer lover you would find me, If you were not to remind me Of a cold land left behind me That I’d fain forget.
***
«The Flower Boat» by Robert Frost
The fisherman’s swapping a yarn for a yarn Under the hand of the village barber, And her in the angle of house and barn His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.
At anchor she rides the sunny sod As full to the gunnel of flowers growing As ever she turned her home with cod From George’s bank when winds were blowing.
And I judge from that elysian freight That all they ask is rougher weather, And dory and master will sail by fate To seek the Happy Isles together.
***
«The Hard» by Simon Armitage
Here on the Hard, you’re welcome to pull up and stay; there’s a flat fee of a quid for parking all day.
And wandering over the dunes, who wouldn’t die for the view: an endless estate of beach, the sea
kept out of the bay by the dam-wall of the sky. Notice the sign, with details of last year’s high tides.
Walk on, drawn to the shipwreck, a mirage of masts a mile or so out, seemingly true and intact
but scuttled to serve as a target, and fixed on by eyeballs staring from bird-hides lining the coast.
The vast, weather-washed, cornerless state of our mind begins on the Hard; the Crown lays claim to the shore
between low tide and dry land, the country of sand, but the moon is law. Take what you came here to find.
Stranger, the ticket you bought for a pound stays locked in the car, like a butterfly trapped under glass;
stamped with the time, it tells us how taken you are, how carried away by now, how deep and how far.
***
«The Rainbow» By Thomas Campbell
Triumphal arch, that fill’st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art; —
Still seem; as to my childhood’s sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that Optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation’s face Enchantment’s veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws!
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.
When o’er the green, undeluged earth Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine, How came the world’s gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign!
And when its yellow luster smiled O’er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang On earth, delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye Unraptured greet thy beam; Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the prophet’s theme!
The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshened fields, The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle, cast O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam:
For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span; Nor lets the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man.
***
«The Rainbow» by John Keble
A fragment of a rainbow bright Through the moist air I see, All dark and damp on yonder height, All bright and clear to me.
An hour ago the storm was here, The gleam was far behind; So will our joys and grief appear, When earth has ceased to blind.
Grief will be joy if on its edge Fall soft that holiest ray, Joy will be grief if no faint pledge Be there of heavenly day.
***
«The Rainy Day» by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary …
***
«The Rising of the Storm» by Paul Laurence Dunbar
The lake’s dark breast Is all unrest, It heaves with a sob and a sigh. Like a tremulous bird, From its slumber stirred, The moon is a-tilt in the sky.
From the silent deep The waters sweep, But faint on the cold white stones, And the wavelets fly With a plaintive cry O’er the old earth’s bare, bleak bones.
And the spray upsprings On its ghost-white wings, And tosses a kiss at the stars; While a water-sprite, In sea-pearls dight, Hums a sea-hymn’s solemn bars.
Far out in the night, On the wavering sight I see a dark hull loom; And its light on high, Like a Cyclops’ eye, Shines out through the mist and gloom.
Now the winds well up From the earth’s deep cup, And fall on the sea and shore, And against the pier The waters rear And break with a sullen roar.
Up comes the gale, And the mist-wrought veil Gives way to the lightning’s glare, And the cloud-drifts fall, A sombre pall, O’er water, earth, and air.
The storm-king flies, His whip he plies, And bellows down the wind. The lightning rash With blinding flash Comes pricking on behind.
Rise, waters, rise, And taunt the skies With your swift-flitting form. Sweep, wild winds, sweep, And tear the deep To atoms in the storm.
And the waters leapt, And the wild winds swept, And blew out the moon in the sky, And I laughed with glee, It was joy to me As the storm went raging by!
***
«The Thunder-Storm» By Amos Russel Wells
I came with a roar from the western sky And over the western hill; I shook the rocks as I thundered by, And I bent the woods to my will.
I came at two of the village clock, When the night was heavy with mirk; I carried a torch in one of my hands, And in one I carried a dirk.
I hid the torch in my folds of rain, Till sudden I showed its glare; I plunged the dirk in the thick of the woods And splintered a pine-tree there.
I kindled a fire in the forcst leaves, And put it out with my rain; I leaped with a howi from the western ridge And rushed o’er the western plain.
I came at two of the village clock. And raced through the empty street. I slashed the houghs of the arching elms, And the high church tower I beat.
I flung my rain through the shingled roofs And into the window—souse! The nightgowned folk with their lamps Hurried around the house.
The children snuggled in awesome beds, And trembled to hear my shout; And yet it was pleasant, so safe within, So marvellous wild without.
Then away from the town I flung myself, And into the eastern sea, Where the big black waves rose up with a roar And heavily welcomed me.
I came and I went at the beck of the Lord, The Lord of storms and of men, And I crouch in my cave at the end of the world Till He beckons me forth again.
***
«The Winter Bird» by Jones Very
Thou sing’st alone on the bare wintry bough, As if Spring with its leaves were around thee now; And its voice that was heard in the laughing rill, And the breeze as it whispered o’er meadow and hill, Still fell on thine ear, as it murmured along To join the sweet tide of thine own gushing song. Sing on—though its sweetness was lost on the blast, And the storm has not heeded thy song as it passed, Yet its music awoke in a heart that was near, A thought whose remembrance will ever prove dear; Though the brook may be frozen, though silent its voice, And the gales through the meadows no longer rejoice, Still I felt, as my ear caught thy glad note of glee, That my heart in life’s winter might carol like thee.
***
«To Winter» by Claude McKay
Stay, season of calm love and soulful snows! There is a subtle sweetness in the sun, The ripples on the stream’s breast gaily run, The wind more boisterously by me blows, And each succeeding day now longer grows. The birds a gladder music have begun, The squirrel, full of mischief and of fun, From maple’s topmost branch the brown twig throws. I read these pregnant signs, know what they mean: I know that thou art making ready to go. Oh stay! I fled a land where fields are green Always, and palms wave gently to and fro, And winds are balmy, blue brooks ever sheen, To ease my heart of its impassioned woe.
***
«Travelling Storm» by Mark Van Doren
The sky, above us here, is open again. The sun comes hotter, and the shingles steam. The trees are done with dripping, and the hens Bustle among bright pools to pick and drink. . . . But east and south are black with speeding storm. That thunder, low and far, remembering nothing, Gathers a new world under it and growls, Worries, strikes, and is gone. Children at windows Cry at the rain, it pours so heavily down, Drifting across the yard till the sheds are grey. . . . A county father on, the wind is all— A swift dark wind that turns the maples pale, Ruffles the hay, and spreads the swallows’ wings. Horses, suddenly restless, are unhitched, And men, with glances upward, hurry in; Their overalls blow full and cool; they shout; Soon they will lie in barns and laugh at the lightning. . . . Another county yet, and the sky is still; The air is fainting; women sit with fans And wonder when a rain will come that way.
***
«Tree At My Window» by Robert Frost
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.
Vague dream head lifted out of the ground, And thing next most diffuse to cloud, Not all your light tongues talking aloud Could be profound.
But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed, And if you have seen me when I slept, You have seen me when I was taken and swept And all but lost.
That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.
***
«Wind» By Gwendolyn Bennett
The wind was a care-free soul That broke the chains of earth, And strode for a moment across the land With the wild halloo of his mirth. He little cared that he ripped up trees, That houses fell at his hand, That his step broke calm on the breast of seas, That his feet stirred clouds of sand.
But when he had had his little joke, Had shouted and laughed and sung, When the trees were scarred, their branches broke, And their foliage aching hung, He crept to his cave with a stealthy tread, With rain-filled eyes and low-bowed head.
***
«Winter to Spring» by Irvin W. Underhill
Did not I remember that my hair is grey With only a fringe of it left, I’d follow your footsteps from wee break of day Till night was of moon-light bereft.
Your eyes wondrous fountains of joy and of youth Remind me of days long since flown, My sweetheart, I led to the altar of truth, But then the gay spring was my own.
Now winter has come with its snow and its wind And made me as bare as its trees, Oh, yes, I still love, but it’s only in mind, For I’m fast growing weak at the knees.
Your voice is as sweet as the song of a bird, Your manners are those of the fawn, I dream of you, darling,—oh, pardon, that word, From twilight to breaking of dawn.
Your name in this missive you’ll search for in vain, Nor mine at the finis, I’ll fling, For winter must suffer the bliss and the pain In secret for loving the spring.
