ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 9, 2015 16:12:54 GMT -5
I'll start the thread for this month which will be about February and winter.
Here are two nice poems to begin with.
In Memory of a Happy Day in February
Ann Bronte
Blessed be Thou for all the joy My soul has felt today! O let its memory stay with me And never pass away! I was alone, for those I loved Were far away from me, The sun shone on the withered grass, The wind blew fresh and free.
Was it the smile of early spring That made my bosom glow? 'Twas sweet, but neither sun nor wind Could raise my spirit so.
Was it some feeling of delight, All vague and undefined? No, 'twas a rapture deep and strong, Expanding in the mind!
Was it a sanguine view of life And all its transient bliss- A hope of bright prosperity? O no, it was not this!
It was a glimpse of truth divine Unto my spirit given Illumined by a ray of light That shone direct from heaven!
I felt there was a God on high By whom all things were made.
I saw His wisdom and his power In all his works displayed.
But most throughout the moral world I saw his glory shine; I saw His wisdom infinite, His mercy all divine.
Deep secrets of his providence In darkness long concealed Were brought to my delighted eyes And graciously revealed.
But while I wondered and adored His wisdom so divine, I did not tremble at his power, I felt that God was mine.
I knew that my Redeemer lived, I did not fear to die; Full sure that I should rise again To immortality.
I longed to view that bliss divine Which eye hath never seen, To see the glories of his face Without the veil between.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 9, 2015 16:13:09 GMT -5
Thinking of Flowers
Jane Kenyon
Now wind torments the field, turning the white surface back on itself, back and back on itself, like an animal licking a wound.
Nothing but white--the air, the light; only one brown milkweed pod bobbing in the gully, smallest brown boat on the immense tide.
A single green sprouting thing would restore me.
Then think of the tall delphinium, swaying, or the bee when it comes to the tongue of the burgundy lily.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 16, 2015 18:27:59 GMT -5
Paiute Late Winter Song
(Native American tribes - anonymous author)
Loud are the thunder drums in the tents of the mountains. Oh, long, long Have we eaten chia seeds and dried deer's flesh of the summer killing. We are tired of our huts and the smoky smell of our clothing. We are sick with the desire for the sun And the grass on the mountain.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 16, 2015 18:28:17 GMT -5
The Manor Farm
Edward Thomas
THE rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills Ran and sparkled down each side of the road Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun; Nor did I value that thin gliding beam More than a pretty February thing Till I came down to the old manor farm, And church and yew-tree opposite, in age Its equals and in size. The church and yew And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof, With tiles duskily glowing, entertained The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.
Three cart horses were looking over a gate Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained Spring, summer, and autumn at a draught And smiled quietly. But 'twas not winter-- Rather a season of bliss unchangeable, Awakened from farm and church where it had lain Safe under tile and latch for ages since This England, Old already, was called Merry.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 19, 2015 10:30:49 GMT -5
February
Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald
O Master-Builder, blustering as you go About your giant work, transforming all The empty woods into a glittering hall, And making lilac lanes and footpaths grow As hard as iron under stubborn snow, Though every fence stand forth a marble wall, And windy hollows drift to arches tall, There comes a might that shall your might o'erthrow. Build high your white and dazzling palaces, Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers, Storm with a loud and a portentous lip; And April with a fragmentary breeze, And half a score of gentle, golden hours, Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 19, 2015 10:31:18 GMT -5
The Colder the Air
Elizabeth Bishop
We must admire her perfect aim, this huntress of the winter air whose level weapon needs no sight, if it were not that everywhere her game is sure, her shot is right. The least of us could do the same.
The chalky birds or boats stand still, reducing her conditions of chance; air's gallery marks identically the narrow gallery of her glance. The target-center in her eye is equally her aim and will.
Time's in her pocket, ticking loud on one stalled second. She'll consult not time nor circumstance. She calls on atmosphere for her result. (It is this clock that later falls in wheels and chimes of leaf and cloud.)
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Post by annaj26 on Feb 20, 2015 12:18:27 GMT -5
Paiute Late Winter Song (Native American tribes - anonymous author) Loud are the thunder drums in the tents of the mountains. Oh, long, long Have we eaten chia seeds and dried deer's flesh of the summer killing. We are tired of our huts and the smoky smell of our clothing. We are sick with the desire for the sun And the grass on the mountain. I like this. It helps me understand how they must have felt at the last of winter.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 21, 2015 18:10:35 GMT -5
Glad you liked it, Anna!
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 21, 2015 18:10:46 GMT -5
Afternoon in February
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red.
The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain;
While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train.
The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell;
Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 21, 2015 18:11:33 GMT -5
Potomac Town in February
Carl Sandburg
The Bridge says: Come across, try me; see how good I am.
The big rock in the river says: Look at me; learn how to stand up.
The white water says: I go on; around, under, over, I go on.
A kneeling, scraggly pine says: I am here yet; they nearly got me last year.
A sliver of moon slides by on a high wind calling: I know why; I’ll see you to-morrow; I’ll tell you everything to-morrow.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 23, 2015 18:06:51 GMT -5
The End Of The Library
Weldon Kees
When the coal Gave out, we began Burning the books, one by one; First the set Of Bulwer-Lytton And then the Walter Scott.
They gave a lot of warmth.
Toward the end, in February, flames Consumed the Greek Tragedians and Baudelaire, Proust, Robert Burton And the Po-Chu-i. Ice Thickened on the sills.
More for the sake of the cat, We said, than for ourselves, Who huddled, shivering, Against the stove All winter long.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 23, 2015 18:07:20 GMT -5
The Snow that never drifts
Emily Dickinson
The Snow that never drifts -- The transient, fragrant snow That comes a single time a Year Is softly driving now
So thorough in the Tree At night beneath the star That it was February's Foot Experience would swear
Like Winter as a Face We stern and former knew Repaired of all but Loneliness By Nature's Alibit
Were every storm so spice The Value could not be -- We buy with contrast -- Pang is good As near as memory --
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Post by annaj26 on Feb 23, 2015 19:12:00 GMT -5
The Snow that never drifts Emily Dickinson The Snow that never drifts -- The transient, fragrant snow That comes a single time a Year Is softly driving now So thorough in the Tree At night beneath the star That it was February's Foot Experience would swear Like Winter as a Face We stern and former knew Repaired of all but Loneliness By Nature's Alibit Were every storm so spice The Value could not be -- We buy with contrast -- Pang is good As near as memory -- I like this one, too. Dickinson is my mom's favorite poet.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2015 17:37:54 GMT -5
Here's another Dickinson for you, Anna.
White as an Indian pipe
Emily Dickinson
White as an Indian Pipe Red as a Cardinal Flower Fabulous as a Moon at Noon February Hour --
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2015 17:38:09 GMT -5
Snowdrop Blaze
R G Gregory
from late december onwards the day comes back but not till february do we see those glimpses that let us take deep darkness off the rack and shake it free of lethargy that cramps us through those dim months we’re made amanuensis to what loud rain and bitter spells dictate we seek bed early and must get up late
long january’s puffing in the right direction but its early mornings keep that midnight feel it still is subject to the date’s dejection but once it’s over – see how light can steal through cracks of trees and curtains - beneath the keel of the eastern skyline (rocking like a boat surprised so early to find itself afloat)
and from the earth presentiments are rustling as cheeky snowdrops hoist their periscopes within a week a mass of them is bustling and white becomes the flavour of the slopes and people flock invigorating hopes seasons (they say) have forfeited effect on one snowdrop-look and instantly dejection i
s whipped (though biting winds and brooding skies) away from the pure white cream the eyes are lapping a frisson blooms as every bloodstream tries to come to terms with its own natural sapping and from the earth reorganise that mapping that reaches out to plot those far endeavours a spirit yearns for (wishing its forevers)
so walk away – no spread of simple flowers can change the limitations we must live with snowdrops come and go – our fickle powers play havoc with the talents we can thrive with it’s just that february comes and lo - forthwith for one brief snowdrop moment there’s a blaze that lights the world up with its splash of praise
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