ladylinda
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March
Mar 3, 2015 12:54:27 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Mar 3, 2015 12:54:27 GMT -5
'The afternoon is bright'
Antonio Machado
The afternoon is bright, with spring in the air, a mild March afternoon, with the breath of April stirring, I am alone in the quiet patio looking for some old untried illusion - some shadow on the whiteness of the wall some memory asleep on the stone rim of the fountain, perhaps in the air the light swish of some trailing gown.
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ladylinda
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March
Mar 3, 2015 12:54:44 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Mar 3, 2015 12:54:44 GMT -5
'The sun at noon to higher air'
A E Housman
The sun at noon to higher air, Unharnessing the silver Pair That late before his chariot swam, Rides on the gold wool of the Ram.
So braver notes the storm-cock sings To start the rusted wheel of things, And brutes in field and brutes in pen Leap that the world goes round again.
The boys are up the woods with day To fetch the daffodils away, And home at noonday from the hills They bring no dearth of daffodils.
Afield for palms the girls repair, And sure enough the palms are there, And each will find by hedge or pond Her waving silver-tufted wand.
In farm and field through all the shire The eye beholds the heart’s desire; Ah, let not only mine be vain, For lovers should be loved again.
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ladylinda
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March
Mar 3, 2015 12:54:59 GMT -5
beth likes this
Post by ladylinda on Mar 3, 2015 12:54:59 GMT -5
'Dear March, come in'
Emily Dickinson
Dear March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before. Put down your hat– You must have walked– How out of breath you are! Dear March, how are you? And the rest? Did you leave Nature well? Oh, March, come right upstairs with me, I have so much to tell!
I got your letter, and the birds'; The maples never knew That you were coming,–I declare, How red their faces grew! But, March, forgive me– And all those hills You left for me to hue; There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you.
Who knocks? That April! Lock the door! I will not be pursued! He stayed away a year, to call When I am occupied. But trifles look so trivial As soon as you have come, That blame is just as dear as praise And praise as mere as blame.
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ladylinda
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March
Mar 9, 2015 11:37:00 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Mar 9, 2015 11:37:00 GMT -5
Sunday in Spring
Marianne Poloskey
Each leaf, each blade of grass vies for attention. Even weeds carry tiny blossoms to astonish us.
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ladylinda
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March
Mar 9, 2015 11:37:33 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Mar 9, 2015 11:37:33 GMT -5
Pippa's song
Robert Browning
The year’s at the spring And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hillside’s dew-pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in His heaven - All’s right with the world!
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ladylinda
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March
Mar 9, 2015 11:38:00 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Mar 9, 2015 11:38:00 GMT -5
Spring is the period
Emily Dickinson
Spring is the Period Express from God.
Among the other seasons Himself abide,
But during March and April None stir abroad Without a cordial interview With God.
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ladylinda
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March
Mar 19, 2015 16:25:15 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Mar 19, 2015 16:25:15 GMT -5
March is the Month of Expectation.
Emily Dickinson
March is the Month of Expectation.
The things we do not know -- The Persons of prognostication Are coming now -- We try to show becoming firmness -- But pompous Joy Betrays us, as his first Betrothal Betrays a Boy.
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ladylinda
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March
Mar 19, 2015 16:25:31 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Mar 19, 2015 16:25:31 GMT -5
-------------------------------------------------------------------------- Earth's Immortalities
Robert Browning
FAME. See, as the prettiest graves will do in time, Our poet's wants the freshness of its prime; Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the sods Have struggled through its binding osier rods; Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean awry, Wanting the brick-work promised by-and-by; How the minute grey lichens, plate o'er plate, Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date!
LOVE. So, the year's done with (_Love me for ever!_) All March begun with, April's endeavour; May-wreaths that bound me June needs must sever; Now snows fall round me, Quenching June's fever--- (_Love me for ever!_)
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ladylinda
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March
Mar 19, 2015 16:25:47 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Mar 19, 2015 16:25:47 GMT -5
The Winds of March
Patience Strong
March wind, wild wind, blow this day. Whirl the winter snow away. Dry the ditches and the hollows-in tracks where April follows. Clear a path for her advance. Teach the daffodils to dance. Through your ravings harsh and strong-thrushes thread a golden song. Cleanse the air, Make fresh the earth-for the season of rebirth.
Wind of heaven, searching, keen. Sweep the world and make it clean. Blow away the old dissensions-grievances and bad inten- tions. Godless dogmas, pagan creeds. Ugly words and ugly deeds. Scatter them beneath your wings. Blow away all evil things-So that man from strife may cease-and enjoy the fruits of peace.
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ladylinda
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March
Apr 2, 2015 10:24:00 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 2, 2015 10:24:00 GMT -5
My apologies for being so late in wrapping up the March thread.
Here's one that probably most members won't know.
Spring equinox with the forty days:
Ross Nichols
Now comes egality of day wit night, powers of darkness and light at grapple, light winning around earth. Herein is passion upon the tree of Attis, his resurrection in gardens of Adonis. Now the jealous God passes over the Hebrew first-born as he smites the Pharaonic land with the direst plague, and the spring feast follows. Descendants of the wanderer Abram are ready for the hike; loins girded, feet shod, staffs beside them, their packs humped. Higher humped are the camels, enormous in the moonlight of Egypt, black shadows stretch to the waiting foot.
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ladylinda
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March
Apr 2, 2015 10:26:44 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 2, 2015 10:26:44 GMT -5
A Vapour-Trail over the Park
E J Scovell
And the families go home, And the ducks stand on the weed, And the leaves set broad to sun Have taken all they can
The baby as the beeches loom Prints his full face and heavy ids (By sunlight, like the sun, washed pale) On a dark green deep
And time might sleep; but vertical Dropping, slow, invisible, A plane divides the sky's blue cliff With a mountain waterfall
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ladylinda
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March
Apr 2, 2015 10:39:48 GMT -5
beth likes this
Post by ladylinda on Apr 2, 2015 10:39:48 GMT -5
A beautiful poem I think to end with!
The End of March
Elizabeth Bishop
For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury
It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of a lone flight of Canada geese; and blew back the low, inaudible rollers in upright, steely mist.
The sky was darker than the water --it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed a track of big dog-prints (so big they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on ] lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string, looping up to the tide-line, down to the water, over and over. Finally, they did end: a thick white snarl, man-size, awash, rising on every wave, a sodden ghost, falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost.
A kite string?--But no kite.
I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house, my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box set up on pilings, shingled green, a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener (boiled with bicarbonate of soda?), protected from spring tides by a palisade of--are they railroad ties? (Many things about this place are dubious. ) I'd like to retire there and do nothing, or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms: look through binoculars, read boring books, old, long, long books, and write down useless notes, talk to myself, and, foggy days, watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.
At night, a grog a l'américaine.
I'd blaze it with a kitchen match and lovely diaphanous blue flame would waver, doubled in the window.
There must be a stove; there is a chimney, askew, but braced with wires, and electricity, possibly --at least, at the back another wire limply leashes the whole affair to something off behind the dunes.
A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible.
And that day the wind was much too cold even to get that far, and of course the house was boarded up.
On the way back our faces froze on the other side.
The sun came out for just a minute.
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand, the drab, damp, scattered stones were multi-colored, and all those high enough threw out long shadows, individual shadows, then pulled them in again.
They could have been teasing the lion sun, ] except that now he was behind them --a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide, making those big, majestic paw-prints, who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.
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ladylinda
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March
Apr 2, 2015 10:42:40 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Apr 2, 2015 10:42:40 GMT -5
And as always I like to end this thread with a song.
The Ides of March - Iron Maiden
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