|
Post by beth on Jun 7, 2010 23:00:46 GMT -5
Hated having to memorize it in 9th grade Lit, but have been glad many times since. The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same.
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
~~~Robert Frost
|
|
|
Post by beth on Jun 10, 2010 16:31:07 GMT -5
Instructions by Neil Gaiman Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never
saw before.
Say "please" before you open the latch,
go through,
walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted
front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat
nothing.
However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.
If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.
From the back garden you will be able to see the
wild wood.
The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's
realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.
Once through the garden you will be in the
wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-
growth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She
may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle.
Inside it are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve
months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December's frost.
Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where
you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-
man will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to
leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)
If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.
Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from
one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.
Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).
There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is
why it will not stand.
When you reach the little house, the place your
journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden gate
you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
And rest.
|
|
|
Post by beth on Jun 25, 2010 16:03:59 GMT -5
Another Robert Frost poem I like.
Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me~ Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
|
|
|
Post by beth on Sept 30, 2010 22:14:37 GMT -5
It's amazing how many current situations and happenings can be related to this poem. The Walrus and the Carpenter Lewis Carroll The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead-- There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year. Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said. "Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but "Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said: "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?' But answer came there none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one.
|
|
|
Post by mouse on Oct 25, 2010 23:54:02 GMT -5
i love rossetti... christina rossetti
|
|
|
Post by beth on Oct 26, 2010 7:02:34 GMT -5
i love rossetti... christina rossetti I always liked Symbols. Hadn't read it for a long time. Had to go find it. SYMBOLS by: Christina Rossetti WATCHED a rosebud very long Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower: Then, when I thought it should be strong, It opened at the matin hour And fell at evensong. I watched a nest from day to day, A green nest full of pleasant shade, Wherein three speckled eggs were laid: But when they should have hatched in May, The two old birds had grown afraid Or tired, and flew away. Then in my wrath I broke the bough That I had tended so with care, Hoping its scent should fill the air; I crushed the eggs, not heeding how Their ancient promise had been fair: I would have vengeance now. But the dead branch spoke from the sod, And the eggs answered me again: Because we failed dost thou complain? Is thy wrath just? And what if God, Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain, Should also take the rod?
|
|
|
Post by mouse on Oct 27, 2010 4:57:45 GMT -5
dunno the name of this or even all of it..
right at the back of my head i know incredible wild things like a swan half blind with snow and the dying swan sings
|
|
Erasmus
Moderatorz
Deep Thought Mod
"We do not take prisoners - we liberate them" - http://www.aeonbytegnosticradio.com
Posts: 2,489
|
Post by Erasmus on Oct 27, 2010 13:38:16 GMT -5
I have a liking for the ancient alliterative style like Beowulf. So did Gerard Manly Hopkins, converted to Jesuit no less!.
GLORY be to God for dappled things, For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow, For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls, finches' wings; Landscape plotted and pieced, fold, fallow and plough, And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange, Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim. He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change; Praise him.
After a life of poverty (resulting from elopement with the under-age niece of his employer, the Keeper of the Great Seal - obviously not a man to annoy!) the much more cynical John Donne converted the other way and ended as Dean of St. Paul's - after which he died of some horrible disease. In fairness, though he had absolutely no regard for female faithfulness, he does end several poems poking fun at himself as being just as inconstant and worse. To me, the original spelling suggests the slightly more 'northern pronunciation of 400 'yeares' ago - for instance all past yeares fits the metre better more as German than English (short, short, long, short).
GOE, and catche a falling starre, Get with child a mandrake roote, Tell me, where all past yeares are, Or who cleft the Divels foot, Teach me to heare Mermaides singing, Or to keep off envies stinging, And finde What winde Serves to advance an honest minde. If thou beest borne to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand daies and nights, Till age snow white haires on thee, Thou, when thou retorn'st, wilt tell mee All strange wonders that befell thee, And sweare No where Lives a woman true, and faire. If thou findst one, let mee know, Such a Pilgrimage were sweet; Yet doe not, I would not goe, Though at next doore wee might meet, Though shee were true, when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, Yet shee Will bee False, ere I come, to two, or three.
|
|
|
Post by biglin on Nov 16, 2010 18:24:10 GMT -5
Mike and I went away on Friday to Torquay and on Sunday we went to the local War Memorial to hear a very moving service.
We both cried a bit especially when I thought of my mate Dave in Helmand.
Anyway, here's what I think is an appropriate poem to celebrate their heroism.
Wilfred Owen - Anthem for Doomed Youth - popular First World War poem WILFRED OWEN Anthem for Doomed Youth - an often quoted poem of the First World War ANTHEM1 FOR DOOMED YOUTH What passing-bells2 for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out3 their hasty orisons.4 No mockeries5 now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, – The shrill, demented6 choirs of wailing shells; And bugles7 calling for them from sad shires.8 What candles9 may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor10 of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk11 a drawing-down of blinds.12 A
September - October, 1917
|
|
|
Post by beth on Nov 18, 2010 21:11:35 GMT -5
An Indian Summer Day On The Prairie
The sun is a huntress young, The sun is a red, red joy, The sun is an indian girl, Of the tribe of the Illinois.
The sun is a smouldering fire, That creeps through the high gray plain, And leaves not a bush of cloud To blossom with flowers of rain.
The sun is a wounded deer, That treads pale grass in the skies, Shaking his golden horns, Flashing his baleful eyes.
The sun is an eagle old, There in the windless west. Atop of the spirit-cliffs He builds him a crimson nest.
Vachel Lindsay
|
|
|
Post by beth on Nov 21, 2010 14:47:15 GMT -5
For Thanksgiving. Our 4th grade class had to memorize this and recite it in various parts as an oral reading in assembly. Geez ... no wonder I've never forgotten it.
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS by: Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1793-1835)
THE breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free.
The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roared-- This was their welcome home.
There were men with hoary hair Amidst the pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow, serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod; They have left unstained what there they found -- Freedom to whorship God.
|
|
|
Post by maggie on Dec 3, 2010 13:23:07 GMT -5
Lovely poems! I've put this on other boards and have to do so here. It is my favourite poem - my grandmother used to recite it to her children and grandchildren.
Somebody's mother Mary Dow Brine (1816-1913)
The woman was old and ragged and grey And bent with the chill of the Winter's day. The street was wet with a recent snow And the woman's feet were aged and slow. She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for, amid the throng Of human beings who passed her by Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eyes. Down the street, with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of 'school let out,' Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep. Past the woman so old and grey Hastened the children on their way. Nor offered a helping hand to her - So meek, so timid, afraid to stir Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop, The gayest lad of all the group; He paused beside her and whispered low, "I'll help you cross, if you wish to go." Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, He guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong. Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content. "She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's aged and poor and slow, And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand, If ever she's poor and old and grey, And her own dear boy is far away." 'Somebody's mother' bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said Was "God be kind to the noble boy, Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!"
|
|
|
Post by beth on Dec 11, 2010 11:20:01 GMT -5
Seasonal Offering
Twas The Night Before Christmas Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads. And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself! A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk. And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
|
|
|
Post by maggie on Dec 11, 2010 14:43:12 GMT -5
I love that poem, The Night Before Christmas!
This is another one of my favourites:
A night with the wolf by B Taylor
High up on the lonely mountains, Where the wild men watched and waited; Wolves in the forest and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated.
The rain and the night together Came down, and the wind came after, Bending the props of the pine tree roof, And snapping many a rafter.
I crept along in the darkness, Stunned, and bruised, and blinded; Crept to a fir with thick set boughs And a sheltering rock behind it.
There, from the blowing and raining, Crouching, I sought to hide me. Something rustled; two green eyes shone; And a wolf lay down beside me.
His wet fur pressed against me; Each of us warmed the other; Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, That beast and man were brother.
And when the falling forest No longer crashed in warning, Each of us went from our hiding place Forth in the wild, wet morning.
|
|
Erasmus
Moderatorz
Deep Thought Mod
"We do not take prisoners - we liberate them" - http://www.aeonbytegnosticradio.com
Posts: 2,489
|
Post by Erasmus on Dec 11, 2010 18:18:38 GMT -5
This isn't exactly English - leastwise not as she be spoke today, It's not easy to understand but even where individual words or their spelling are obscure, the ancient style (even for the 15th century) and very staccato words fit what the man was complaining about perfectly! All letters including Gh pronounced (like Scots)! Interesting that although he uses the modern (Norse) They he keeps native English Here and Hem for Their and Them. Shankes - Thighs - Shanks's Pony! Shakeled - Protected (doubts about this - maybe more wrapped) Fere-flunderes - Fire-flinders, sparks. Todrive - Stop. Bole - Bull's. Barm-felles - Leather aprons (says the book!) Clothemeres - clothe mares: horses wore armour too! Sorwe - Sorrow - Jaysus strike 'em!Brenwateres - burn water when they quench steel in it. One forgets that all those knights in armour had to get it made - and that was a noisy business: no fun if you lived near the smiths! There is a translation but not as poetry. Black-smoked Smiths Swarte-smeked smethes, smatered with smoke, Drive me to deth with den of here dintes: Swich nois on nightes ne herd men never, What knavene cry and clatering of knockes! The cammede kongons cryen after 'Col! col!' And blowen here bellewes that all here brain brestes. 'Huf, puf' seith that on, 'Haf , paf' that other. They spitten and sprawlen and spellen many spelles, They gnawen and gnacchen, they grones togidere, And holden hem hote with here hard hamers. Of a bole hide ben here barm-felles, Here shankes ben shakeled for the fere-flunderes. Hevy hameres they han that hard ben handled, Stark strokes they striken on a stele stocke. 'Lus, bus, las, das', rowten by rowe, Swiche dolful a dreme the Devil it todrive! The maister longeth a litil and lasheth a lesse, Twineth hem twein and toucheth a treble. 'Tik, tak, hic, hac, tiket, taket, tik, tak, Lus, bus, lus, das'. Swiche lif they leden, Alle clothemeres, Christ hem give sorwe! May no man for brenwateres on night han his rest?
|
|