ladylinda
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June
Jun 15, 2014 16:15:20 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 15, 2014 16:15:20 GMT -5
June 1915
Charlotte Mew
Who thinks of June’s first rose today? Only some child, perhaps, with shining eyes and rough bright hair will reach it down. In a green sunny lane, to us almost as far away As are the fearless stars from these veiled lamps of town. What’s little June to a great broken world with eyes gone dim From too much looking on the face of grief, the face of dread? Or what’s the broken word to June and him Of the small eager hand, the shining eyes, the rough bright head?
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 15, 2014 16:15:46 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 15, 2014 16:15:46 GMT -5
After Midsummer
E J Scovell
Love, we curve downwards, we are set to night After our midsummer of longest light, After hay harvest, though the days are warmer And fruit is rounding on the lap of summer. Still as in youth in this time of our fruition Thought sifts to space through the words of definition, But strangeness darkens now to a constant mood Like hands shone dark with use or hafts of wood; And over out dense days of activity Brooding like stillness and satiety The wonder deepens as clouds mass over corn That here we are wakened and to this world born That with its few colours so steeps and dyes Our hearts, and with its runic signs implies Meaning we doubt we read, yet love and fear The forms more for the darkened light they bear. It was so in youth too; now youth’s spaces gone And death of parents and our time’s dark tone Shadow our days – even children too, whose birth And care through by-ways bring our thoughts to death; Whose force of life speaks of the distant future, Their helplessness of helpless animal nature; Who, like the old in their shroud of age, close bound In childhood, impress our natural pattern and end. The springy twigs arch over walls and beds Of lilac buddleia, and the long flower-heads Run down the air like valleys. Not by force But weight, the flowers of summer bend our course; And whether we live or die, from this time on We must know death better; though here as we stand upon The rounded summit we think how softly the slope And the sky have changed, and the further dales come up.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 16, 2014 14:14:18 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 16, 2014 14:14:18 GMT -5
Summer
Alexander Pope
See what delights in sylvan scenes appear! Descending Gods have found Elysium here. In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd, And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade. Come lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours, When swains from shearing seek their nightly bow'rs; When weary reapers quit the sultry field, And crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield. This harmless grove no lurking viper hides, But in my breast the serpent Love abides. Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew, But your Alexis knows no sweets but you. Oh deign to visit our forsaken seats, The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! Where-e'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade, Where-e'er you tread, the blushing flow'rs shall rise, And all things flourish where you turn your eyes. Oh! How I long with you to pass my days, Invoke the muses, and resound your praise; Your praise the birds shall chant in ev'ry grove, And winds shall waft it to the pow'rs above. But wou'd you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain, The wond'ring forests soon shou'd dance again, The moving mountains hear the pow'rful call, And headlong streams hang list'ning in their fall! But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day heat, The lowing herds to murm'ring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove, Ye Gods! And is there no relief for Love? But soon the sun with milder rays descends To the cool ocean, where his journey ends; On me Love's fiercer flames for every prey, By night he scorches, as he burns by day.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 16, 2014 14:14:43 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 16, 2014 14:14:43 GMT -5
Summer Stars
Carl Sandburg
BEND low again, night of summer stars. So near you are, sky of summer stars, So near, a long arm man can pick off stars, Pick off what he wants in the sky bowl, So near you are, summer stars, So near, strumming, strumming, So lazy and hum-strumming.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 16, 2014 14:15:25 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 16, 2014 14:15:25 GMT -5
When on a Summer's Morn
W H Davies
When on a summer's morn I wake, And open my two eyes, Out to the clear, born-singing rills My bird-like spirit flies.
To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush, Or any bird in song; And common leaves that hum all day Without a throat or tongue.
And when Time strikes the hour for sleep, Back in my room alone, My heart has many a sweet bird's song -- And one that's all my own.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 17, 2014 7:40:47 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 17, 2014 7:40:47 GMT -5
Summer Wind
William Cullen Bryant
It is a sultry day; the sun has drank The dew that lay upon the morning grass, There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scortching heat and dazzling light Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven;-- Their bases on the mountains--their white tops Shining in the far ether--fire the air With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays its coming. Why so slow, Gentle and voluble spirit of the air? Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, The pine is bending his proud top, and now, Among the nearer groves, chesnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes! Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in wives! The deep distressful silence of the scene Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds And universal motion. He is come, Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, And bearing on the fragrance; and he brings Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, And soun of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers, By the road-side and the borders of the brook, Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew Were on them yet, and silver waters break Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 17, 2014 7:41:23 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 17, 2014 7:41:23 GMT -5
A Summer Day
Lucy Maud Montgomery
I
The dawn laughs out on orient hills And dances with the diamond rills; The ambrosial wind but faintly stirs The silken, beaded gossamers; In the wide valleys, lone and fair, Lyrics are piped from limpid air, And, far above, the pine trees free Voice ancient lore of sky and sea. Come, let us fill our hearts straightway With hope and courage of the day.
II
Noon, hiving sweets of sun and flower, Has fallen on dreams in wayside bower, Where bees hold honeyed fellowship With the ripe blossom of her lip; All silent are her poppied vales And all her long Arcadian dales, Where idleness is gathered up A magic draught in summer's cup. Come, let us give ourselves to dreams By lisping margins of her streams.
III
Adown the golden sunset way The evening comes in wimple gray; By burnished shore and silver lake Cool winds of ministration wake; O'er occidental meadows far There shines the light of moon and star, And sweet, low-tinkling music rings About the lips of haunted springs. In quietude of earth and air 'Tis meet we yield our souls to prayer. Moonlight, summer moonlight by Emily Bronte 'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight, All soft and still and fair; The solemn hour of midnight Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,
But most where trees are sending Their breezy boughs on high, Or stooping low are lending A shelter from the sky.
And there in those wild bowers A lovely form is laid; Green grass and dew-steeped flowers Wave gently round her head.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 17, 2014 7:41:50 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 17, 2014 7:41:50 GMT -5
Summer Morn in New Hampshire
Claude McKay
All yesterday it poured, and all night long I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat Upon the shingled roof like a weird song, Upon the grass like running children's feet. And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed, Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed, Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist, And nestled soft against the earth's wet breast.
But lo, there was a miracle at dawn! The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze, The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn, The songsters twittered in the rustling trees. And all things were transfigured in the day, But me whom radiant beauty could not move; For you, more wonderful, were far away, And I was blind with hunger for your love.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 18, 2014 16:03:34 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 18, 2014 16:03:34 GMT -5
Summer Nights by Deborah Ager
Lamoni, Iowa
The factory siren tells workers time to go home tells them the evening has begun. When living with the tall man
whom I didn't love, I would wander the streets, dreaming of Italy. Trekking the handful of avenues
with him, he would say look there between pink cobblestones, there's manure like mortar.
The sweet smell of it Wednesday nights, the night before auction, when the misery of cows greets me
heading home through town. Lake quiets, tired of my lies. When will I tell truths again?
The siren. My love is home. Nights, we stay in and X the days.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 18, 2014 16:03:58 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 18, 2014 16:03:58 GMT -5
Early Summer
Charles Harpur
’Tis the early summer season, when the skies are clear and blue; When wide warm fields are glad with corn as green as ever grew, And upland growths of wattles engolden all the view. Oh! Is there conscious joyance in that heven so clearly blue? And is it a felt happiness that thus comes beating through Great nature’s mother heart, when the golden year is new?
When the woods are whitened over by the jolly cockatoo, And swarm with birds as beautiful as ever gladdened through The shining hours of time when the golden year was new?
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 18, 2014 16:04:26 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 18, 2014 16:04:26 GMT -5
Early summer rain
Yosa Buson
Early summer rain— houses facing the river, two of them.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 19, 2014 17:57:42 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 19, 2014 17:57:42 GMT -5
Jilted
Sylvia Plath
My thoughts are crabbed and sallow, My tears like vinegar, Or the bitter blinking yellow Of an acetic star.
Tonight the caustic wind, love, Gossips late and soon, And I wear the wry-faced pucker of The sour lemon moon.
While like an early summer plum, Puny, green, and tart, Droops upon its wizened stem My lean, unripened heart.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 19, 2014 18:01:39 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 19, 2014 18:01:39 GMT -5
49th Chorus (San Francisco Blues)
Jack Kerouac
California evening is like Mexico the windows get golden oranges the tattoed awnings flap like dresses of old Perdido great Peruvian princesses in the form of negro whores go parading down the sidewalk wearing earrings sweet perfuem old weazelwarret
tradesmen sick of selling out their stores stand in the evening lineup before identifying cops they cannot understand in the clouds of can and early morning marshly morse of over head
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 19, 2014 18:19:06 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 19, 2014 18:19:06 GMT -5
Bed in Summer
Robert Louis Stevenson
In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?
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June
Jun 20, 2014 11:54:19 GMT -5
Post by beth on Jun 20, 2014 11:54:19 GMT -5
Bed in Summer Robert Louis Stevenson In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me in the street. And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day? This is one of the first poems I ever heard and ever memorized. A Child's Garden of Verse was one of my parents' favorite booiks of juvenile literature and we kids benefited. All these June poems are beautiful (well, maybe not the Sylvia Plath, but the rest). What a selection. Thanks bunches (and a + ).
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