ladylinda
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June
Jun 20, 2014 15:51:20 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 20, 2014 15:51:20 GMT -5
Thanks; the Stevenson is a lovely poem I think! I remember my Mum reading it (and some others from 'A Child's Garden of Verses' to me at a very young age!
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 21, 2014 16:15:27 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 21, 2014 16:15:27 GMT -5
For Zbigniew Herbert, Summer, 1971, Los Angeles
Larry Levis
No matter how hard I listen, the wind speaks One syllable, which has no comfort in it-- Only a rasping of air through the dead elm.
*
Once a poet told me of his friend who was torn apart By two pigs in a field in Poland. The man Was a prisoner of the Nazis, and they watched, He said, with interest and a drunken approval . . . If terror is a state of complete understanding,
Then there was probably a point at which the man Went mad, and felt nothing, though certainly He understood everything that was there: after all, He could see blood splash beneath him on the stubble, He could hear singing float toward him from the barracks.
*
And though I don't know much about madness, I know it lives in the thin body like a harp Behind the rib cage. It makes it painful to move. And when you kneel in madness your knees are glass, And so you must stand up again with great care.
*
Maybe this wind was what he heard in 1941. Maybe I have raised a dead man into this air, And now I will have to bury him inside my body, And breathe him in, and do nothing but listen-- Until I hear the black blood rushing over The stone of my skull, and believe it is music.
But some things are not possible on the earth. And that is why people make poems about the dead. And the dead watch over then, until they are finished: Until their hands feel like glass on the page, And snow collects in the blind eyes of statues.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 21, 2014 16:16:51 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 21, 2014 16:16:51 GMT -5
I see the boys of summer
Dylan Thomas
I see the boys of summer in their ruin Lay the gold tithings barren, Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils; There in their heat the winter floods Of frozen loves they fetch their girls, And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.
These boys of light are curdlers in their folly, Sour the boiling honey; The jacks of frost they finger in the hives; There in the sun the frigid threads Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves; The signal moon is zero in their voids.
I see the summer children in their mothers Split up the brawned womb’s weathers, Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs; There in the deep with quartered shades Of sun and moon they paint their dams As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 22, 2014 14:39:42 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 22, 2014 14:39:42 GMT -5
Summer Song
William Carlos Williams
Wanderer moon smiling a faintly ironical smile at this brilliant, dew-moistened summer morning,- a detached sleepily indifferent smile, a wanderer's smile, - if I should buy a shirt your color and put on a necktie sky-blue where would they carry me?
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 22, 2014 14:42:25 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 22, 2014 14:42:25 GMT -5
Fugitive
Amy Lowell
Sunlight,, Three marigolds, And a dusky purple poppy-pod - Out of these I made a beautiful world, Why you have them - Brightness, Gold, And a sleep with dreams?
They are brittle pleasures certainly, But where can you find better? Roses are not noted for endurance And only thirty days in June
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 27, 2014 14:47:57 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 27, 2014 14:47:57 GMT -5
Having it Out with Melancholy
Jane Kenyon
1FROM THE NURSERY
When I was born, you waited behind a pile of linen in the nursery, and when we were alone, you lay down on top of me, pressing the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on everything under the sun and moon made me sad -- even the yellow wooden beads that slid and spun along a spindle on my crib.
You taught me to exist without gratitude. You ruined my manners toward God: "We're here simply to wait for death; the pleasures of earth are overrated."
I only appeared to belong to my mother, to live among blocks and cotton undershirts with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes and report cards in ugly brown slipcases. I was already yours -- the anti-urge, the mutilator of souls.
2BOTTLES
Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin, Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax, Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft. The coated ones smell sweet or have no smell; the powdery ones smell like the chemistry lab at school that made me hold my breath.
3SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND
You wouldn't be so depressed if you really believed in God.
4OFTEN
Often I go to bed as soon after dinner as seems adult (I mean I try to wait for dark) in order to push away from the massive pain in sleep's frail wicker coracle.
5ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT
Once, in my early thirties, I saw that I was a speck of light in the great river of light that undulates through time.
I was floating with the whole human family. We were all colors -- those who are living now, those who have died, those who are not yet born. For a few
moments I floated, completely calm, and I no longer hated having to exist.
Like a crow who smells hot blood you came flying to pull me out of the glowing stream. "I'll hold you up. I never let my dear ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.
6IN AND OUT
The dog searches until he finds me upstairs, lies down with a clatter of elbows, puts his head on my foot.
Sometimes the sound of his breathing saves my life -- in and out, in and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .
7PARDON
A piece of burned meat wears my clothes, speaks in my voice, dispatches obligations haltingly, or not at all. It is tired of trying to be stouthearted, tired beyond measure.
We move on to the monoamine oxidase inhibitors. Day and night I feel as if I had drunk six cups of coffee, but the pain stops abruptly. With the wonder and bitterness of someone pardoned for a crime she did not commit I come back to marriage and friends, to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back to my desk, books, and chair.
8CREDO
Pharmaceutical wonders are at work but I believe only in this moment of well-being. Unholy ghost, you are certain to come again.
Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet on the coffee table, lean back, and turn me into someone who can't take the trouble to speak; someone who can't sleep, or who does nothing but sleep; can't read, or call for an appointment for help.
There is nothing I can do against your coming. When I awake, I am still with thee.
9WOOD THRUSH
High on Nardil and June light I wake at four, waiting greedily for the first note of the wood thrush. Easeful air presses through the screen with the wild, complex song of the bird, and I am overcome
by ordinary contentment. What hurt me so terribly all my life until this moment? How I love the small, swiftly beating heart of the bird singing in the great maples; its bright, unequivocal eye.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 27, 2014 14:49:39 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 27, 2014 14:49:39 GMT -5
The Chinese Nightingale
Vachel Lindsay
A Song in Chinese Tapestries
"How, how," he said. "Friend Chang," I said, "San Francisco sleeps as the dead— Ended license, lust and play: Why do you iron the night away? Your big clock speaks with a deadly sound, With a tick and a wail till dawn comes round. While the monster shadows glower and creep, What can be better for man than sleep?"
"I will tell you a secret," Chang replied; "My breast with vision is satisfied, And I see green trees and fluttering wings, And my deathless bird from Shanghai sings." Then he lit five fire-crackers in a pan. "Pop, pop," said the fire-crackers, "cra-cra-crack." He lit a joss stick long and black. Then the proud gray joss in the corner stirred; On his wrist appeared a gray small bird, And this was the song of the gray small bird: "Where is the princess, loved forever, Who made Chang first of the kings of men?"
And the joss in the corner stirred again; And the carved dog, curled in his arms, awoke, Barked forth a smoke-cloud that whirled and broke. It piled in a maze round the ironing-place, And there on the snowy table wide Stood a Chinese lady of high degree, With a scornful, witching, tea-rose face.... Yet she put away all form and pride, And laid her glimmering veil aside With a childlike smile for Chang and for me.
The walls fell back, night was aflower, The table gleamed in a moonlit bower, While Chang, with a countenance carved of stone, Ironed and ironed, all alone. And thus she sang to the busy man Chang: "Have you forgotten.... Deep in the ages, long, long ago, I was your sweetheart, there on the sand— Storm-worn beach of the Chinese land? We sold our grain in the peacock town Built on the edge of the sea-sands brown— Built on the edge of the sea-sands brown....
"When all the world was drinking blood From the skulls of men and bulls And all the world had swords and clubs of stone, We drank our tea in China beneath the sacred spice-trees, And heard the curled waves of the harbor moan. And this gray bird, in Love's first spring, With a bright-bronze breast and a bronze-brown wing, Captured the world with his carolling. Do you remember, ages after, At last the world we were born to own? You were the heir of the yellow throne— The world was the field of the Chinese man And we were the pride of the Sons of Han? We copied deep books and we carved in jade, And wove blue silks in the mulberry shade...."
"I remember, I remember That Spring came on forever, That Spring came on forever," Said the Chinese nightingale.
My heart was filled with marvel and dream, Though I saw the western street-lamps gleam, Though dawn was bringing the western day, Though Chang was a laundryman ironing away.... Mingled there with the streets and alleys, The railroad-yard and the clock-tower bright, Demon clouds crossed ancient valleys; Across wide lotus-ponds of light I marked a giant firefly's flight.
And the lady, rosy-red, Flourished her fan, her shimmering fan, Stretched her hand toward Chang, and said: "Do you remember, Ages after, Our palace of heart-red stone? Do you remember The little doll-faced children With their lanterns full of moon-fire, That came from all the empire Honoring the throne?— The loveliest fête and carnival Our world had ever known? The sages sat about us With their heads bowed in their beards, With proper meditation on the sight. Confucius was not born; We lived in those great days Confucius later said were lived aright....
And this gray bird, on that day of spring, With a bright bronze breast, and a bronze-brown wing, Captured the world with his carolling. Late at night his tune was spent. Peasants, Sages, Children, Homeward went, And then the bronze bird sang for you and me. We walked alone. Our hearts were high and free. I had a silvery name, I had a silvery name, I had a silvery name — do you remember The name you cried beside the tumbling sea?"
Chang turned not to the lady slim— He bent to his work, ironing away; But she was arch, and knowing and glowing, And the bird on his shoulder spoke for him.
"Darling . . . darling . . . darling . . . darling . . ." Said the Chinese nightingale.
The great gray joss on a rustic shelf, Rakish and shrewd, with his collar awry, Sang impolitely, as though by himself, Drowning with his bellowing the nightingale's cry: "Back through a hundred, hundred years Hear the waves as they climb the piers, Hear the howl of the silver seas, Hear the thunder. Hear the gongs of holy China How the waves and tunes combine In a rhythmic clashing wonder, Incantation old and fine: `Dragons, dragons, Chinese dragons, Red fire-crackers, and green fire-crackers, And dragons, dragons, Chinese dragons.'"
Then the lady, rosy-red, Turned to her lover Chang and said: "Dare you forget that turquoise dawn When we stood in our mist-hung velvet lawn, And worked a spell this great joss taught Till a God of the Dragons was charmed and caught? From the flag high over our palace home He flew to our feet in rainbow-foam — A king of beauty and tempest and thunder Panting to tear our sorrows asunder. A dragon of fair adventure and wonder. We mounted the back of that royal slave With thoughts of desire that were noble and grave. We swam down the shore to the dragon-mountains, We whirled to the peaks and the fiery fountains. To our secret ivory house we were bourne. We looked down the wonderful wing-filled regions Where the dragons darted in glimmering legions. Right by my breast the nightingale sang; The old rhymes rang in the sunlit mist That we this hour regain — Song-fire for the brain. When my hands and my hair and my feet you kissed, When you cried for your heart's new pain, What was my name in the dragon-mist, In the rings of rainbowed rain?"
"Sorrow and love, glory and love," Said the Chinese nightingale. "Sorrow and love, glory and love," Said the Chinese nightingale.
And now the joss broke in with his song: "Dying ember, bird of Chang, Soul of Chang, do you remember? — Ere you returned to the shining harbor There were pirates by ten thousand Descended on the town In vessels mountain-high and red and brown, Moon-ships that climbed the storms and cut the skies. On their prows were painted terrible bright eyes. But I was then a wizard and a scholar and a priest; I stood upon the sand; With lifted hand I looked upon them And sunk their vessels with my wizard eyes, And the stately lacquer-gate made safe again. Deep, deep below the bay, the sea-weed and the spray, Embalmed in amber every pirate lies, Embalmed in amber every pirate lies."
Then this did the noble lady say: "Bird, do you dream of our home-coming day When you flew like a courier on before From the dragon-peak to our palace-door, And we drove the steed in your singing path— The ramping dragon of laughter and wrath: And found our city all aglow, And knighted this joss that decked it so? There were golden fishes in the purple river And silver fishes and rainbow fishes. There were golden junks in the laughing river, And silver junks and rainbow junks: There were golden lilies by the bay and river, And silver lilies and tiger-lilies, And tinkling wind-bells in the gardens of the town By the black-lacquer gate Where walked in state The kind king Chang And his sweet-heart mate.... With his flag-born dragon And his crown of pearl...and...jade, And his nightingale reigning in the mulberry shade, And sailors and soldiers on the sea-sands brown, And priests who bowed them down to your song— By the city called Han, the peacock town, By the city called Han, the nightingale town, The nightingale town."
Then sang the bird, so strangely gay, Fluttering, fluttering, ghostly and gray, A vague, unravelling, final tune, Like a long unwinding silk cocoon; Sang as though for the soul of him Who ironed away in that bower dim: — "I have forgotten Your dragons great, Merry and mad and friendly and bold.
Dim is your proud lost palace-gate. I vaguely know There were heroes of old, Troubles more than the heart could hold, There were wolves in the woods Yet lambs in the fold, Nests in the top of the almond tree.... The evergreen tree... and the mulberry tree... Life and hurry and joy forgotten, Years on years I but half-remember... Man is a torch, then ashes soon, May and June, then dead December, Dead December, then again June. Who shall end my dream's confusion? Life is a loom, weaving illusion... I remember, I remember There were ghostly veils and laces... In the shadowy bowery places... With lovers' ardent faces Bending to one another, Speaking each his part. They infinitely echo In the red cave of my heart. `Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart.' They said to one another.
They spoke, I think, of perils past. They spoke, I think, of peace at last. One thing I remember: Spring came on forever, Spring came on forever," Said the Chinese nightingale.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 27, 2014 14:50:26 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 27, 2014 14:50:26 GMT -5
Hyla Brook
Robert Frost
By June our brook's run out of song and speed. Sought for much after that, it will be found Either to have gone groping underground (And taken with it all the Hyla breed That shouted in the mist a month ago, Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)-- Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed, Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent Even against the way its waters went. Its bed is left a faded paper sheet Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat-- A brook to none but who remember long. This as it will be seen is other far Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song. We love the things we love for what they are.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 29, 2014 11:25:51 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 29, 2014 11:25:51 GMT -5
Sorry about yesterday; some unexpected calls on our time!
Here's a few more - this is the first.
Noon in the Botanic Garden
E J Scovell
Feathered like leaves of the acacia The world puts on its summer air That lies, a lustre and a down On the stone trees of the academic town
Heavy on the garden is the peace of summer. The lilies straggle and fade sooner In the light that everywhere Lifts like a bindweed its white trumpet flower.
Few birds at midday, chaffinches and sparrows, A white butterfly, one, On steps of air climbs the high wall of stone.
And like a bee of this scholastic garden – The heart her star – an iron-haired woman Passes between the stems From flower to flower, stooping to list their names.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 29, 2014 11:27:38 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 29, 2014 11:27:38 GMT -5
Garden Fancies
Robert Browning
I. THE FLOWER'S NAME
Here's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among.
II.
Down this side ofthe gravel-walk She went while her rope's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you noble roses, I know; But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!
III.
This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name: What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
IV.
Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found.
V.
Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved for ever! Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not: Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle--- Is not the dear mark still to be seen?
VI.
Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Whither I follow ber, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall! ---Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces--- Roses, you are not so fair after all!
II. SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS.
Plague take all your pedants, say I! He who wrote what I hold in my hand, Centuries back was so good as to die, Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land; This, that was a book in its time, Printed on paper and bound in leather, Last month in the white of a matin-prime Just when the birds sang all together.
II.
Into the garden I brought it to read, And under the arbute and laurustine Read it, so help me grace in my need, From title-page to closing line. Chapter on chapter did I count, As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge; Added up the mortal amount; And then proceeded to my revenge.
III.
Yonder's a plum-tree with a crevice An owl would build in, were he but sage; For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis In a castle of the Middle Age, Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber; When he'd be private, there might he spend Hours alone in his lady's chamber: Into this crevice I dropped our friend.
IV.
Splash, went he, as under he ducked, ---At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate: Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate; Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf, Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis; Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais.
V.
Now, this morning, betwixt the moss And gum that locked our friend in limbo, A spider had spun his web across, And sat in the midst with arms akimbo: So, I took pity, for learning's sake, And, _de profundis, accentibus ltis, Cantate!_ quoth I, as I got a rake; And up I fished his delectable treatise.
VI.
Here you have it, dry in the sun, With all the binding all of a blister, And great blue spots where the ink has run, And reddish streaks that wink and glister O'er the page so beautifully yellow: Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks! Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow? Here's one stuck in his chapter six!
VII.
How did he like it when the live creatures Tickled and toused and browsed him all over, And worm, slug, eft, with serious features, Came in, each one, for his right of trover? ---When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face Made of her eggs the stately deposit, And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet?
VIII.
All that life and fun and romping, All that frisking and twisting and coupling, While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping And clasps were cracking and covers suppling! As if you bad carried sour John Knox To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich, Fastened him into a front-row box, And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic.
IX.
Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it? Back to my room shall you take your sweet self. Good-bye, mother-beetle; husband-eft, _sufficit!_ See the snug niche I have made on my shelf! A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you, Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay, And with E. on each side, and F. right over you, Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day!
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 29, 2014 11:28:43 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 29, 2014 11:28:43 GMT -5
The Flower-School
Rabindranath Tagore
When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down. The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos. Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee. Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground. They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner. When the rain come they have their holidays. Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white. Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are. Haven't you see how eager they are to get there? Don't you know why they are in such a hurry? Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms; they have their mother as I have my own.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 30, 2014 10:02:57 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 30, 2014 10:02:57 GMT -5
The last three pieces for this month of June:
Wild Strawberries
Robert Graves
Strawberries that in gardens grow Are plump and juicy fine, But sweeter far as wise men know Spring from the woodland vine.
No need for bowl or silver spoon, Sugar or spice or cream, Has the wild berry plucked in June Beside the trickling stream.
One such to melt at the tongue's root, Confounding taste with scent, Beats a full peck of garden fruit: Which points my argument.
May sudden justice overtake And snap the froward pen, That old and palsied poets shake Against the minds of men.
Blasphemers trusting to hold caught In far-flung webs of ink, The utmost ends of human thought Till nothing's left to think.
But may the gift of heavenly peace And glory for all time Keep the boy Tom who tending geese First made the nursery rhyme.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 30, 2014 10:03:30 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 30, 2014 10:03:30 GMT -5
The Plateau
Claude McKay
It was the silver, heart-enveloping view Of the mysterious sea-line far away, Seen only on a gleaming gold-white day, That made it dear and beautiful to you.
And Laura loved it for the little hill, Where the quartz sparkled fire, barren and dun, Whence in the shadow of the dying sun, She contemplated Hallow's wooden mill.
While Danny liked the sheltering high grass, In which he lay upon a clear dry night, To hear and see, screened skilfully from sight, The happy lovers of the valley pass.
But oh! I loved it for the big round moon That swung out of the clouds and swooned aloft, Burning with passion, gloriously soft, Lighting the purple flowers of fragrant June.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 30, 2014 10:04:15 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 30, 2014 10:04:15 GMT -5
And what better way to round off the month of June than with the glorious song from 'Carousel?'
June is bustin' out all over - from 'Carousel'
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June
Jun 30, 2014 12:55:40 GMT -5
Post by beth on Jun 30, 2014 12:55:40 GMT -5
Linda, your Tapestry of Poetry, June, is delicious and I award it "Thread of the Month" with 10 kp to you for creating and maintaining it.
Thanks!
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