ladylinda
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October
Oct 17, 2014 15:44:47 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 17, 2014 15:44:47 GMT -5
There Is A Solemn Wind Tonight
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
There is a solemn wind to-night That sings of solemn rain; The trees that have been quiet so long Flutter and start again. The slender trees, the heavy trees, The fruit trees laden and proud, Lift up their branches to the wind That cries to them so loud. The little bushes and the plants Bow to the solemn sound, And every tiniest blade of grass Shakes on the quiet ground.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Oct 19, 2014 17:40:12 GMT -5
October’s Opal
Robert Savino
October is here, once again, barely transcending the threshold of autumn. The maple is turning yellow to orange, to red, soon to be bared by winter.
Ah winter, when blankets of bliss cover spoon-fit bodies, flickering sparks to flames. . . until love of spring gardens becomes the rapture of summer bloom.
And looking from outside-in, beyond recognizable beauty, the ruby of jewels glows bright, pumping currents of rivers red, deep into the wells of every extremity. Our chest fills with laughter.
When apart, even so brief, this season stays with you, whether I am or not and your voice with me, through wind’s immutable breath.
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ladylinda
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October
Oct 19, 2014 17:40:31 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 19, 2014 17:40:31 GMT -5
Sonnet of Autumn
Charles Baudelaire
They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes: "Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?" Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;
And will not bare the secret of their shame To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long, Nor their black legend write for thee in flame! Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.
Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat, Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow, And I too well his ancient arrows know:
Crime, horror, folly. O pale marguerite, Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low, O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Oct 19, 2014 17:40:46 GMT -5
Whispering Winds
Marge Tindal
I hear them whisper your name, those mighty winds that blow. I know that you are close at hand, the winds just told me so.
The direction from whence they blew, I am not sure I know. For only when I hear your name, am I sure the winds did blow.
Caressing my face with a whisper ... calling out your name, the winds of delight entice me. I will never be the same.
I will follow the singing wind. where it leads me I do not know. For the winds that blew you from me ... will take me where I must go.
Upward into the hills, calmly across the sea, Hold on my love, I'm coming ... The wind has beckoned me.
Free to wander and search this earth, no matter how far that may be. Free to follow the whispering wind ... until it blows me back to thee.
I hear your laughter on the wind. I try with all my might, to reach out and touch you on this windy night.
You must be getting closer for I feel your whispered love. I reach out my hand to you, please find me, my sweet dove.
You grasp my hand in yours and softly speak my name, out of the whispering winds We are together again.
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October
Oct 20, 2014 9:24:10 GMT -5
Post by beth on Oct 20, 2014 9:24:10 GMT -5
Whispering Winds Marge Tindal I hear them whisper your name, those mighty winds that blow. I know that you are close at hand, the winds just told me so. The direction from whence they blew, I am not sure I know. For only when I hear your name, am I sure the winds did blow. Caressing my face with a whisper ... calling out your name, the winds of delight entice me. I will never be the same. I will follow the singing wind. where it leads me I do not know. For the winds that blew you from me ... will take me where I must go. Upward into the hills, calmly across the sea, Hold on my love, I'm coming ... The wind has beckoned me. Free to wander and search this earth, no matter how far that may be. Free to follow the whispering wind ... until it blows me back to thee. I hear your laughter on the wind. I try with all my might, to reach out and touch you on this windy night. You must be getting closer for I feel your whispered love. I reach out my hand to you, please find me, my sweet dove. You grasp my hand in yours and softly speak my name, out of the whispering winds We are together again. This one could be song lyrics. Very nice.
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ladylinda
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October
Oct 23, 2014 10:12:08 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 23, 2014 10:12:08 GMT -5
Thanks, Beth. Here are three more.
Paris October 1936
Cesar Vallejo
From all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From this bench I go away, from my pants, from my great situation, from my actions, from my number split side to side, from all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From the Champs Elysées or as the strange alley of the Moon makes a turn, my death goes away, my cradle leaves, and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose, my human resemblance turns around and dispatches its shadows one by one.
And I move away from everything, since everything remains to create my alibi: my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mud and even the bend in the elbow of my own buttoned shirt.
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ladylinda
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October
Oct 23, 2014 10:12:32 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 23, 2014 10:12:32 GMT -5
After Apple-Picking
Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.
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ladylinda
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October
Oct 23, 2014 10:12:54 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 23, 2014 10:12:54 GMT -5
Crossroads in the Past
John Ashbery
That night the wind stirred in the forsythia bushes, but it was a wrong one, blowing in the wrong direction. “That’s silly. How can there be a wrong direction? ‘It bloweth where it listeth,’ as you know, just as we do when we make love or do something else there are no rules for.”
I tell you, something went wrong there a while back. Just don’t ask me what it was. Pretend I’ve dropped the subject. No, now you’ve got me interested, I want to know exactly what seems wrong to you, how something could
seem wrong to you. In what way do things get to be wrong? I’m sitting here dialing my cellphone with one hand, digging at some obscure pebbles with my shovel with the other. And then something like braids will stand out,
on horsehair cushions. That armchair is really too lugubrious. We’ve got to change all the furniture, fumigate the house, talk our relationship back to its beginnings. Say, you know that’s probably what’s wrong—the beginnings concept, I mean. I aver there are no beginnings, though there were perhaps some sometime. We’d stopped, to look at the poster the movie theater
had placed freestanding on the sidewalk. The lobby cards drew us in. It was afternoon, we found ourselves sitting at the end of a row in the balcony; the theater was unexpectedly crowded. That was the day we first realized we didn’t fully know our names, yours or mine, and we left quietly amid the gray snow falling. Twilight had already set in.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Oct 27, 2014 18:06:20 GMT -5
My apologies for our absence. The last three days have been manic!
October's Party
George Cooper
October gave a party; The leaves by hundreds came - The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples, And leaves of every name. The Sunshine spread a carpet, And everything was grand, Miss Weather led the dancing, Professor Wind the band.
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ladylinda
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October
Oct 27, 2014 18:06:39 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 27, 2014 18:06:39 GMT -5
Autumn
Amy Lowell
They brought me a quilled, yellow dahlia, Opulent, flaunting. Round gold Flung out of a pale green stalk. Round, ripe gold Of maturity, Meticulously frilled and flaming, A fire-ball of proclamation: Fecundity decked in staring yellow For all the world to see. They brought a quilled, yellow dahlia, To me who am barren Shall I send it to you, You who have taken with you All I once possessed?
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ladylinda
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October
Oct 27, 2014 18:06:55 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 27, 2014 18:06:55 GMT -5
To a Child dancing in the Wind
W B Yeats
Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water's roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind. What need have you to dread The monstrous crying of wind?
Has no one said those daring Kind eyes should be more learn'd? Or warned you how despairing The moths are when they are burned, I could have warned you, but you are young, So we speak a different tongue.
O you will take whatever's offered And dream that all the world's a friend, Suffer as your mother suffered, Be as broken in the end. But I am old and you are young, And I speak a barbarous tongue.
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ladylinda
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October
Oct 28, 2014 17:24:11 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 28, 2014 17:24:11 GMT -5
October is a symphony of permanence and change.
Bonaro W. Overstreet
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ladylinda
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October
Oct 28, 2014 17:25:15 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 28, 2014 17:25:15 GMT -5
Among the Rocks
Robert Browning
Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth; Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you: Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!
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ladylinda
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October
Oct 28, 2014 17:26:46 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 28, 2014 17:26:46 GMT -5
ordinary wind is winding (cold face blush
e e cummings
ordinary wind is winding(cold face blush wind is winding here there tomorrow)( graceful dove wind theatrical scar wind thunderclapclapclap(clapclapstrike) struckwinding wind
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ladylinda
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October
Oct 29, 2014 16:18:13 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Oct 29, 2014 16:18:13 GMT -5
The Shepheardes Calender: October
Edmund Spenser
OCTOBER: Ægloga DecimaPIERCE & CUDDIE Cuddie, for shame hold up thy heavye head, And let us cast with what delight to chace, And weary thys long lingring Phoebus race.
Whilome thou wont the shepheards laddes to leade, In rymes, in ridles, and in bydding base: Now they in thee, and thou in sleepe art dead.
CUDDY Piers, I have pyped erst so long with payne, That all mine Oten reedes bene rent and wore: And my poore Muse hath spent her spared store, Yet little good hath got, and much lesse gayne, Such pleasaunce makes the Grashopper so poore, And ligge so layd, when Winter doth her straine.
The dapper ditties, that I wont devise, To feede youthes fancie, and the flocking fry, Delighten much: what I the bett for thy? They han the pleasure, I a sclender prise.
I beate the bush, the byrds to them doe flye: What good thereof to Cuddie can arise?
PIERS Cuddie, the prayse is better, then the price, The glory eke much greater then the gayne: O what an honor is it, to restraine The lust of lawlesse youth with good advice: Or pricke them forth with pleasaunce of thy vaine, Whereto thou list their trayned willes entice.
Soone as thou gynst to sette thy notes in frame, O how the rurall routes to thee doe cleave: Seemeth thou dost their soule of sence bereave, All as the shepheard, that did fetch his dame From Plutoes balefull bowre withouten leave: His musicks might the hellish hound did tame.
CUDDIE So praysen babes the Peacoks spotted traine, And wondren at bright Argus blazing eye: But who rewards him ere the more for thy? Or feedes him once the fuller by a graine? Sike prayse is smoke, that sheddeth in the skye, Sike words bene wynd, and wasten soone in vayne.
PIERS Abandon then the base and viler clowne, Lyft up thy selfe out of the lowly dust: And sing of bloody Mars, of wars, of giusts.
Turne thee to those, that weld the awful crowne, To doubted Knights, whose woundlesse armour rusts, And helmes unbruzed wexen dayly browne.
There may thy Muse display her fluttryng wing, And stretch her selfe at large from East to West: Whither thou list in fayre Elisa rest, Or if thee please in bigger notes to sing, Advaunce the worthy whome shee loveth best, That first the white beare to the stake did bring.
And when the stubborne stroke of stronger stounds, Has somewhat slackt the tenor of thy string: Of love and lustihed tho mayst thou sing, And carrol lowde, and leade the Myllers rownde, All were Elisa one of thilke same ring.
So mought our Cuddies name to Heaven sownde.
CUDDYE Indeed the Romish Tityrus, I heare, Through his Mec{oe}nas left his Oaten reede, Whereon he earst had taught his flocks to feede, And laboured lands to yield the timely eare, And eft did sing of warres and deadly drede, So as the Heavens did quake his verse to here.
But ah Mec{oe}nas is yclad in claye, And great Augustus long ygoe is dead: And all the worthies liggen wrapt in leade, That matter made for Poets on to play: For ever, who in derring doe were dreade, The loftie verse of hem was loved aye.
But after vertue gan for age to stoupe, And mighty manhode brought a bedde of ease: The vaunting Poets found nought worth a pease, To put in preace emong the learned troupe.
Tho gan the streames of flowing wittes to cease, And sonnebright honour pend in shamefull coupe.
And if that any buddes of Poesie, Yet of the old stocke gan to shoote agayne: Or it mens follies mote be forst to fayne, And rolle with rest in rymes of rybaudrye: Or as it sprong, it wither must agayne: Tom Piper makes us better melodie.
PIERS O pierlesse Poesye, where is then thy place? If nor in Princes pallace thou doe sitt: (And yet is Princes pallace the most fitt) Ne brest of baser birth doth thee embrace.
Then make thee winges of thine aspyring wit, And, whence thou camst, flye backe to heaven apace.
CUDDIE Ah Percy it is all to weake and wanne, So high to sore, and make so large a flight: Her peeced pyneons bene not so in plight, For Colin fittes such famous flight to scanne: He, were he not with love so ill bedight, Would mount as high, and sing as soote as Swanne.
PIERS Ah fon, for love does teach him climbe so hie, And lyftes him up out of the loathsome myre: Such immortall mirrhor, as he doth admire, Would rayse ones mynd above the starry skie.
And cause a caytive corage to aspire, For lofty love doth loath a lowly eye.
CUDDIE All otherwise the state of Poet stands, For lordly love is such a Tyranne fell: That where he rules, all power he doth expell.
The vaunted verse a vacant head demaundes, Ne wont with crabbed care the Muses dwell.
Unwisely weaves, that takes two webbes in hand.
Who ever casts to compasse weightye prise, And thinks to throwe out thondring words of threate: Let powre in lavish cups and thriftie bitts of meate, For Bacchus fruite is frend to Phoebus wise.
And when with Wine the braine begins to sweate, The nombers flowe as fast as spring doth ryse.
Thou kenst not Percie howe the ryme should rage.
O if my temples were distaind with wine, And girt in girlonds of wild Yvie twine, How I could reare the Muse on stately stage, And teache her tread aloft in buskin fine, With queint Bellona in her equipage.
But ah my corage cooles ere it be warme, For thy, content us in thys humble shade: Where no such troublous tydes han us assayde, Here we our slender pipes may safely charme.
PIERS And when my Gates shall han their bellies layd: Cuddie shall have a Kidde to store his farme. CUDDIES EMBLEME
Agitante calescimus illo |&c|.
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