Jessiealan
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Post by Jessiealan on Nov 27, 2014 2:13:15 GMT -5
When I was young we all knew the extended version. It was a poem first but then set to music, too.
Over The River and Through The Woods
by Lydia Maria Child
Over the river, and through the wood,To Grandmother's house we go; the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow. Over the river, and through the wood,to Grandfather's house away !We would not stop for doll or top,for 'tis Thanksgiving Day. Over the river, and through the wood—oh, how the wind does blow !It stings the toes and bites the noseas over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood—and straight through the barnyard gate, We seem to go extremely slow,it is so hard to wait! Over the river, and through the wood—When Grandmother sees us come, She will say, "O, dear, the children are here,bring a pie for everyone. "Over the river, and through the wood—now Grandmother's cap I spy! Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!
The following verses appear in a "long version":
Over the river, and through the wood,with a clear blue winter sky, The dogs do bark, and children hark,as we go jingling by. Over the river, and through the wood,to have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding!",Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day! Over the river, and through the wood,no matter for winds that blow; Or if we get the sleigh upset into a bank of snow
Over the river, and through the wood,to see little John and Ann; We will kiss them all, and play snow-ball and stay as long as we can. Over the river, and through the wood,trot fast, my dapple-gray! Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound!For 'tis Thanksgiving Day. Over the river, and through the wood,Old Jowler hears our bells. He shakes his pow, with a loud bow-wow,[1]and thus the news he tells.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 28, 2014 16:59:08 GMT -5
Thanks for that, Jessie. Lovely!
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 28, 2014 16:59:29 GMT -5
The Big Boots Of Pain
Anne Sexton
There can be certain potions needled in the clock for the body's fall from grace, to untorture and to plead for. These I have known and would sell all my furniture and books and assorted goods to avoid, and more, more.
But the other pain I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you for better of worse as you marry life and the love that gets doled out or doesn't.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year's cupful and downward into a decade's quart and downward into a lifetime's ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman's float.
The teaspoon ought to be hearable if it didn't mix into the reruns and thus enlarge into what it is not, a sea pest's sting turning promptly into the shark's neat biting off of a leg because the soul wears a magnifying glass. Kicking the heart with pain's big boots running up and down the intestines like a motorcycle racer.
Yet one does get out of bed and start over, plunge into the day and put on a hopeful look and does not allow fear to build a wall between you and an old friend or a new friend and reach out your hand, shutting down the thought that an axe may cut it off unexpectedly. One learns not to blab about all this except to yourself or the typewriter keys who tell no one until they get brave and crawl off onto the printed page.
I'm getting bored with it, I tell the typewriter, this constantly walking around in wet shoes and then, surprise! Somehow DECEASED keeps getting stamped in red over the word HOPE. And I who keep falling thankfully into each new pillow of belief, finding my Mercy Street, kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love, am beginning to wonder just what the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928. The pillows are ripped away, the hand guillotined, dog shit thrown into the middle of a laugh, a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker and leaving me in silence, where, without music, I become a cracked orphan.
Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day. As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon, perhaps it is a medicine that will cure the soul of its greed for love next Thursday.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 28, 2014 16:59:51 GMT -5
Late Autumn
William Allingham
October - and the skies are cool and gray O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf, Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf. The dignity of woods in rich decay Accords full well with this majestic grief That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day, Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry brief Only a robin sings from any spray.
And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills White mist around the hollows of the hills, Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees His cot and stockyard, with the homestead trees, Islanded; but no foolish terror thrills His perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease.
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Post by beth on Nov 28, 2014 18:06:44 GMT -5
When I was young we all knew the extended version. It was a poem first but then set to music, too. Over The River and Through The Woods by Lydia Maria Child Over the river, and through the wood,To Grandmother's house we go; the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow. Over the river, and through the wood,to Grandfather's house away !We would not stop for doll or top,for 'tis Thanksgiving Day. Over the river, and through the wood—oh, how the wind does blow !It stings the toes and bites the noseas over the ground we go. Over the river, and through the wood—and straight through the barnyard gate, We seem to go extremely slow,it is so hard to wait! Over the river, and through the wood—When Grandmother sees us come, She will say, "O, dear, the children are here,bring a pie for everyone. "Over the river, and through the wood—now Grandmother's cap I spy! Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie! The following verses appear in a "long version": Over the river, and through the wood,with a clear blue winter sky, The dogs do bark, and children hark,as we go jingling by. Over the river, and through the wood,to have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding!",Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day! Over the river, and through the wood,no matter for winds that blow; Or if we get the sleigh upset into a bank of snow Over the river, and through the wood,to see little John and Ann; We will kiss them all, and play snow-ball and stay as long as we can. Over the river, and through the wood,trot fast, my dapple-gray! Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound!For 'tis Thanksgiving Day. Over the river, and through the wood,Old Jowler hears our bells. He shakes his pow, with a loud bow-wow,[1]and thus the news he tells.
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Jessiealan
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Post by Jessiealan on Nov 28, 2014 19:03:14 GMT -5
When I was young we all knew the extended version. It was a poem first but then set to music, too. Over The River and Through The Woods by Lydia Maria Child Over the river, and through the wood,To Grandmother's house we go; the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow. Over the river, and through the wood,to Grandfather's house away !We would not stop for doll or top,for 'tis Thanksgiving Day. Over the river, and through the wood—oh, how the wind does blow !It stings the toes and bites the noseas over the ground we go. Over the river, and through the wood—and straight through the barnyard gate, We seem to go extremely slow,it is so hard to wait! Over the river, and through the wood—When Grandmother sees us come, She will say, "O, dear, the children are here,bring a pie for everyone. "Over the river, and through the wood—now Grandmother's cap I spy! Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie! The following verses appear in a "long version": Over the river, and through the wood,with a clear blue winter sky, The dogs do bark, and children hark,as we go jingling by. Over the river, and through the wood,to have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding!",Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day! Over the river, and through the wood,no matter for winds that blow; Or if we get the sleigh upset into a bank of snow Over the river, and through the wood,to see little John and Ann; We will kiss them all, and play snow-ball and stay as long as we can. Over the river, and through the wood,trot fast, my dapple-gray! Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound!For 'tis Thanksgiving Day. Over the river, and through the wood,Old Jowler hears our bells. He shakes his pow, with a loud bow-wow,[1]and thus the news he tells. Delightful. I believe this is one of the Thanksgiving related songs most schools have. The other being the poem/song that begins, "The breaking waves dashed high on the stern and rock bound coast ... " . I can't recall the name right now but it was traditional also and I hope it still is. There is also a hymn, "We gather together to ask the Lord's blessings ... " . It may be called The Thanksgiving hymn. All bound in with tradition.
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Jessiealan
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Post by Jessiealan on Nov 28, 2014 19:05:58 GMT -5
Thanks for that, Jessie. Lovely! Thank you Linda. I was just telling Beth, there are others. Very much part of tradition for the month of November. The Over The River And Through The Woods one proves wintry weather has always been common for November in spite of our thinking it is too early for that.
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Post by beth on Nov 28, 2014 20:50:49 GMT -5
Religion was a very substantial part of the early United States. Both of these reflect that.
The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers by: Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1793-1835)
HE 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.
"Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers" is reprinted from Historic Poems and Ballads. Ed. Rupert S. Holland. Philadelphia: George W. Jacobs & Co., 1912.
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Post by beth on Nov 28, 2014 21:04:17 GMT -5
Two Thanksgiving songs and lyrics. This first one is the one you were thinking of, Jessie. Again, a tribute to Christian Roots
The Thanksgiving Song by Mary Chapin Carpenter
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 30, 2014 17:17:22 GMT -5
Thanks, Beth and Jessie for your great contributions. I'll now close the November thread with three fine poems and then a couple of songs.
Here's the first poem.
November Snow
Joseph Pacheco
The first to fall is the first to go. Earth wears its mantle damp and chill — Patina of November snow.
Leaves raged with fire just days ago — Now grays, ash browns, pale yellows tell The first to fall are the first to go.
Remains of harvest in desolate row Brace for the final winter kill Beneath their shroud of November snow.
The rakes now dry, the plow and hoe Await Spring’s promise to fulfill — The first to fall are the first to go.
Lit by the sky’s anemic glow The pines are standing stiff and still, Defiant of November snow.
In barns of silence wait those who know What lies beneath the fields they till — The first to fall are the first to go, Together with November snow.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 30, 2014 17:17:46 GMT -5
Autumn
Roy Campbell
I love to see, when leaves depart, The clear anatomy arrive, Winter, the paragon of art, That kills all forms of life and feeling Save what is pure and will survive.
Already now the clanging chains Of geese are harnessed to the moon: Stripped are the great sun-clouding planes: And the dark pines, their own revealing, Let in the needles of the noon.
Strained by the gale the olives whiten Like hoary wrestlers bent with toil And, with the vines, their branches lighten To brim our vats where summer lingers In the red froth and sun-gold oil.
Soon on our hearth's reviving pyre Their rotted stems will crumble up: And like a ruby, panting fire, The grape will redden on your fingers Through the lit crystal of the cup.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 30, 2014 17:18:08 GMT -5
Autumn
Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Inside me the moon is autumn, the chill is in me, you can see through me, and I am sad, but not altogether cheerless, and filled with humility and goodness
But if I rage sometimes, then I am the one whose rage is shedding my leaves, and the simple thought comes sadly to me that raging isn't really what is needed
The main need is that I should be able to see myself and the struggling, shocked world in autumnal nakedness, where even you, and the world, can be seen right through
Flashes of insight are the children of silence. It doesn't matter, if we don't rage aloud. We must calmly cast off all mere noise in the name of the new foliage
Something has apparently happened to me, and I am relying on nothing but silence, when the leaves laying themselves one on another inaudibly become the earth
And you can see it all, as if from a height, when you can shed your leaves at the right time, when without passion inner autumn lays its airy fingers on your forehead
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 30, 2014 17:20:33 GMT -5
Two classic autumn songs to finish with.
Justin Hayward - Forever Autumn
Edith Piaf - The Autumn Leaves
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