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All posts by daddybear71
Today’s Earworm
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Posted by daddybear71 on August 13, 2016
https://daddybearsden.com/2016/08/13/todays-earworm-705/
A Year of Poetry – Day 112
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,—the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild-flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
— John Greenleaf Whittier, The Barefoot Boy
Posted by daddybear71 on August 13, 2016
https://daddybearsden.com/2016/08/13/a-year-of-poetry-day-112/
A Year of Poetry – Day 111
I
A Tower of Brass, one would have said,
And Locks, and Bolts, and Iron Bars,
Might have preserv’d one innocent Maiden-head.
The jealous Father thought he well might spare
All further jealous Care.
And, as he walk’d, t’himself alone he smiled,
To think how Venus’ Arts he had beguil’d;
And when he slept, his Rest was deep:
But Venus laugh’d, to see and hear him sleep:
She taught the am’rous Jove
A magical Receipt in Love,
Which arm’d him stronger, and which help’d him more,
Than all his Thunder did, and his Almightyship before.
II
She taught him Love’s Elixir, by which Art
His Godhead into Gold he did convert;
No Guards did then his Passage stay,
He pass’d with Ease, Gold was the Word;
Subtle as Light’ning, bright, and quick, and fierce,
Gold thro’ Doors and Walls did pierce;
And as that works sometimes upon the Sword,
Melted the Maidenhead away,
Ev’n in the secret Scabbard where it lay.
The prudent Macedonian King,
To blow up Towns a Golden Mine did spring;
He broke thro’ Gates with this Petarr,
’Tis the great Art of Peace, the Engine ’tis of War;
And Fleets and Armies follow it afar;
The Ensign ’tis at Land: and ’tis the Seaman’s Star.
— Horace, from Odes, Book 3, 15
Posted by daddybear71 on August 12, 2016
https://daddybearsden.com/2016/08/12/a-year-of-poetry-day-111/
A Year of Poetry – Day 110
Ah, silly Pug, wert thou so sore afraid?
Mourn not, my Wat, nor be thou so dismayed.
It passeth fickle Fortune’s power and skill
To force my heart to think thee any ill.
No Fortune base, thou sayest, shall alter thee?
And may so blind a witch so conquer me?
No, no, my Pug, though Fortune were not blind,
Assure thyself she could not rule my mind.
Fortune, I know, sometimes doth conquer kings,
And rules and reigns on earth and earthly things,
But never think Fortune can bear the sway
If virtue watch, and will her not obey.
Ne chose I thee by fickle Fortune’s rede,
Ne she shall force me alter with such speed
But if to try this mistress’ jest with thee.
Pull up thy heart, suppress thy brackish tears,
Torment thee not, but put away thy fears.
Dead to all joys and living unto woe,
Slain quite by her that ne’er gave wise men blow,
Revive again and live without all dread,
The less afraid, the better thou shalt speed.
— Queen Elizabeth I, Ah, Silly Pug, wert thou so Sore Afraid
Posted by daddybear71 on August 11, 2016
https://daddybearsden.com/2016/08/11/a-year-of-poetry-day-110/
Musings
- I am so glad for that little voice in my head this morning, which whispered, “Go make a pot of coffee. You’re gonna need it.”
- Ladies and gentlemen, always remember that when you hear hooves approaching you from behind, you might be dealing with horses, you might be dealing with zebras, and you might be dealing with blood-thirsty carnotaurs who want nothing more than to watch you suffer for hours before devouring your soul.
- You’d think that if you left the office later than usual, you’d have less traffic to deal with, but you’d be wrong.
- We’re in full canning season here at Casa de Oso. So far, I’ve put up 23 quarts of spaghetti sauce, have another batch in the cooker for canning tomorrow night, and another bushel of tomatoes waiting to be processed.
- That should give us between 45 and 50 quarts, which is enough to get us through most of the next year.
- I also need to make chili base, but we don’t need quite so much of that.
- I’m <<THIS>> close to being done with the middle third of the second Minivandian’s book. In the next couple of days, I’ll start writing the part of the book I wanted to write when I started.
Posted by daddybear71 on August 10, 2016
https://daddybearsden.com/2016/08/10/musings-209/
A Year of Poetry – Day 109
I that have been a lover, and could show it,
Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumb,
Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become
A better lover, and much better poet.
Nor is my Muse or I ashamed to owe it
To those true numerous graces, whereof some
But charm the senses, others overcome
Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it:
For in your verse all Cupid’s armory,
His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,
His very eyes are yours to overthrow.
But then his mother’s sweets you so apply,
Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take
For Venus’ ceston every line you make.
— Ben Jonson, A Sonnet to the Noble Lady, the Lady Mary Wroth
Posted by daddybear71 on August 10, 2016
https://daddybearsden.com/2016/08/10/a-year-of-poetry-day-109/
A Year of Poetry – Day 108
The hardness of her heart and truth of mine
When the all-seeing eyes of heaven did see,
They straight concluded that by power divine
To other forms our hearts should turnèd be.
Then hers, as hard as flint, a flint became,
And mine, as true as steel, to steel was turned;
And then between our hearts sprang forth the flame
Of kindest love, which unextinguished burned.
And long the sacred lamp of mutual love
Incessantly did burn in glory bright,
Until my folly did her fury move
To recompense my service with despite;
And to put out with snuffers of her pride
The lamp of love which else had never died.
Posted by daddybear71 on August 9, 2016
https://daddybearsden.com/2016/08/09/a-year-of-poetry-day-108/
A Year of Poetry – Day 107
The real ones, the right ones, the straight ones and the true,
The pukka, peerless sportsmen-their numbers are but few;
The men who keep on playing though the sun be in eclipse,
The men who go on losing with a laugh upon their lips.
The men who care but little for the laurels of renown;
The men who turn their horses back to help the man that’s down;
The fearless and the friendly ones, the courtly and the kind;
The men whose lion courage is with gentleness combined.
My notion of a sportsman ? – I’ll try, then, to define.
For preference well bred, of course, of some clean- living line;
With pride of place and ancestry whose service was the King’s;
With all a noble knight’s contempt for low, left- handed things.
Not the ‘good sport’ who burdens us with cheap and futile chat
Of the ‘pedigree’ of this one and the ‘outside chance’ of that,
But a man who loves good horses just to handle them and ride
Where the fences call to valour and the English grass lies wide.
All the best and truest sportsmen I have lived with and have known
Have a changeless faith within them which their simple hearts enthrone,
Believing in the God that made the green fields passing fair,
The God that gave good courage – and to every man his share.
And all the truest sportsmen I have met have had this gift:
A love of all the classic books that lighten and uplift;
And all have loved red woodlands, swift birds and coloured flowers;
And all have played with children and counted not the hours.
And I think when God has gathered all the men that He has made,
The perfect British sportsman may stand forward unafraid;
For, brave and kind and courtly, and clean of heart and hand,
No life than his seems nearer to the life our Maker planned.
— William Henry Ogilvie, The True Sportsman
Posted by daddybear71 on August 8, 2016
https://daddybearsden.com/2016/08/08/a-year-of-poetry-day-107/
A Year of Poetry – Day 106
Andromeda, by Perseus sav’d and wed,
Hanker’d each day to see the Gorgon’s head:
Till o’er a fount he held it, bade her lean,
And mirror’d in the wave was safely seen
That death she liv’d by.
Let not thine eyes know
Any forbidden thing itself, although
It once should save as well as kill: but be
Its shadow upon life enough for thee.
— Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Aspecta Medusa (for a Drawing)
Posted by daddybear71 on August 7, 2016
https://daddybearsden.com/2016/08/07/a-year-of-poetry-day-106/
A Year of Poetry – Day 105
“Is my team ploughing,
That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
When I was man alive?”
Ay, the horses trample,
The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
The land you used to plough.
“Is football playing
Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
Now I stand up no more?”
Ay the ball is flying,
The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up, the keeper
Stands up to keep the goal.
“Is my girl happy,
That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
As she lies down at eve?”
Ay, she lies down lightly,
She lies not down to weep:
Your girl is well contented.
Be still, my lad, and sleep.
“Is my friend hearty,
Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
A better bed than mine?”
Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart,
Never ask me whose.
— A. E. Housman, Is My Team Ploughing
Posted by daddybear71 on August 6, 2016
https://daddybearsden.com/2016/08/06/a-year-of-poetry-day-105/
DaddyBear
DaddyBear’s Den 