Bring her again, O western wind, Over the western sea! Gentle and good and fair and kind, Bring her again to me! Not that her fancy holds me dear, Not that a hope may be: Only that I may know her near, Wind of the western sea! -- William Ernest Henley, Bring Her Again...
All posts in category Poetry
Posted by daddybear71 on March 27, 2017
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
— Robert Frost, Acquainted With The Night
Posted by daddybear71 on March 26, 2017
When you and I are buried
With grasses over head,
The memory of our fights will stand
Above this bare and tortured land,
We knew ere we were dead.
Though grasses grow at Vimy,
And poppies at Messines,
And in High Wood the children play,
The craters and the graves will stay
To show what things have been.
Though all be quiet in day-time,
The night shall bring a change,
And peasants walking home will see
Shell-torn meadow and riven tree,
And their own fields grown strange.
They shall hear live men crying,
They shall see dead men lie,
Shall hear the rattling Maxims fire,
And by the broken twists of wire
Gold flares light up the sky.
And in their new-built houses
The frightened folk will see
Pale bombers coming down the street,
And hear the flurry of charging feet,
And the crash of Victory.
This is our Earth baptizèd
With the red wine of War.
Horror and courage hand in hand
Shall brood upon the stricken land
In silence evermore.
— E. Alan Mackintosh, Ghosts of War
Posted by daddybear71 on March 25, 2017
Posted by daddybear71 on March 24, 2017
Posted by daddybear71 on March 23, 2017
Rise, brothers, rise; the wakening skies pray to the morning light,
The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night.
Come, let us gather our nets from the shore and set our catamarans free,
To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the kings of the sea!
No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea gull’s call,
The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all.
What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives?
He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast our lives.
Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and the scent of the mango grove,
And sweet are the sands at the full o’ the moon with the sound of the voices we love;
But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam’s glee;
Row, brothers, row to the edge of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea.
— Sarojini Naidu, Coromandel Fishers
Posted by daddybear71 on March 22, 2017
“You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;
I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.
As the peach-blossom flows down stream
and is gone into the unknown,
I have a world apart that is not among men.”
— Li Po, Question and Answer on the Mountain
Posted by daddybear71 on March 21, 2017
Waves roll in columns on their usual route – Splashing and humming, they run; People, too, stride in a lousy crowd – Every one trails everyone. Waves favor cold of their slavery more Than heat of midday sunny rays, People take care of their souls… But lo! – Their souls are colder than waves! -- Mikhail Lermentov, Waves and People
Posted by daddybear71 on March 20, 2017
There is a river we all must cross,
Thousands will pass it tomorrow;
Some will go down to its waters with joy,
Others with anguish and sorrow.
Some will be welcom’d by angel bands,
Coming from over the river;
Others be borne by the current adown,
Where there is none to deliver.
These shall land safely in Eden’s bow’rs,
Wearing the white robes of pardon;
Those shall be cast on a desolate shore,
Far from the gates of the garden.
These shall have voices to join the song
Ever from Eden ascending;
Those shall unite in the wailings of woe
Woe, that hath never an ending.
Over the river we all must cross,
Jesus may call us tomorrow;
Shall we go down to its waters with joy?
Shall we with anguish and sorrow?
— Henry Clay Work, There Is A River We All Must Cross
Posted by daddybear71 on March 19, 2017
Nature, it seems, is the popular name
for milliards and milliards and milliards
of particles playing their infinite game
of billiards and billiards and billiards.
— Piet Hein, Atomyriedes
Posted by daddybear71 on March 18, 2017