WILL

Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1850-1919

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,

Can circumvent or hinder or control

The firm resolve of a determined soul.

Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;

All things give way before it, soon or late.

What obstacle can stay the mighty force

Of the sea-seeking river in its course,

Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?

Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.

Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate

Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,

Whose slightest action or inaction serves

The one great aim. Why, even Death stands still,

And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.

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A DREAM LIES DEAD

Dorothy Parker 1893-1967

A dream lies dead here. May you softly go

Before this place, and turn away your eyes,

Nor seek to know the look of that which dies

Importuning Life for life. Walk not in woe,

But, for a little, let your step be slow.

And, of your mercy, be not sweetly wise

With words of hope and Spring  and tenderer skies.

A dream lies dead; and this all mourners know:

Whenever one drifted petal leaves the tree - 

Though white of bloom as it had been before

And proudly waitful of fecundity -

One little loveliness can be no more;

And so must Beauty bow her imperfect head

Because a dream has joined the wistful dead!

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I LOOK AT THE WORLD

Langston Hughes 1902-67

I look at the world 

From awakening eyes in a black face -

And this is what I see: 

This fenced-off narrow space   

Assigned to me. 

I look then at the silly walls 

Through dark eyes in a dark face - 

And this is what I know: 

That all these walls oppression builds 

Will have to go! 

I look at my own body   

With eyes no longer blind - 

And I see that my own hands can make 

The world that's in my mind. 

Then let us hurry, comrades, 

The road to find.

From the New York Herald Tribune in 1926: "Langston Hughes, although only twenty-four years old, is already conspicuous in the group of Negro intellectuals who are dignifying Harlem with a genuine art life.

POETRY TO PLEASE IS UPDATED EVERY DAY

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OUR YARD

Joseph Pullman Porter 1893-1980

You ought'er come over to our yard.

Oh boy! But we have fun!

We've got a dandy place to play

An' when our work is done

An' after school, us kids goes out

An' I hangs by my knees

Up in the sour apple tree

Where dad fixed our trapeze.

Up in the tallest branches

Of the sugar maple tree,

We're building us a tree-hut,

With rope ladders, hangin' free,

So we kin pull 'em up inside

When we bomb the enemy

With the poor, old wormy apples

That we swipe from off the tree.

My brother has a basket-ball.

He got it Chris'mas day.

We're gettin' up a really team

An' learnin' how to play.

My dad will be our trainer.

Gee whiz! But he can go.

He once played with the High School.

I'll say he isn't slow!

I don't care much for Sister's games,

Or the things she likes to play,

'Cept when she puts away her dolls

An' comes and play croquet.

An' then we knock the balls about

A-scootin' crost the lawn.

Til sudden like I'm skeert for fear 

I've busted flowers down.

But mother hardly cares a bit,

An' says that boys is boys

An' calls back-yards, child-gardens,

An says her joy of joys

Is to see her babies growin' up

Like weeds in summer time.

Believe me, boys are lucky kids

Who have backyards like mine!

POETRY TO PLEASE IS UPDATED EVERY DAY

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LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY

Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822

The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle -

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdain'd its brother:

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea -

What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?

POETRY TO PLEASE IS  UPDATED EVERY DAY

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MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE

Robert Burns 1759-96

 My love is like a red, red rose

   That’s newly sprung in June :

My love is like the melody

   That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

   So deep in love am I :

And I will love thee still, my dear,

   Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

   And the rocks melt wi’ the sun :

And I will love thee still, my dear,

   While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love,

   And fare thee weel a while !

And I will come again, my love,

   Though it were ten thousand mile.

POETRY TO PLEASE IS UPDATED EVERY DAY

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THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE

W.B. Yeats 1865-1939

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping 

  slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket

     sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

TOMORROW'S POEM - MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE by ROBERT BURNS

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TO AUTUMN

John Keats 1795-1821

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o’erbrimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they?

Think not of them, - thou hast thy music too,

While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

TOMORROW'S POEM - THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE by W.B. YEATS

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I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 

And twinkle on the milky way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay: 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: 

A poet could not but be gay, 

In such a jocund company: 

I gazed - and gazed - but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 

They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 

TOMORROW's POEM - TO AUTUMN by JOHN KEATS

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THE LISTENERS

Walter de la Mare 1871-1956

"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,
   Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
   Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
   Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
   "Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
   No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
   Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
   That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
   To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
   That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
   By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
   Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
   ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
   Louder, and lifted his head: -
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
   That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
   Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
   From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
   And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
   When the plunging hoofs were gone.


TOMORROW'S POEM - I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

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NOT WAVING BUT DROWNING

Stevie Smith 1902-71

 Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he’s dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

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TOMORROW'S POEM - THE LISTENERS  by WALTER de la MARE

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BEGINNING TOMORROW, POETRY TO PLEASE WILL BE UPDATED EVERY DAY

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Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal. - T.S.Eliot 1888-1965

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A MOMENT OF HAPPINESS

Mewlana Jalaludden Rumi 1207-73

A moment of happiness,

you and I sitting on the verandah,

apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.

We feel the flowing water of life here,

you and I, with the garden's beauty

and the birds singing.

The stars will be watching us,

and we will show them

what it is to be a thin crescent moon.

You and I unselfed, will be together,

indifferent to idle speculation, you and I.

The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar

as we laugh together, you and I.

In one form upon this earth,

and in another form in a timeless sweet land.

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ANDY'S GONE WITH CATTLE
Henry Lawson 1867-1922

Our Andy's gone to battle now
'Gainst Drought, the red marauder;
Our Andy's gone with cattle now
Across the Queensland border.

He's left us in dejection now;
Our hearts with him are roving.
It's dull on this selection now,
Since Andy went a-droving.

Who now shall wear the cheerful face
In times when things are slackest?
And who shall whistle round the place
When Fortune frowns her blackest?

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy cross'd the Darling.

The gates are out of order now,
In storms the riders rattle*
For far across the border now
Our Andy's gone with cattle.

Poor Aunty's looking thin and white;
And Uncle's cross with worry;
And poor old Blucher howls all night
Since Andy left Macquarie.

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
And all the tanks run over;
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover;

And may good angels send the rain
On desert stretches sandy;
And when the summer comes again
God grant 'twill bring us Andy.

*Riders =  pieces of timber used to hold down the bark roofs of primitive bush houses.

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A FLOWER HAS OPENED MY HEART
Siegfried Sassoon 1886-1967

A flower has opened in my heart . . .
What flower is this, what flower of spring,
What simple, secret thing?
It is the peace that shines apart,
The peace of daybreak skies that bring
Clear song and wild swift wing.
Heart's miracle of inward light,
What powers unknown have sown your seed
And your perfection freed? . . .
O flower within me wondrous white,
I know you only as my need
And my unsealed sight.

-o0o-

AIN'T IT FINE TODAY
Douglas Malloch 1877-1938

Sure, this world is full of trouble -
I ain't said it ain't.
Lord, I've had enough and double
Reason for complaint;
Rain and storm have come to fret me,
Skies are often grey;
Thorns and brambles have beset me
On the road - but say,
Ain't it fine today?

What's the use of always weepin',
Making trouble last?
What's the use of always keepin'
Thinkin' of the past?
Each must have his tribulation -
Water with his wine;
Life, it ain't no celebration,
Trouble? - I've had mine -
But today is fine!

It's today that I am livin',
Not a month ago.
Havin', losin', takin', givin',
As time wills it so.
Yesterday a cloud of sorrow
Fell across the way;
It may rain again tomorrow,
It may rain - but say,
Ain't it fine today?

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BEGINNING TOMORROW, POETRY TO PLEASE WILL BE UPDATED EVERY DAY

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My role in society, or any artist or poet’s role, is to try and express what we all feel. Not to tell people how to feel. Not as a preacher, not as a leader, but as a reflection of us all. – John Lennon 1940-80

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CLOUDS AND WAVES
Rabindranath Tagore 1861-1941

Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me-
    "We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
    We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon."
    I ask, "But how am I to get up to you ?"
    They answer, "Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your
hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds."
    "My mother is waiting for me at home, I say, "How can I leave
her and come?"
    Then they smile and float away.
    But I know a nicer game than that, mother.
    I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
    I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will
be the blue sky.

    The folk who live in the waves call out to me-
    "We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know
not where we pass."
    I ask, "But how am I to join you?"
    They tell me, "Come to the edge of the shore and stand with
your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves."
    I say, "My mother always wants me at home in the everything-
how can I leave her and go?"
    They smile, dance and pass by.
    But I know a better game than that.
    I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
    I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with
laughter.
    And no one in the world will know where we both are.

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LIFE
Charlotte Bronte 1816-55

Life, believe, is not a dream
 So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
 Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
 But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
 O why lament its fall ?

   Rapidly, merrily,
 Life's sunny hours flit by,
   Gratefully, cheerily,
 Enjoy them as they fly !

What though Death at times steps in
 And calls our Best away ?
What though sorrow seems to win,
 O'er hope, a heavy sway ?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
 Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
 Still strong to bear us well.
   Manfully, fearlessly,
 The day of trial bear,
   For gloriously, victoriously,
 Can courage quell despair !

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POLLY GARTER'S SONG
from Under Milk Wood
Dylan Thomas 1914-53

I loved a man whose name was Tom,
He was strong as a bear and two yards long.
I loved a man whose name was Dick,
He was big as a barrel and three feet thick.
And I loved man whose name was Harry,
Six feet tall and sweet as a cherry.
But the one I loved best awake or asleep
Was little Willy Wee and he's six feet deep.

Oh, Tom Dick and Harry were three fine men
And I'll never have such loving again,
But little Willy Wee who took me on his knee,
Little Willy Wee is the man for me.
Now men from every Parish around
Run after me and roll me to the ground,
But whenever I love another man back,
Johnny from the Hill or sailing Jack,
I always think as they do as they please
Of Tom Dick or Harry who were tall as trees.
And most of all I think when I am by their side
Of Little Willy Wee who drowned and died.

Now when the farmers boys on the first fair day
Come down from the hills to drink and be gay,
Before the sun sinks I'll lie there in their arms
For they're good bad boys from the lonely farms.
But I always think as we tumble into bed
Of little Willy Wee who is dead, dead, dead.
.
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ALONE LOOKING AT THE MOUNTAIN

Li Po (Li Bai) 701-762

All the birds have flown up and gone;

A lonely cloud floats leisurely by.

We never tire of looking at each other -

The mountain and I.

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POETRY TO PLEASE IS UPDATED EVERY FRIDAY

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There is freedom waiting for you / On the breezes of the sky / And you ask "What if I fall?" / Oh but my darling / What if you fly?” - Erin Hanson b.1991

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WE ARE SEVEN

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

A simple Child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 

And feels its life in every limb, 

What should it know of death? 

I met a little cottage Girl: 

She was eight years old, she said; 

Her hair was thick with many a curl 

That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 

And she was wildly clad: 

Her eyes were fair, and very fair; 

- Her beauty made me glad. 

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 

How many may you be?” 

“How many? Seven in all,” she said, 

And wondering looked at me. 

“And where are they? I pray you tell.” 

She answered, “Seven are we; 

And two of us at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea. 

“Two of us in the church-yard lie, 

My sister and my brother; 

And, in the church-yard cottage, I 

Dwell near them with my mother.” 

“You say that two at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea, 

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, 

Sweet Maid, how this may be.” 

Then did the little Maid reply, 

“Seven boys and girls are we; 

Two of us in the church-yard lie, 

Beneath the church-yard tree.” 

“You run about, my little Maid, 

Your limbs they are alive; 

If two are in the church-yard laid, 

Then ye are only five.” 

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,” 

The little Maid replied, 

“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, 

And they are side by side. 

“My stockings there I often knit, 

My kerchief there I hem; 

And there upon the ground I sit, 

And sing a song to them. 

“And often after sunset, Sir, 

When it is light and fair, 

I take my little porringer, 

And eat my supper there. 

“The first that died was sister Jane; 

In bed she moaning lay, 

Till God released her of her pain; 

And then she went away. 

“So in the church-yard she was laid; 

And, when the grass was dry, 

Together round her grave we played, 

My brother John and I. 

“And when the ground was white with snow, 

And I could run and slide, 

My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side.” 

“How many are you, then,” said I, 

“If they two are in heaven?” 

Quick was the little Maid’s reply, 

“O Master! we are seven.” 

“But they are dead; those two are dead! 

Their spirits are in heaven!” 

’Twas throwing words away; for still 

The little Maid would have her will, 

And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

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THE LOOK
Sara Teasedale 1884-1933

Stephen kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.

Stephen’s kiss was lost in jest,
Robin’s lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin’s eyes
Haunts me night and day.

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SOMEONE
Walter de la Mare 1873-1956

Some one came knocking
At my wee, small door;
Someone came knocking;
I'm sure-sure-sure;
I listened, I opened,
I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a stirring
In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all, at all, at all.

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What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare? - W.H. Davies 1871-1940

POETRY TO PLEASE IS UPDATED EVERY FRIDAY

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