WRITTEN IN SPRING

William Wordsworth  1770-1850

The cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The ploughboy is whooping - anon, anon:

There's joy in the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

-o0o-

WHERE THE SIDEWALK ENDS 

Shel Silverstein  1930-99

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

-o0o-

TWO SPARROWS
Humbert Wolfe 1885-1940

Two sparrows, feeding,
Heard a thrush
Sing to the dawn,
The first said, “Tush!

In all my life
I never heard
A more affected
Singing bird.”

The second said,
“It’s you and me
Who slave to keep
The likes of he.”

“And if we cared,”
Both sparrows said,
“We’d do that singing
On our head.”

The thrush pecked sideways
And was dumb.
“And now,” they screamed,
“He’s pinched our crumb!”

-o0o-

A GARDEN

Andrew Marvell 1621-78

See how the flowers, as at parade,

Under their colours stand display’d:

Each regiment in order grows,

That of the tulip, pink, and rose.

But when the vigilant patrol

Of stars walks round about the pole,

Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl’d,

Seem to their staves the ensigns furl’d.

Then in some flower’s beloved hut

Each bee, as sentinel, is shut,

And sleeps so too; but if once stirr’d,

She runs you through, nor asks the word.

-o0o-

TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL

Maya Angelou b.1928

We, unaccustomed to courage

exiles from delight

live coiled in shells of loneliness

until love leaves its high holy temple

and comes into our sight

to liberate us into life.

Love arrives

and in its train come ecstasies

old memories of pleasure

ancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold,

love strikes away the chains of fear

from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity

In the flush of love's light

we dare be brave

And suddenly we see

that love costs all we are

and will ever be.

Yet it is only love

which sets us free.

-o0o-

ALL THAT IS GOLD

J.R.R. Tolkien 1892-1973

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WAS UPDATED YESTERDAY

-o0o-

MAN AND BEAST

Clifford Dyment 1914-71

Hugging the ground by the lilac tree, 

With shadows in conspiracy, 

The black cat from the house next door 

Waits with death in each bared claw 

For the tender unwary bird 

That all the summer I have heard 

In the orchard singing, I hate 

The cat that is its savage fate, 

And choose a stone with which to send 

Slayer, not victim, to its end. 

I look to where the black cat lies, 

But drop my stone, seeing its eyes - 

Who is it sins now, those eyes say, 

You the hunter, or I the prey? 

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WAS UPDATED TODAY

-o0o-

THE VIOLET

Jane Taylor 1783-1824

Down in a green and shady bed, 

 A modest violet grew; 

Its stalk was bent, it hung its head

 As if to hide from view. 

And yet it was a lovely flower, 

 Its colour bright and fair; 

It might have graced a rosy bower, 

 Instead of hiding there. 

Yet thus it was content to bloom, 

 In modest tints arrayed; 

And there diffused a sweet perfume, 

 Within the silent shade. 

Then let me to the valley go

 This pretty flower to see; 

That I may also learn to grow

 In sweet humility.

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG No.4 WILL BE POSTED TOMORROW

-o0o-

AS I GREW OLDER
Langston Hughes 1906-67

It was a long time ago.

I have almost forgotten my dream.

But it was there then,

In front of me,

Bright like a sun -

My dream.

And then the wall rose,

Rose slowly,

Slowly,

Between me and my dream.

Rose until it touched the sky -

The wall.

Shadow.

I am black.

I lie down in the shadow.

No longer the light of my dream before me,

Above me.

Only the thick wall.

Only the shadow.

My hands!

My dark hands!

Break through the wall!

Find my dream!

Help me to shatter this darkness,

To smash this night,

To break this shadow

Into a thousand lights of sun,

Into a thousand whirling dreams

Of sun!

-o0o-

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG No.4 WILL BE POSTED ON SATURDAY

-o=0=o-

RELIANCE

Henry van Dyke 1852-1933

Not to the swift, the race: 

Not to the strong, the fight:

Not to the righteous, perfect grace: 

Not to the wise, the light.

But often faltering feet

Come surest to the goal; 

And they who walk in darkness meet

The sunrise of the soul.

-o0o-

THERE IS PLEASURE IN THE PATHLESS WOODS

Lord Byron 1799-1824

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 

There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 

I love not man the less, but Nature more, 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 

From all I may be, or have been before, 

To mingle with the Universe, and feel 

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

-o0o-

THE MOON

Emily Dickinson 1830-86

The moon was but a chin of gold

A night or two ago,

And now she turns her perfect face

Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond;

Her cheek like beryl stone;

Her eye unto the summer dew

The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part;

But what must be the smile

Upon her friend she could bestow

Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be

But the remotest star!

For certainly her way might pass

Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament,

The universe her shoe,

The stars the trinkets at her belt,

Her dimities* of blue.

dimity = A sheer, crisp cotton fabric with raised woven stripes or checks, used chiefly for curtains and dresses.

-o0o-

 IF YOU'LL PARDON MY SAYING SO

Warren Hastings and Herberte Jordan

A lady to see you, Mr. Archibald, sir.

The matter appears to be pressing.

Luncheon was served quite an hour ago,

I did not awaken you, sir, as you know.

There are times, sir, when sleep is a blessing.

I have here some ice, sir, to place on your head,

And also a whisky and "polly".

I don't know what time you retired to bed,

But the party sir, must have been jolly,

If you'll pardon my saying so.

The lady in question a-waiting below,

Is accompanied, sir, by her mother,

And also a prize-fighting gentleman, sir,

A pugnacious character one might infer,

Whom the lady describes as her brother.

The elderly female is quite commonplace,

A most vulgar person, I fear, sir,

Who shouts in a nerve wracking falsetto voice,

And her language is painful to hear, sir,

If you'll pardon my saying so.

-o0o-

THE CHILD

Sara Coleridge 1802-52

See yon blithe child that dances in our sight!

Can gloomy shadows fall from one so bright?

Fond mother, whence these fears?

While buoyantly he rushes o'er the lawn,

Dream not of clouds to stain his manhood's dawn,

Nor dim that sight with tears. 

No cloud he spies in brightly glowing hours,

But feels as if the newly vested bowers

For him could never fade:

Too well we know that vernal pleasures fleet,

But having him, so gladsome, fair, and sweet,

Our loss is overpaid. 

Amid the balmiest flowers that earth can give

Some bitter drops distil, and all that live

A mingled portion share;

But, while he learns these truths which we lament,

Such fortitude as ours will sure be sent,

Such solace to his care. 

-o0o-

THE SOLITARY REAPER

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings? -

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending; -

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more. 

-o0o-

THE OLD STOIC

Emily Bronte 1818-48

Riches I hold in light esteem,

And Love I laugh to scorn;

And lust of fame was but a dream,

That vanished with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer

That moves my lips for me

Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,

And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal:

'Tis all that I implore;

In life and death a chainless soul,

With courage to endure.

-o0o-

I LOVED YOU

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin 1799-1837

trans. Genia Gurarie

I loved you, and I probably still do,

And for a while the feeling may remain . . .

But let my love no longer trouble you,

I do not wish to cause you any pain.

I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,

The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain -

Made up a love so tender and so true

As may God grant you to be loved again.

-o0o-

MOTHER TO SON

Langston Hughes 1902-67

Well, son, I'll tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor -

Bare.

But all the time 

I'se been a-climbin' on,

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the dark

Where there ain't been no light.

So, boy, don't you turn back.

Don't you set down on the steps.

'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.

Don't you fall now -

For I'se still goin', honey,

I'se still climbin',

And life for me ain't been no crystal stair. 

-o0o-

THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS

Robert Hayden 1913-80

Sundays too my father got up early

And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labour in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he'd call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

-o0o-

ECHO

Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830-94

Come to me in the silence of the night;

Come in the speaking silence of a dream;

Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright

As sunlight on a stream;

Come back in tears,

O memory, hope, love of finished years.

O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,

Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,

Where souls brimful of love abide and meet;

Where thirsting longing eyes

Watch the slow door

That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live

My very life again though cold in death:

Come back to me in dreams, that I may give

Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:

Speak low, lean low

As long ago, my love, how long ago.

-o0o-

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WAS UPDATED YESTERDAY

-o=0=o-

THE VAMPIRE

Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936

A fool there was and he made his prayer

(Even as you or I!)

To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,

(We called her the woman who did not care),

But the fool he called her his lady fair -

(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,

And the work of our head and hand

Belong to the woman who did not know

(And now we know that she never could know)

And did not understand!

A fool there was and his goods he spent,

(Even as you or I!)

Honour and faith and a sure intent

(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),

But a fool must follow his natural bent

(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost

And the excellent things we planned

Belong to the woman who didn't know why

(And now we know that she never knew why)

And did not understand!

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,

(Even as you or I!)

Which she might have seen when she threw him aside -

(But it isn't on record the lady tried)

So some of him lived but the most of him died -

(Even as you or I!)

And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame

That stings like a white-hot brand - 

It's coming to know that she never knew why

(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)

And never could understand!

-o0o-

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG

was updated today

http://apersonalscrapblog.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

WE'LL GATHER LILACS

Ivor Novello 1893-1951

Although you’re far away, and life is sad and grey

I have a scheme; a dream to try

I’m thinking dear, of you and all I mean to do

When we’re together, you and I

We’ll soon forget our care and prayer

And find such lovely things to share again

We'll gather lilacs in the spring again

And walk together down an English lane

Until our hearts have learned to sing again

When you come home once more

And in the evening by the firelight's glow

You'll hold me close and never let me go

Your eyes will tell me all I want to know

When you come home once more.

-o0o-

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG
will be updated tomorrow
http://apersonalscrapblog.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

SOMETHING TAPPED

 Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

Something tapped on the pane of my room

When there was never a trace

Of wind or rain, and I saw in the gloom

My weary Belovèd's face.

"O I am tired of waiting," she said,

"Night, morn, noon, afternoon;

So cold it is in my lonely bed,

And I thought you would join me soon!"

I rose and neared the window-glass,

But vanished thence had she:

Only a pallid moth, alas,

Tapped at the pane for me.

-o0o-

THE CHOICE

Edith Nesbit 1858-1924

Plague take the dull and dusty town, 

Its paved and sordid mazes, 

Now Spring has trimmed her pretty gown 

With buttercups and daisies! 

With half my heart I long to lie 

Among the flowered grasses, 

And hear the loving leaves that sigh 

As their sweet Mistress passes. 

Through picture-shows I make my way 

While flower-crowned maids go maying, 

And all the cultured things I say 

That cultured folk are saying. 

For I renounce Spring's darling face, 

With may-bloom fresh upon it: 

My Mistress lives in Grosvenor-place 

And wears a Bond-street bonnet! 

-o0o-

YE BANKS O' DOON

(Third Version)

Robert Burns 1759-96

Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care! 

Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: 

Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed never to return. 

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine: 

And ilka bird sang o' its Luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine; 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree! 

And may fause Luver staw my rose, 

But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

-o0o-

MORNING RAIN

Du Fu 712-770

A slight rain comes, bathed in dawn light.

I hear it among treetop leaves before mist

Arrives. Soon it sprinkles the soil and,

Windblown, follows clouds away. Deepened

Colours grace thatch homes for a moment.

Flocks and herds of things wild glisten

Faintly. Then the scent of musk opens across

Half a mountain - and lingers on past noon. 

-o0o-

THE ABC

Spike Milligan 1918-2002

'Twas midnight in the schoolroom

And every desk was shut

When suddenly from the alphabet

Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"

Said A to B, "I don't like C;

His manners are a lack.

For all I ever see of C

Is a semi-circular back!"

"I disagree," said D to B,

"I've never found C so.

From where I stand he seems to be

An uncompleted O."

C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,

You criticise my shape.

I'm made like that, to help spell Cat

And Cow and Cool and Cape."

"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"

Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"

"You're dropping me," roared H to G.

"Don't do it please I pray."

"Out of my way," LL said to K.

"I'll make poor I look ILL."

To stop this stunt J stood in front,

And presto! ILL was JILL.

"U know," said V, "that W

Is twice the age of me.

For as a Roman V is five

I'm half as young as he."

X and Y yawned sleepily,

"Look at the time!" they said.

"Let's all get off to beddy byes."

They did, then "Z-z-z."

-o0o-

EVENING PRIMROSE

John Clare 1793-1864

When once the sun sinks in the west,

And dew-drops pearl the evening's breast;

Almost as pale as moonbeams are,

Or its companionable star,

The evening primrose opes anew

Its delicate blossoms to the dew;

And, shunning-hermit of the light,

Wastes its fair bloom upon the night;

Who, blindfold to its fond caresses,

Knows not the beauty he possesses.

Thus it blooms on till night is bye

And day looks out with open eye,

Abashed at the gaze it cannot shun,

It faints and withers, and is done.

-o0o-

I CHOOSE THE MOUNTAIN

Howard Simon 1902-79

The low lands call

I am tempted to answer

They are offering me a free dwelling 

Without having to conquer

The massive mountain makes its move

Beckoning me to ascend

A much more difficult path

To get up the slippery bend

I cannot choose both 

I have a choice to make

I must be wise

This will determine my fate

I choose, I choose the mountain

With all its stress and strain

Because only by climbing

Can I rise above the plain

I choose the mountain 

And I will never stop climbing

I choose the mountain

And I shall forever be ascending

I choose the mountain 

-o0o-

ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

Harry Rodney Bennett 1890-1948

(also known as Royden Barrie)

All through the night there’s a little brown bird singing,

Singing in the hush of the darkness and the dew.

Would that his song through the stillness could go winging

To you.

All through the night-time my lonely heart is singing

Sweeter songs of love than the brown bird ever knew.

Would that the song of my heart could go winging

To you.

-o-0-o-

TO THE VIRGINS, MAKE MUCH OF TIME

Robert Herrick 1591-1674

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may:

Old Time is still a-flying; 

And this same flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,

The higher he's a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best, which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer; 

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times, still succeed the former.

- Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry; 

For having lost but once your prime,

You may for ever tarry. 

-o0o-