Sunday, April 30, 2017

Little Eyes Upon You
Anon

There are little eyes upon you
and they're watching night and day.
There are little ears that quickly
take in every word you say.

There are little hands all eager
to do anything you do;
And a little boy who's dreaming
of the day he'll be like you.

You're the little fellow's idol,
you're the wisest of the wise.
In his little mind about you
no suspicions ever rise.

He believes in you devoutly,
holds all that you say and do;
He will say and do, in your way,
when he's grown up like you.

-o0o-

Saturday, April 29, 2017

HAVE A NICE DAY
Spike Milligan 1918-2002

"Help, help," said a man. "I'm drowning."
"Hang on," said a man from the shore.
"Help, help," said the man. "I'm not clowning."
"Yes, I know, I heard you before.
Be patient dear man who is drowning,
You, see I've got a disease.
I'm waiting for a Doctor J. Browning.
So do be patient please."
"How long," said the man who was drowning. "Will it take for the Doc to arrive?"
"Not very long," said the man with the disease. "Till then try staying alive."
"Very well," said the man who was drowning. "I'll try and stay afloat.
By reciting the poems of Browning
And other things he wrote."
"Help, help," said the man with the disease, "I suddenly feel quite ill."
"Keep calm." said the man who was drowning, "Breathe deeply and lie quite still."
"Oh dear," said the man with the awful disease. "I think I'm going to die."
"Farewell," said the man who was drowning.
Said the man with the disease, "goodbye."
So the man who was drowning, drownded
And the man with the disease past away.
But apart from that,
And a fire in my flat,
It's been a very nice day.

-o0o-

Friday, April 28, 2017

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
Christopher Marlowe 1564-93

Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.

-o0o-

Thursday, April 27, 2017

THE LONG WHITE SEAM
Jean Ingelow 1820–97

As I came round the harbour buoy, 
  The lights began to gleam, 
No wave the land-lock’d water stirr’d, 
  The crags were white as cream; 
And I mark’d my love by candle-light         
  Sewing her long white seam. 
    It’s aye sewing ashore, my dear, 
      Watch and steer at sea, 
    It’s reef and furl, and haul the line, 
      Set sail and think of thee.         
I climb’d to reach her cottage door; 
  O sweetly my love sings! 
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, 
  My soul to meet it springs 
As the shining water leap’d of old,         
  When stirr’d by angel wings. 
    Aye longing to list anew, 
      Awake and in my dream, 
    But never a song she sang like this, 
      Sewing her long white seam.         
Fair fall the lights, the harbour lights, 
  That brought me in to thee, 
And peace drop down on that low roof 
  For the sight that I did see, 
And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear         
  All for the love of me. 
    For O, for O, with brows bent low 
      By the candle’s flickering gleam, 
    Her wedding gown it was she wrought, 
      Sewing the long white seam.

           -o0o-       

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

YOUNG AND OLD 
Charles Kingsley 1819-75

When all the world is young, lad,
  And all the trees are green,
And every goose a swan, lad,
  And every lass a queen,
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
  And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
  And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
  And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
  And all the wheels run down,
Creep home, and take your place there,
  The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there
  You loved when all was young.

-o0o-

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

DARK LOCHNAGAR
George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove,
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war,
Though cataracts foam ‘stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander’d,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid.
On chieftains long perish’d my memory ponder’d
As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade.
I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star,
For fancy was cheer’d by traditional story
Disclos’d by the natives of dark Lochnagar!

Shades of the dead! Have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o’er his own Highland vale.
Round Lochnagar while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car.
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Lochnagar.

-o0o-

Monday, April 24, 2017

MOONLIGHT BECOMES YOU
Johnny Burke 1908-64

Moonlight becomes you, it goes with your hair,
You certainly know the right thing to wear.
Moonlight becomes you, I'm thrilled at the sight
And I could get so romantic tonight.
You're all dressed up to go dreaming,
Now don't tell me I'm wrong,
And what a night to go dreaming,
Mind if I tag along?
If I say I love you, I want you to know
It's not just because there's moonlight
Although, moonlight becomes you so.

-o0o-



Sunday, April 23, 2017

THE LAKE LAY BLUE BELOW THE HILL
Mary E. Coleridge 1861-1907

The lake lay blue below the hill,
O'er it, as I looked, there flew
Across the waters, cold and still,
A bird whose wings were palest blue.

The sky above was blue at last,
The sky beneath me blue in blue,
A moment, ere the bird had passed,
It caught his image as he flew.

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WAS UPDATED YESTERDAY

-o0o-

Saturday, April 22, 2017

HOW SWEET THE MOONLIGHT SLEEPS UPON THIS BANK
William Shakespeare 1564-1616
(from The Merchant of Venice, Act 5 Scene 1, Lorenzo's speech)

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WAS UPDATED TODAY

-o=0=o-

Friday, April 21, 2017

A POISON TREE
William Blake 1757-1827

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG No.6 WILL BE POSTED TOMORROW

-o0o-

Thursday, April 20, 2017

THE LADY WITHOUT A LAMP
B.B. Lawrece, Nosmo King and Herbert Townsend

He was telling his class of the Crimean War
Of the soldiers who fought and who died,
And of how Florence Nightingale bearing a lamp
Could be seen at the wounded men’s side. 

“That woman,” said he, “is a lesson to all
Of steadfastness, courage and love,
Just one fine example of what can be done
With the power that comes from above.”

Then a boy’s hand shot up and a voice said “But sir,
She wasn’t the only one, 
There must have been others out there at the front
Or the work never could have been done.”

“Why, yes,” said the teacher, “some forty or more
Were helping to work at the camp,
But hers was the name that found honour and fame
As the lady who carried the lamp.

“So today in this world there are those who find fame
For the wonderful things they have done,
Some deed of courage, some generous act,
And they soon find their place in the sun,

“While others just carry on with their job
And the world never makes any fuss,
They just struggle along, even when things go wrong,
Like the Smiths or the Browns or like us.

“No limelight for them, no newspaper headlines,
No royalty claim them as friend.
They just play their part in the drama of life,
And then quietly slip out at the end.

“Yet this old world could never keep going
On its long and its difficult tramp
If it weren’t for the fellow without a name
Or the Lady without a Lamp.”

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG No.6 WILL BE POSTED ON SATURDAY

-o0o-

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

FROM A CARRIAGE WINDOW
Alexander Anderson 1845-1909

Just a peep from a carriage window,
As we stood for a moment still,
Just one look - and no more - till the engine
Gave a whistle sharp and shrill.

But I saw in that moment the heather,
That lay like a purple sheet
On the hills that watch o’er the hamlet
That sleeps like a child at their feet.

O, sweet are those hills when the winter
Flings round them his mantle of snow,
And sweet when the sunshine of summer
Sets their fair green bosoms aglow.

But sweeter and grander in autumn,
When the winds are soft with desire,
When the buds of the heather take blossom,
And run to their summits like fire.

I saw each and all through the heather
That purple lay spread like a sheet
On the hills that watch over the hamlet,
That sleeps like a child at their feet.

-o0o-

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

A CHARACTER
William Wordsworth 1770-1850

I marvel how Nature could ever find space 
For so many strange contrasts in one human face: 
There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom 
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. 

There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; 
Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain 
Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, 
Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease. 

There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, 
And attention full ten times as much as there needs; 
Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; 
And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy. 

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare 
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there, 
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, 
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name. 

This picture from nature may seem to depart, 
Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart; 
And I for five centuries right gladly would be 
Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he. 

-o0o-

Monday, April 17, 2017

SHE SAW A MAN ON TELEVISION
Sophia White

She saw a man on television
In a suit and tie
And he wore a fine felt hat
Cocked over his eye.
She saw him sing and whistle
And dance a little step
And she wished the men today
Would not be so unkempt.

She saw a man on television
Woo a pretty lass
With smiles, winks, and daffodils, 
And diamonds made of glass.
She saw him tip his hat to her
And offer her his arm
And lead her to the dance floor
With gentlemanly charm.

She saw a man on television
Smile with easy grace
And wished that she could find a man
With such an honest face.
But she knew that man on television
Was a dying breed
And suits and ties and tall felt hats
Had all grown obsolete. 

-o0o-

Sunday, April 16, 2017

THE EVENING DARKENS OVER
Robert Bridges 1844-1930

The evening darkens over 
After a day so bright 
The windcapt waves discover 
That wild will be the night. 
There’s sound of distant thunder. 

The latest sea-birds hover 
Along the cliff’s sheer height; 
As in the memory wander 
Last flutterings of delight, 
White wings lost on the white. 

There’s not a ship in sight; 
And as the sun goes under 
Thick clouds conspire to cover 
The moon that should rise yonder. 
Thou art alone, fond lover. 

-o0o-

Saturday, April 15, 2017

THE ROSE
Amanda McBroom

Some say, "Love, it is a river
That drowns the tender reed"
Some say, "Love, it is a razor
That leaves your soul to bleed"
Some say, "Love, it is a a hunger
An endless aching need"
I say, "Love, it is a flower
And you it's only seed"

It's the heart that fears breaking
That never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking
That never takes the chance
It's the one, who won't be taken
Who can not seem to give
And the soul afraid of dying
That never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Life's the seed, that with the sun's love
In the spring becomes the rose

-o0o-

Friday, April 14, 2017

MR. NOBODY
Anon

I know a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
In everybody's house!
There's no one ever sees his face,
And yet we all agree
That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr. Nobody.

Tis he who always tears our books,
Who leaves the door ajar,
He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
And scatters pine afar;
That squeaking door will always squeak,
For, prithee, don't you see,
We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr. Nobody.

He damps wood up the fire,
That kettles cannot boil;
His are the feet that brings in mud,
And all the carpet soil.
The papers always are mislaid,
Who had them last but he?
There's no one tosses them about
But Mr. Nobody.

The finger marks upon the door
By none of us are made;
We never leave the blind unclosed,
To let the curtains fade.
The ink we never spill. The boots,
That lying round you see,
Are not our boots; they all belong
To Mr. Nobody.

-o0o-

Thursday, April 13, 2017

MYFANWY
Richard Davies 1833-77

Why is it anger, O Myfanwy,
That fills your eyes so dark and clear?
Your gentle cheeks, O sweet Myfanwy,
Why blush they not when I draw near?
Where is the smile that once most tender
Kindled my love so fond, so true?
Where is the sound of your sweet words,
That drew my heart to follow you?

What have I done, O my Myfanwy,
To earn your frown? What is my blame?
Was it just play, my sweet Myfanwy,
To set your poet's love aflame?
You truly once to me were promised,
Is it too much to keep your part?
I wish no more your hand, Myfanwy,
If I no longer have your heart.

Myfanwy, may you spend your lifetime
Beneath the midday sunshine's glow,
And on your cheeks O may the roses
Dance for a hundred years or so.
Forget now all the words of promise
You made to one who loved you well,
Give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy,
But one last time, to say "farewell."

-o0o-

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

SUNSET
Florence Peacock (dates not known)

"The setting sun of old age ever gilds with rosy tints the days gone by."

The setting sun of life gilds with its rays
The unforgotten but far distant days,
The days when youth and hope walked hand in hand.

It sheds around the past a rosy glow,
That past which never was a present, though
On looking back o'er life it seems to stand

Bathed in a crimson glory, - and old age
Lingers with loving fondness o'er the page
Thus lighted up by memory's golden rays.

-o0o-

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

DRAKE'S DRUM
 Henry Newbolt 1862-1938

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,    
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)    
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,    
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.    
Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,             
    Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,    
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'    
    He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.    
  
Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,    
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),      
Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,    
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,    
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,    
    Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;    
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,      
    An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."     

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,    
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),    
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,    
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.      
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,    
    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;    
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',    
    They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.    

-o0o-

Monday, April 10, 2017

HAPPY THE MAN
John Dryden 1631-1700

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own;
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

-o0o-

Sunday, April 9, 2017

MINSTREL MAN
Langston Hughes 1902-67

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter
And my throat
Is deep with song,
You do not think
I suffer after
I have held my pain
So long?

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter,
You do not hear
My inner cry?
Because my feet
Are gay with dancing,
You do not know
I die?

A PERSON SCRAPBLOG WAS UPDATED YESTERDAY

-o0o-

Saturday, April 8, 2017

UNDER A SPREADING CHESTNUT TREE
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG No.5 WAS POSTED TODAY

-o0o-

Friday, April 7, 2017

INTERLUDE
Amy Lowell  1874-1925

When I have baked white cakes
And grated green almonds to spread upon them;
When I have picked the green crowns from the strawberries
And piled them, cone-pointed, in a blue and yellow platter;
When I have smoothed the seam of the linen I have been working;
What then?
To-morrow it will be the same:
Cakes and strawberries,
And needles in and out of cloth.
If the sun is beautiful on bricks and pewter,
How much more beautiful is the moon,
Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree;
The moon,
Wavering across a bed of tulips;
The moon,
Still,
Upon your face.
You shine, Beloved,
You and the moon.
But which is the reflection?
The clock is striking eleven.
I think, when we have shut and barred the door,
The night will be dark
Outside.

A PERSONAL SCRAPBOOK No.5 WILL BE POSTED TO THE BLOG TOMORROW

-o=0=o-

Thursday, April 6, 2017

SILENCE
Thomas Hood  1789-1845

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave - under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d - no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan -
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

-o0o-

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

SONG
John  Clare  1793-1864

Soft falls the sweet evening
Bright shines the one star
The night clouds they're leaning
On mountains afar
The moon in dim brightness
The fern in its lightness
Tinge the valley with whiteness
Both near and afar

O soft falls the evening
Around those sweet glens
The hill's shadows leaning
Half over the glen
There meet me my deary
I'm lonely and weary
And nothing can cheer me
So meet me again
The gate it clap'd slightly
The noise it was small
The footstep fell lightly
And she pass'd the stone wall
And is it my deary
I'm no longer weary
But happy and cheery
For in thee I meet all

-o0o-

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

ZUMMER AN' WINTER
William Barnes  1801-86

When I led by zummer streams
The pride o' Lea, as naighbours thought her,
While the zun, wi' evenen beams,
Did cast our sheades athirt the water;
Winds a-blowen,
Streams a-flowen,
Skies a-glowen,
Tokens ov my jay zoo fleeten,
Heightened it, that happy meeten.

Then, when maid an' man took pleaces,
Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances,
Showen in their merry feaces
Kindly smiles an' glisnen glances;
Stars a-winken,
Day a-shrinken,
Sheades a-zinken,
Brought anew the happy meeten,
That did meake the night too fleeten. 

-o0o-

Monday, April 3, 2017

I KNOW A BANK
from "A Midsummer Night's Dream" spoken by Oberon
William Shakespeare  1564-1616

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

-o0o-

Sunday, April 2, 2017

I’M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU?
Emily Dickinson 1830-86

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

-o0o-


Saturday, April 1, 2017

Two short poems by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822

TO THE MOON.

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a Joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

-o0o-

THE WANING MOON

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky East,
A white and shapeless mass.

-o=0=o-