THE LITTLE VAGABOND

William Blake 1757-1827

Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, 

But the Ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm; 

Besides I can tell where I am use'd well, 

Such usage in heaven will never do well. 

   But if at the Church they would give us some Ale. 

And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale; 

We'd sing and we'd pray, all the live-long day; 

Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray, 

   Then the Parson might preach and drink and sing. 

And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring: 

And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, 

Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch. 

   And God like a father rejoicing to see, 

His children as pleasant and happy as he: 

Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel 

But kiss him and give him both drink and apparel.

THE NEW BLOG

90plus AND STILL BLOGGING

which began last week will be updated tomorrow

http://90plusandstillblogging.blogspot.com

-o0o-

ALL PART OF LIFE

Haiku - Anon

high on the hillside

a thousand autumn colours

from a thousand trees

evening on the loch

much quieter now that the geese

have taken their leave

clinging to the wall

every ivy leaf shivers

in the angry wind

twisted roots criss-cross

the forest floor - overhead

branches entwining

day in day out

the caged bird and the goldfish

side by side

silence in the lift

the door opens - freeing

us and our tongues

-o0o-

A BIRD CAME DOWN THE WALK

Emily Dickinson 1830-86

A bird came down the walk:

He did not know I saw;

He bit an angle-worm in halves

And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew

From a convenient grass,

And then hopped sidewise to the wall

To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes

That hurried all abroad, -

They looked like frightened beads, I thought;

He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,

I offered him a crumb,

And he unrolled his feathers

And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,

Too silver for a seam,

Or butterflies, off banks of noon,

Leap, plashless, as they swim.

-o0o-

THE FARMER'S BRIDE

Charlotte Mew 1869-1928

Three summers since I chose a maid,

 Too young maybe - but more’s to do

   At harvest-time than bide and woo.

   When us was wed she turned afraid

    Of love and me and all things human;

    Like the shut of a winter’s day

     Her smile went out, and ’twadn’t a woman -

     More like a little frightened fay.

      One night, in the Fall, she runned away.

      “Out ’mong the sheep, her be,”  they said,

     ’Should properly have been abed;

      But sure enough she wadn’t there

      Lying awake with her wide brown stare.

   So over seven-acre field and up along across the down

      We chased her, flying like a hare

     Before out lanterns. To Church-Town

         All in a shiver and a scare

      We caught her, fetched her home at last

            And turned the key upon her, fast.

     She does the work about the house

     As well as most, but like a mouse:

       Happy enough to chat and play

         With birds and rabbits and such as they,

          So long as men-folk keep away.

       “Not near, not near!”  her eyes beseech

          When one of us comes within reach.

         The women say that beasts in stall

          Look round like children at her call.

           I’ve hardly heard her speak at all.

            Shy as a leveret, swift as he,

              Straight and slight as a young larch tree,

             Sweet as the first wild violets, she,

             To her wild self. But what to me?

            The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,

            The blue smoke rises to the low grey sky,

            One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,

             A magpie’s spotted feathers lie

           On the black earth spread white with rime,

           The berries redden up to Christmas-time.

           What’s Christmas-time without there be

             Some other in the house than we!

            She sleeps up in the attic there

             Alone, poor maid. ’Tis but a stair

              Betwixt us. Oh! my God! the down,

               The soft young down of her, the brown,

              The brown of her - her eyes, her hair, her hair!

               -o0o-

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION

Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772-1834

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

The linnet and thrush say, “I love and I love!”

In the winter they’re silent  - the wind is so strong;

What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.

But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,

And singing, and loving  -  all come back together.

But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,

The green fields below him, the blue sky above,

That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he -

“I love my Love, and my Love loves me!”

-o0o-

DUST IF YOU MUST

Anon

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better,

To paint a picture or write a letter,

Bake a cake or plant a seed,

Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,

With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,

Music to hear and books to read,

Friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there

With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,

A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.

This day will not come 'round again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,

Old age will come and it's not always kind.

And when you go and go you must,

You, yourself, will make more dust.

-o0o-

THERE IS A LADY SWEET AND KIND

Thomas Ford 1580-1648

There is a lady sweet and kind,

Was never face so pleas'd my mind;

I did but see her passing by,

And yet I love her till I die.

Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,

Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles,

Beguiles my heart, I know not why,

And yet I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged and doth range,

Her country so my love doth change:

But change the earth, or change the sky,

Yet will I love her till I die. 

-o0o-

EXCELSIOR

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

The shades of night were falling fast, 

As through an Alpine village passed 

A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 

A banner with the strange device, 

      Excelsior! 

His brow was sad; his eye beneath, 

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 

And like a silver clarion rung 

The accents of that unknown tongue, 

      Excelsior! 

In happy homes he saw the light 

Of household fires gleam warm and bright; 

Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 

And from his lips escaped a groan, 

      Excelsior! 

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said; 

"Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 

The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" 

And loud that clarion voice replied, 

      Excelsior! 

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest 

Thy weary head upon this breast! " 

A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 

But still he answered, with a sigh, 

      Excelsior! 

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! 

Beware the awful avalanche!" 

This was the peasant's last Good-night, 

A voice replied, far up the height, 

      Excelsior! 

At break of day, as heavenward 

The pious monks of Saint Bernard 

Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 

A voice cried through the startled air, 

      Excelsior! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 

Half-buried in the snow was found, 

Still grasping in his hand of ice 

That banner with the strange device, 

      Excelsior! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 

And from the sky, serene and far, 

A voice fell like a falling star, 

      Excelsior! 

The new blog

90PLUS AND STILL BLOGGING

begins tomorrow

http://90plusandstillblogging.blogspot.com

-o0o-

THE CROCODILE

Hilaire Belloc 1870-1953

Whatever our faults, we can always engage

That no fancy or fable shall sully our page,

So take note of what follows, I beg.

This creature so grand and august in its age,

In its youth is hatched out of an egg.

And oft in some far Coptic town

The Missionary sits him down

To breakfast by the Nile:

The heart beneath his priestly gown

Is innocent of guile;

When suddenly the rigid frown

Of Panic is observed to drown

His customary smile.

Why does he start and leap amain,

And scour the sandy Libyan plain

Like one that wants to catch a train,

Or wrestles with internal pain?

Because he finds his egg contain -

Green, hungry, horrible and plain -

An Infant Crocodile.

-o0o-

INVICTUS: THE UNCONQUERABLE

William Ernest Henley 1849-1902

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud,

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

      I am the captain of my soul.

-o0o-

HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

William Butler Yeats 1865-1939

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

-o0o-

LAMENT FOR DARK PEOPLES

Langston Hughes 1902-67

I was a red man one time,

But the white men came.

I was a black man, too,

But the white man came.

They drove me out of the forest.

They took me away from the jungles.

I lost my trees.

I lost my silver moons.

Now they've caged me

In the circus of civilisation.

Now I herd with the many -

Caged in the circus of civilisation.

-o0o-

THE VAGABOND

John Drinkwater 1882-1937

I know the pools where the grayling rise,

  I know the trees where the filberts fall,

I know the woods where the red fox lies,

  The twisted elms where the brown owls call.

And I've seldom a shilling to call my own,

  And there's never a girl I'd marry,

I thank the Lord I'm a rolling stone

  With never a care to carry.

I talk to the stars as they come and go

  On every night from July to June,

I'm free of the speech of the winds that blow,

  And I know what weather will sing what tune.

I sow no seed and I pay no rent,

  And I thank no man for his bounties,

But I've a treasure that's never spent,

  I'm lord of a dozen counties.

-o0o-

THE LITTLE BOY AND THE OLD MAN

Shel Silverstein 1930-99

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."

Said the old man, "I do that too."

The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."

I do that too," laughed the little old man.

Said the little boy, "I often cry."

The old man nodded, "So do I."

But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems

Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."

And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.

I know what you mean," said the little old man.

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG No.10 WAS POSTED TODAY

-o0o-

THE SOUNDS IN THE EVENING

Eleanor Fargeon 1881-1965

The sounds in the evening 

Go all through the house, 

The click of the clock 

And the pick of the mouse.

The footsteps of people 

Upon the top floor, 

The skirts of my mother 

That brush by the door.

The crick in the boards, 

And the creek of the chairs, 

The fluttering murmurs 

Outside on the stairs.

The ring of the bell, 

The arrival of guests, 

The laugh of my father 

At one of his jests.

The clashing of dishes 

As dinner goes in, 

The babble of voices 

That distance makes thin. 

The mewing of cats 

That seem just by my ear, 

The hooting of owls 

That can never seem near.

The queer little noises 

That no one explains,

Till the moon through the slats 

Of my window-blind rains. 

And the world of my eyes 

And my ears melts like steam

As I find my pillow 

The world of my dream. 

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG NO.10 WILL BE POSTED ON SATURDAY

-o0o-

A SLAVE'S DREAM

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,

  His sickle in his hand;

His breast was bare, his matted hair

  Was buried in the sand.

Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,

  He saw his Native Land. 

Wide through the landscape of his dreams

  The lordly Niger flowed;

Beneath the palm-trees on the plain

  Once more a king he strode;

And heard the tinkling caravans

  Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen

  Among her children stand;

They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,

  They held him by the hand! -

A tear burst from the sleeper's lids

  And fell into the sand. 

And then at furious speed he rode

  Along the Niger's bank;

His bridle-reins were golden chains,

  And, with a martial clank,

At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel

  Smiting his stallion's flank. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag,

  The bright flamingos flew;

From morn till night he followed their flight,

  O'er plains where the tamarind grew,

Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,

  And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar,

  And the hyena scream,

And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds

  Beside some hidden stream;

And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,

  Through the triumph of his dream. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues,

  Shouted of liberty;

And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,

  With a voice so wild and free,

That he started in his sleep and smiled

  At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip,

  Nor the burning heat of day;

For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,

  And his lifeless body lay

A worn-out fetter, that the soul

  Had broken and thrown away! 

-o0o-

LINES COMPOSED IN A WOOD ON A WINDY DAY

Anne Bronte 1820-49

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring

And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;

For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,

Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,

The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;

The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,

The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing

The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;

I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,

And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!

-o0o-

I'M GOING TO SEE YOU TODAY

Joyce Grenfell 1910-79

This is our red letter day,

It's come at last, you see,

Couldn't really be a better day,

It's meant for you and me,

This day we've been awaiting patiently,

It is perfection to me.

I'm going to see you today,

All's well with my world,

And the people that I meet

As I hurry down the street

Seem to know I'm on my way

Coming to you.

This is a beautiful day,

I'm treading on air,

And my feet have taken two wings,

My heart with happiness sings,

I'll see you today.

-o0o-

A FOREST PATH IN WINTER

Archibald Lampman 1861-1919

Along this secret and forgotten road

All depths and forest forms, above, below,

Are plumed and draped and hillocked with the snow

A branch cracks now and then, and its soft load

Drifts by me in a thin prismatic shower;

Else not a sound, but vistas bound and crossed

With sheeted gleams and sharp blue shadows, frost,

And utter silence. In his glittering power

The master of mid-winter reveries

Holds all things buried soft and strong and deep.

The busy squirrel has his hidden lair;

And even the spirits of the stalwart trees

Have crept into their utmost roots, and there,

Upcoiled in the close earth, lie fast asleep.

-o0o-

FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE

Robert Louis Stevenson 1850-94

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,    

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;    

And charging along like troops in a battle,    

All through the meadows the horses and cattle:    

All of the sights of the hill and the plain             

Fly as thick as driving rain;    

And ever again, in the wink of an eye,    

Painted stations whistle by.    

  

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,    

All by himself and gathering brambles;      

Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;    

And there is the green for stringing the daisies!    

Here is a cart run away in the road    

Lumping along with man and load;    

And here is a mill and there is a river:      

Each a glimpse and gone for ever.

-o0o-

THE LITTLE GHOST

Edna St.Vincent Millay 1892-1950

I knew her for a little ghost

That in my garden walked;

The wall is high - higher than most -

And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that

Till after she was gone -

I knew her by the broad white hat,

All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet,

By her small hands that hung

In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,

Her gown's white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay,

What she would do - and oh!

She looked as if she liked the way

I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favourite mint

With conscious garden grace,

She smiled and smiled - there was no hint

Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side

To let her slippers show,

And up the walk she went with pride,

The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new

And is of ivy bare

She paused - then opened and passed through

A gate that once was there.

-o0o-

FLOWERS

Thomas Hood 1789-1845

I will not have the mad clytie*

Whose head is turned by the sun;

The tulip is a courtly queen,

Whom, therefore, I will shun;

The cowslip is a country wench,

The violet is a nun; -

But I will woo the dainty rose,

The queen of everyone.

The pea is but a wanton witch,

In too much haste to wed,

And clasps her rings on every hand

The wolfsbane I should dread; -

Nor will I dreary rosemary

That always mourns the dead; -

But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,

And so is no mate for me -

And the daisy's cheek is tipped with blush,

She is of such low degree;

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,

And the broom's betrothed to the bee; -

But I will plight with the dainty rose,

For fairest of all is she.

*In Greek mythology Clytie was a nymph was who was turned into a sunflower.

-o0o-

HOPE THE HERMIT

Anon - 17th century

Once in a blythe green wood

Lived a hermit wise and good,

Whom the folks from far and near

For his council sought,

Knowing well that what he taught

The dreariest of hearts would cheer.

Though his hair was white

His eye was clear and bright,

And he thus was ever wont to say:

“Though to care we are born,

Yet the dullest morn

Often heralds in the fairest day!

"The very longest lane,

Has a turning, it is plain,

E'en the blackest of clouds will fly:

And what can't be cured

Must with patience be endured:

As cheaply can we laugh as cry."

And people gazed,

At words so deep amazed,

While the Sage went on to say:

"Though to care we are born,

Yet the dullest morn

Often heralds in the fairest day!"

Pray, is the hermit dead?

From the forest has he fled?

No, he lives to counsel all

Who an ear will lend

To their wisest, truest friend,

And Hope the Hermit's name they call.

Still he sits, I ween,

'Mid branches ever green,

And cheerly you may hear him say:

"Though to care we are born,

Yet the dullest morn

Often heralds in the fairest day!”

-o0o-

A PLAIN LIFE

W.H. Davies 1871-1940

No idle gold - since this fine sun, my friend,

Is no mean miser, but doth freely spend.

No precious stones - since these green mornings show,

Without a charge, their pearls where'er I go.

No lifeless books - since birds with their sweet tongues

Will read aloud to me their happier songs.

No painted scenes - since clouds can change their skies

A hundred times a day to please my eyes.

No headstrong wine - since, while I drink, the spring

Into my eager ears will softly sing.

No surplus clothes - since every simple beast

Can teach me to be happy with the least.

-o0o-

ACROSS THE HILLS
Leon Rosselson b.1934

Across the hills black clouds are sweeping

Carry poison far and wide

And the grass has blackened underfoot

And the rose has withered and died

But the rose is still as red now and the grass is still as green

And it must have been a shadow in the distance you have seen

Yes it must have been a shadow you have seen

Can't you hear the children weeping

Can't you hear that mournful sound

No birds sing in the twisted trees

And the silent streets are round

I can hear the children laughing in the streets as they play

And you must have caught the dying of an echo far away

Yes it must have been an echo far away

Can't you see the white ash falling

From the hollow of the skies

And the blood runs red from the blackened walls

Where our ruined city lies

I can see the bright sun shining in the park on the stream

And you must have felt a shiver from the darkness of a dream

Yes it must have been the darkness of a dream

And it shall reap a hellish harvest

Make the desert of this land

But the rose is still as red now and the grass is still as green

Yes it must have been a shadow you have seen

-o0o-

Extract from THE LADDER OF ST.AUGUSTINE

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

We have not wings, we cannot soar;

  But we have feet to scale and climb

By slow degrees, by more and more,

  The cloudy summits of our time. 

The mighty pyramids of stone

  That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,

When nearer seen, and better known,

  Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 

The distant mountains, that uprear

  Their solid bastions to the skies,

Are crossed by pathways, that appear

  As we to higher levels rise. 

The heights by great men reached and kept

  Were not attained by sudden flight,

But they, while their companions slept,

  Were toiling upward in the night. 

-o0o-

KEEP A-GOIN'

Frank L. Stanton 1857-1927

If you strike a thorn or rose,

Keep a-goin'!

If it hails or if it snows,

Keep a-goin'!

'Taint no use to sit an' whine

When the fish ain't on your line;

Bait your hook an' keep a-tryin' - 

Keep a-goin'!

When the weather kills your crop,

Keep a-goin'!

Though 'tis work to reach the top,

Keep a-goin'!

S'pose you're out o' ev'ry dime,

Gittin' broke ain't any crime;

Tell the world you're feelin' prime -

Keep a-goin'!

When it looks like all is up,

Keep a-goin'!

Drain the sweetness from the cup,

Keep a-goin'!

See the wild birds on the wing, 

Hear the bells that sweetly ring,

When you feel like singin', sing -

Keep a-goin'!

-o0o-

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND

Thomas Moore 1779-1852

Quick! we have but a second,

        Fill round the cup while you may;

     For time, the churl, hath beckon'd,

        And we must away, away!

     Grasp the pleasure that's flying,

        For oh, not Orpheus' strain

     Could keep sweet hours from dying,

        Or charm them to life again.

          Then, quick! we have but a second,

             Fill round the cup while you may!

          For Time, the churl hath beckon'd,

             And we must away, away.

     See the glass, how it flushes,

        Like some young Hebe's lip,

     And half meets thine, and blushes

        That thou shouldst delay to sip.

     Shame, oh shame unto thee,

        If ever thou see'st that day,

     When a cup or lip shall woo thee,

        And turn untouch'd away!

          Then, quick! we have but a second,

             Fill round, fill round while you may,

          For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,

             And we must away, away!

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG No.9 WAS UPDATED TODAY

-o0o-

HALFWAY DOWN

A.A. Milne 1882-1956

Halfway down the stairs

Is a stair

Where I sit.

There isn't any

Other stair

Quite like

It.

I'm not at the bottom,

I'm not at the top;

So this is the stair

Where

I always

Stop.

Halfway up the stairs

Isn't up

And it isn't down.

It isn't in the nursery,

It isn't in town.

And all sorts of funny thoughts

Run round my head.

It isn't really

Anywhere!

It's somewhere else

Instead!

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WILL BE UPDATED TOMORROW

-o0o-

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

Art thou the bird whom Man loves best,

The pious bird with the scarlet breast,

Our little English Robin;

The bird that comes about our doors

When Autumn-winds are sobbing?

Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?

Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland?

The bird, that by some name or other

All men who know thee call their brother,

The darling of children and men?

Could Father Adam open his eyes

And see this sight beneath the skies,

He'd wish to close them again.

—If the Butterfly knew but his friend,

Hither his flight he would bend;

And find his way to me,

Under the branches of the tree:

In and out, he darts about;

Can this be the bird, to man so good,

That, after their bewildering,

Covered with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue

A beautiful creature,

That is gentle by nature?

Beneath the summer sky

From flower to flower let him fly;

'Tis all that he wishes to do.

The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,

He is the friend of our summer gladness:

What hinders, then, that ye should be

Playmates in the sunny weather,

And fly about in the air together!

His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,

A crimson as bright as thine own:

Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,

O pious Bird! whom man loves best,

Love him, or leave him alone! 

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG No.9 WILL BE POSTED ON SATURDAY

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