Thank you Hev very much for the Ted Hughes poem. I'd never read anything by him. I've checked into the other "Crow" poems (and more) and they're great. I'll have to visit the bookstore when I get a chance.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands
This one's for those of us who are perhaps not as young as we once were. It is poem number 40 from the collection published in 1896 entitled A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman (1859-1936).
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
Verloren ist nur, wer sich selbst aufgibt. - Hans-Ulrich Rudel
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
Christopher Robin is going.
At least I think he is.
Where?
Nobody knows.
But he is going-
I mean he goes
(To rhyme with "knows")
Do we care?
( To rhyme with "where")
We do
very much.
(I haven't got a rhyme for that
"is" in the second line yet.
Bother.)
(Now I haven't got a rhyme for
bother. Bother.)
Those two bothers will have
to rhyme with each other
Buther.
The fact is this is more difficult
than I thought
I ought-
(Very good indeed)
I ought
To begin again,
But it is easier
To stop.
Christopher Robin, good-bye
I
(Good)
I
And all your friends
Sends-
I mean all your friend
Send-
(Very akward this, it keeps
going wrong)
Well, anyhow, we send
Our love.
END.
______________________________________________________________________________
"But it isn't Easy," said Pooh to himself... "Because Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you."
I'd post Samuel Taylor
)
I'd post Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" too but I'm afraid due to the length I'd get lynched.
Thank you Hev very much for the Ted Hughes poem. I'd never read anything by him. I've checked into the other "Crow" poems (and more) and they're great. I'll have to visit the bookstore when I get a chance.
Glad you liked Ted Hughes
)
Glad you liked Ted Hughes poem. I love his Crow poems.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy
)
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
"We must be the change we wish to see."
Mahatma Gandhi
NEW AGES A new age does
)
NEW AGES
A new age does not begin all of a sudden.
My grandfather was already living in the new age
My grandson will probably still be living in the old one.
The new meat is eaten with the old forks.
It was not the first cars
Nor the tanks
It was not the airplanes over our roofs
Nor the bombers.
From new transmitters came the old stupidities.
Wisdom was passed on from mouth to mouth.
Bertolt Brecht
somewhere i have never
)
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands
-- e.e. cummings
I think that I shall never
)
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
Joyce Kilmer
-OR-
I think that I shall never see
a billboard lovely as a tree.
Perhaps, unless the billboards fall,
I'll never see a tree at all.
Ogden Nash.
Personally, I prefer the former.
M
"We must be the change we wish to see."
Mahatma Gandhi
This one's for those of us
)
This one's for those of us who are perhaps not as young as we once were. It is poem number 40 from the collection published in 1896 entitled A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman (1859-1936).
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
Verloren ist nur, wer sich selbst aufgibt. - Hans-Ulrich Rudel
Oh! I have slipped the surly
)
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
John G. Magee, Jr.
"We must be the change we wish to see."
Mahatma Gandhi
POEM written by Eeyore in a
)
POEM written by Eeyore in a Quiet Moment
Christopher Robin is going.
At least I think he is.
Where?
Nobody knows.
But he is going-
I mean he goes
(To rhyme with "knows")
Do we care?
( To rhyme with "where")
We do
very much.
(I haven't got a rhyme for that
"is" in the second line yet.
Bother.)
(Now I haven't got a rhyme for
bother. Bother.)
Those two bothers will have
to rhyme with each other
Buther.
The fact is this is more difficult
than I thought
I ought-
(Very good indeed)
I ought
To begin again,
But it is easier
To stop.
Christopher Robin, good-bye
I
(Good)
I
And all your friends
Sends-
I mean all your friend
Send-
(Very akward this, it keeps
going wrong)
Well, anyhow, we send
Our love.
END.
______________________________________________________________________________
"But it isn't Easy," said Pooh to himself... "Because Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you."
~The House at Pooh Corner
Oops, the author of the last
)
Oops, the author of the last poem I posted is A. A. Milne. The stories and poems in "Winnie-The-Pooh" were my favorite as a child.