Fog
by Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Views: 39

Medusa
by Humbert Wolfe (1885-1940)

In your black hair are there not nightingales
   Singing in the dark, and when you let it down
Is there no stir in the air of tiniest sails
   That ever on lost seas of song were blown?

In your black hair the heart of Hyacinth
   Laments the daylight he shall see no more,
And flowers are red as in the labyrinth
   The red eyes of the crazy Minotaur.

In your black hair, Medusa, there are snakes
   That twine themselves about Laocoon,
How soft, how warm! and how the poor heart breaks
   Before they strike and turn it into stone.

Views: 31

Today is World Braille Day.

On His Blindness
by John Milton (1608-1674)

When I consider how my light is spent,
   Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
   And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
   My true account, lest he returning chide;
   “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
   Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
   Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
   And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:
   They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Views: 29

Goblin Feet
by J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973)

I am off down the road
Where the fairy lanterns glowed
And the little pretty flitter-mice are flying;
A slender band of gray
It runs creepily away
And the hedges and the grasses are a-sighing.
The air is full of wings,
And of blundery beetle-things
That warn you with their whirring and their humming.
O! I hear the tiny horns
Of enchanted leprechauns
And the padded feet of many gnomes a-coming!
O! the lights! O! the gleams! O! the little twinkly sounds!
O! the rustle of their noiseless little robes!
O! the echo of their feet — of their happy little feet!
O! the swinging lamps in the starlit globes.

I must follow in their train
Down the crooked fairy lane
Where the coney-rabbits long ago have gone.
And where silvery they sing
In a moving moonlit ring
All a twinkle with the jewels they have on.
They are fading round the turn
Where the glow worms palely burn
And the echo of their padding feet is dying!
O! it’s knocking at my heart—

Let me go! let me start!
For the little magic hours are all a-flying.

O! the warmth! O! the hum! O! the colors in the dark!
O! the gauzy wings of golden honey-flies!
O! the music of their feet — of their dancing goblin feet!
O! the magic! O! the sorrow when it dies.

Views: 37

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost (1874-1963)

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.

Views: 30

Ring Out, Wild Bells (section CVI of In Memoriam)
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
   The flying cloud, the frosty light;
   The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
   The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
   For those that here we see no more,
   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
   And ancient forms of party strife;
   Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care the sin,
   The faithless coldness of the times;
   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
   The civic slander and the spite;
   Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
   Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
   Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Views: 44

Auld Lang Syne
by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

         Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

         Chorus

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.

         Chorus

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.

         Chorus

And there’s a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

         Chorus

Views: 91

The Sergeant’s Weddin’
by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

’E was warned agin ’er—
   That’s what made ’im look;
She was warned agin ’im—
⁠   That is why she took.
’Wouldn’t ’ear no reason,
⁠   ’Went an’ done it blind;
We know all about ’em,
⁠   They’ve got all to find!

Cheer for the Sergeant’s weddin’—
⁠   Give ’em one cheer more!
Grey gun-’orses in the lando,
⁠   An’ a rogue is married to, etc.

What’s the use o’ tellin’
⁠   ’Arf the lot she’s been?
’E’s a bloomin’ robber.
⁠   An’ ’e keeps canteen.
’Ow did ’e get ’is buggy?
⁠   Gawd, you needn’t ask!
’Made ’is forty gallon
⁠   Out of every cask!

Watch ’im, with ’is ’air cut,
⁠   Count us filin’ by—
Won’t the Colonel praise ’is
⁠   Pop—u—lar—i—ty!
We ’ave scores to settle—
⁠   Scores for more than beer;
She’s the girl to pay ’em—
⁠   That is why we’re ’ere!

See the chaplain thinkin’?
⁠   See the women smile?
Twig the married winkin’
⁠   As they take the aisle?
Keep your side-arms quiet,
⁠   Dressin’ by the Band.
Ho! You ’oly beggars,
   Cough be’ind your ’and!

Now it’s done an’ over,
⁠   ’Ear the organ squeak,
‘’Voice that breathed o’er Eden’—
⁠   Ain’t she got the cheek!
White an’ laylock ribbons,
⁠   Think yourself so fine!
I’d pray Gawd to take yer
⁠   ’Fore I made yer mine!

Escort to the kerridge,
⁠   Wish ’im luck, the brute!
Chuck the slippers after—
⁠   (Pity ’taint a boot!)
Bowin’ like a lady,
⁠   Blushin’ like a lad—
’Oo would say to see ’em
⁠   Both is rotten bad?

Cheer for the Sergeant’s weddin’—
   Give ’em one cheer more!
Grey gun-’orses in the lando,
   An’ a rogue is married to, etc.

Views: 65

After Death
by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
   And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
   Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
   And could not hear him; but I heard him say,
   “Poor child, poor child”: and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
   That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
      Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
      He did not love me living; but once dead
   He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.

Views: 36

Rob Roy’s Grave
by William Wordsworth (1770-2850)

   A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood,
   The English ballad-singer’s joy!
   And Scotland has a thief as good,
   An outlaw of as daring mood;
   She has her brave ROB ROY!
   Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
   And let us chant a passing stave,
   In honour of that Hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart
And wondrous length and strength of arm:
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
   Or keep his friends from harm.

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong;—
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy
   Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was wise as brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things
   He sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob, “What need of books?
Burn all the statutes and their shelves:
They stir us up against our kind;
   And worse, against ourselves.

“We have a passion — make a law,
Too false to guide us or control!
And for the law itself we fight
   In bitterness of soul.

“And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
Distinctions that are plain and few:
These find I graven on my heart:
   That tells me what to do.

“The creatures see of flood and field,
And those that travel on the wind!
With them no strife can last; they live
   In peace, and peace of mind.

“For why? — because the good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
That they should take, who have the power,
   And they should keep who can.

“A lesson that is quickly learned,
A signal this which all can see!
Thus nothing here provokes the strong
   To wanton cruelty.

“All freakishness of mind is checked;
He tamed, who foolishly aspires;
While to the measure of his might
   Each fashions his desires.

“All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall
By strength of prowess or of wit:
’Tis God’s appointment who must sway,
   And who is to submit.

“Since, then, the rule of right is plain,
And longest life is but a day;
To have my ends, maintain my rights,
   I’ll take the shortest way.”

And thus among these rocks he lived,
Through summer heat and winter snow:
The Eagle, he was lord above,
   And Rob was lord below.

So was it — would, at least, have been
But through untowardness of fate;
For Polity was then too strong —
   He came an age too late;

Or shall we say an age too soon?
For, were the bold Man living now,
How might he flourish in his pride,
   With buds on every bough!

Then rents and factors, rights of chase,
Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains,
Would all have seemed but paltry things,
   Not worth a moment’s pains.

Rob Roy had never lingered here,
To these few meagre Vales confined;
But thought how wide the world, the times
   How fairly to his mind!

And to his Sword he would have said,
Do Thou my sovereign will enact
From land to land through half the earth!
   Judge thou of law and fact!

“ ’Tis fit that we should do our part,
Becoming, that mankind should learn
That we are not to be surpassed
   In fatherly concern.

“Of old things all are over old,
Of good things none are good enough: —
We’ll show that we can help to frame
A world of other stuff.

“I, too, will have my kings that take
From me the sign of life and death:
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,
   Obedient to my breath.”

And, if the word had been fulfilled,
As might have been, then, thought of joy!
France would have had her present Boast,
   And we our own Rob Roy!

Oh! say not so; compare them not;
I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all
   Here standing by thy grave.

For Thou, although with some wild thoughts,
Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan!
Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love
The liberty of man.

And, had it been thy lot to live
With us who now behold the light,
Thou would’st have nobly stirred thyself,
   And battled for the Right.

For thou wert still the poor man’s stay,
The poor man’s heart, the poor man’s hand;
And all the oppressed, who wanted strength,
   Had thine at their command.

Bear witness many a pensive sigh
Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays
Alone upon Loch Veol’s heights,
   And by Loch Lomond’s braes!

And, far and near, through vale and hill,
Are faces that attest the same;
The proud heart flashing through the eyes,
   At sound of ROB ROY’S name.

Views: 107