Poem of the day

The Blind Boy’s Pranks
by William Thom (1798-1848)

Men grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind,
               Love kentna whaur to stay:
Wi’ fient an arrow, bow, or string—
Wi’ droopin’ heart an’ drizzled wing,
               He faught his lonely way.

“Is there nae mair in Garioch fair
               Ae spotless hame for me?
Hae politics an’ corn an’ kye
Ilk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie!
               I’ll swithe me o’er the sea.”

He launch’d a leaf o’ jessamine,
               On whilk he daur’d to swim,
An’ pillow’d his head on a wee rosebud,
Syne laithfu’, lanely, Love ’gan scud
               Down Ury’s waefu’ stream.

The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near,
               But dowie when he gaed by;
Till lull’d wi’ the sough o’ monie a sang,
He sleepit fu’ soun’ and sail’d alang
               ’Neath Heaven’s gowden sky.

’Twas just whaur creeping Ury greets
               Its mountain cousin Don,
There wander’d forth a weelfaur’d dame,
Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream,
As it flirted an’ play’d with a sunny beam
               That flicker’d its bosom upon.

Love happit his head, I trow, that time
               The jessamine bark drew nigh,
The lassie espied the wee rosebud,
An’ aye her heart gae thud for thud,
               An’ quiet it wadna lie.

“O gin I but had yon wearie wee flower
               That floats on the Ury sae fair!”—
She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf,
But little wist she o’ the pawkie thief
               That was lurkin’ an’ laughin’ there!

Love glower’d when he saw her bonnie dark e’e,
               An’ swore by Heaven’s grace
He ne’er had seen nor thought to see,
Since e’er he left the Paphian lea,
               Sae lovely a dwallin’-place.

Syne first of a’ in her blythesome breast
               He built a bower, I ween;
An’ what did the waefu’ devilick neist?
But kindled a gleam like the rosy east,
               That sparkled frae baith her e’en.

An’ then beneath ilk high e’e-bree
               He placed a quiver there;
His bow? What but her shinin’ brow?
An’ O sic deadly strings he drew
               Frae out her silken hair!

Guid be our guard! Sic deeds waur deen
               Roun’ a’ our countrie then;
An’ monie a hangin’ lug was seen
’Mang farmers fat, an’ lawyers lean,
               An’ herds o’ common men!

Views: 30

Poem of the day

Cargoes
by John Maesfield (1878-1967)

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke-stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

Views: 37

Poem of the day

The Great Breath
by George William Russell (“Æ”) (1867-1935)

Its edges foam’d with amethyst and rose,
Withers once more the old blue flower of day:
There where the ether like a diamond glows,
            Its petals fade away.

A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;
Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;
The great deep thrills–for through it everywhere
            The breath of Beauty blows.

I saw how all the trembling ages past,
Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,
Near’d to the hour when Beauty breathes her last
            And knows herself in death.

Views: 30

Poem of the day

Cashel of Munster
by Samuel Ferguson (1810-1886)

I’d wed you without herds, without money or rich array,
And I’d wed you on a dewy morn at day-dawn gray;
My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away
In Cashel town, tho’ the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day!

O fair maid, remember the green hill-side,
Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide;
Time now has worn me; my locks are turn’d to gray;
The year is scarce and I am poor–but send me not, love, away!

O deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl;
O think not my birth was as the birth of a churl;
Marry me and prove me, and say soon you will
That noble blood is written on my right side still.

My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white;
No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight;
But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare tho’ I be and lone,
O, I’d take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone!

O my girl, I can see ’tis in trouble you are;
And O my girl, I see ’tis your people’s reproach you bear!
–I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,
And, O, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!

Views: 50

Poem of the day

Days I Enjoy
by Vita Sackville-West (1892-1962)

Days I enjoy are days when nothing happens,
When I have no engagements written on my block,
When no one comes to disturb my inward peace,
When no one comes to take me away from myself
And turn me into a patchwork, a jig-saw puzzle,
A broken mirror that once gave a whole reflection,
Being so contrived that it takes too long a time
To get myself back to myself when they have gone.
The years are too strickly measured, and life too short
For me to afford such bits of myself to my friends.
And what have I to give my friends in the last resort?
An awkwardness, a shyness, and a scrap,
No thing that’s truly me, a bootless waste,
A waste of myself and them, for my life is mine
And theirs presumably theirs, and cannot touch.

Views: 50

Poem of the day

Las Lenguas de Diamante
by Juana de Ibarbourou (1892-1979)

Bajo la luna llena, que es una oblea de cobre,
Vagamos taciturnos en un éxtasis vago,
Como sombras delgadas que se deslizan sobre
Las arenas de bronce de la orilla del lago.

Silencio en nuestros labios una rosa ha florido
¡Oh, si a mi amante vencen tentaciones de hablar!,
La corola, deshecha, como un pájaro herido,
Caerá, rompiendo el suave misterio sublunar.

¡Oh dioses, que no hable! ¡Con la venda más fuerte
que tengáis en las manos, su acento sofocad!
¡Y si es preciso, el manto de piedra de la muerte
para formar la venda de su boca, rasgad!

Yo no quiero que hable. Yo no quiero que hable.
Sobre el silencio éste, ¡qué ofensa la palabra!
¡Oh lengua de ceniza! ¡Oh lengua miserable,
No intentes que ahora el sello de mis labios te abra!

Baja la luna-cobre, taciturnos amantes,
Con los ojos gimamos, con los ojos hablemos.
Serán nuestras pupilas dos lenguas de diamantes
Movidas por la magia de diálogos supremos.

Views: 27

Poem of the day

An die Morgenröthe
by Ewald Christian von Kleist (1715-1859)

Aurora fahr herauf auf deinem güldnen Wagen,
Da ich für Lieb und Schmerz nicht schlafen kann!
Wenn Chloe bey mir ruht, dann halt die Zügel an,
Dann Göttin, laß es späte tagen.

Views: 37

Poem of the day

The Best Thing in the World
by Elizabeth Barrett Brtowning (1806-1861)

What’s the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;
Love, when, so, you’re loved again.
What’s the best thing in the world?
–Something out of it, I think.

Views: 52

Poem of the day

The Nightingale: A Conversation Poem
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night! and tho’ the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
“Most musical, most melancholy” Bird!
A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
—But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc’d
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper or neglected love,
(And so, poor Wretch! fill’d all things with himself
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrows) he and such as he
First named these notes a melancholy strain:
And many a poet echoes the conceit;
Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretch’d his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell
By sun or moonlight, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in nature’s immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all nature lovelier, and itself
Be lov’d, like nature!—But ’twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical
Who lose the deep’ning twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains.
My Friend, and my Friend’s Sister! we have learnt
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature’s sweet voices always full of love
And joyance! ’Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful, that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music! And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge
Which the great lord inhabits not: and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many Nightingales: and far and near
In wood and thicket over the wide grove
They answer and provoke each other’s songs—
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug
And one low piping sound more sweet than all—
Stirring the air with such an harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day!

               A most gentle maid
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve,
(Even like a Lady vow’d and dedicate
To something more than nature in the grove)
Glides thro’ the pathways; she knows all their notes,
That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment’s space,
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence: till the Moon
Emerging, hath awaken’d earth and sky
With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept
An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch’d
Many a Nightingale perch giddily
On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song,
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.—That strain again!
Full fain it would delay me!—My dear Babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature’s playmate. He knows well
The evening star: and once when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream)
I hurried with him to our orchard plot,
And he beholds the moon, and hush’d at once
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well—
It is a father’s tale. But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate Joy! Once more farewell,
Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! Farewell.

Views: 47

Poem of the day

Idleness
by Thomas Sturge Moore (1870-1944)

O idleness, too fond of me,
Begone, I know and hate thee!
Nothing canst thou of pleasure see
In one that so doth rate thee;

For empty are both mind and heart
While thou with me dost linger;
More profit would to thee impart
A babe that sucks its finger.

I know thou hast a better way
To spend these hours thou squand’rest;
Some lad toils in the trough to-day
Who groans because thou wand’rest;

A bleating sheep he dowses now
Or wrestles with ram’s terror;
Ah, ’mid the washing’s hubbub, how
His sighs reproach thine error!

He knows and loves thee, Idleness;
For when his sheep are browsing,
His open eyes enchant and bless
A mind divinely drowsing;

No slave to sleep, he wills and sees
From hill-lawns the brown tillage;
Green winding lanes and clumps of trees,
Far town or nearer village,

The sea itself; the fishing feet
Where more, thine idle lovers,
Heark’ning to sea-mews find thee sweet
Like him who hears the plovers.

Begone; those haul their ropes at sea,
These plunge sheep in yon river:
Free, free from toil thy friends, and me
From Idleness deliver!

Views: 40