THE OTHER SIDE OF A MIRROR

Mary Elizabeth Coleridge 1861-1907

I sat before my glass one day,

And conjured up a vision bare,

Unlike the aspects glad and gay,

That erst were found reflected there -

The vision of a woman, wild

With more than womanly despair.

Her hair stood back on either side

A face bereft of loveliness.

It had no envy now to hide

What once no man on earth could guess.

It formed the thorny aureole

Of hard, unsanctified distress.

Her lips were open - not a sound

Came though the parted lines of red,

Whate'er it was, the hideous wound

In silence and secret bled.

No sigh relieved her speechless woe,

She had no voice to speak her dread.

And in her lurid eyes there shone

The dying flame of life's desire,

Made mad because its hope was gone,

And kindled at the leaping fire

Of jealousy and fierce revenge,

And strength that could not change nor tire.

Shade of a shadow in the glass,

O set the crystal surface free!

Pass - as the fairer visions pass -

Nor ever more return, to be

The ghost of a distracted hour,

That heard me whisper: - 'I am she!'

-o0o-

THE MOON
Anon

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon:
This way, and that, she peers and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

-o0o-

THE STAR
Jane Taylor 1783–1824

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveller in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

-o0o-

WELCOME HOME
Thomas Hardy

To my native place
Bent upon returning,
Bosom all day burning
To be where my race
Well were known, 'twas much with me
There to dwell in amity.

Folk had sought their beds,
But I hailed: to view me
Under the moon, out to me
Several pushed their heads,
And to each I told my name,
Plans, and that therefrom I came.

"Did you? . . . Ah, 'tis true
I once heard, back a long time,
Here had spent his young time,
Some such man as you . . .
Good-night." The casement closed again,
And I was left in the frosty lane.

-o0o-

ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE

Oscar Hammerstein II  1895-1960

Time and again I've longed for adventure

Something to make my heart beat much faster

What did I long for, I never really knew.

Finding your love, I found my adventure,

Touching your hand my heart beat much faster

All that I want in all of this world is you.

You are the promised kiss of springtime

That makes the lonely winter seem long

You are the breathless hush of evening

That trembles on the brink of a lovely song.

You are the angel glow that lights the star,

The dearest things I know are what you are.

Someday my happy arms will hold you,

And someday I'll know that moment divine

When all the things you are, are mine.

-o0o-

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
Christopher Marlowe 1564-1593

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-

SWEET GARDEN-ORCHARD

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

Sweet Garden-orchard! of all spots that are
The loveliest surely man hath ever found.
Farewell! we leave thee to heaven's peaceful care.
Thee and the cottage which thou dost surround -

Dear Spot! whom we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own -

O happy Garden! loved for hours of sleep,
O quiet Garden! loved for waking hours.
For soft half-slumbers that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers.

-o0o-

THE MARKET GIRL

Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

Nobody took any notice of her
as she stood on the causey kerb,
All eager to sell her honey and apples
and bunches of garden herb;
And if she had offered to give her wares
and herself with them too that day,
I doubt if a soul would have cared
to take a bargain so choice away.

But chancing to trace her sunburnt grace
that morning as I passed nigh,
I went and I said "Poor maidy dear!
--and will none of the people buy?"
And so it began; and soon we knew
what the end of it all must be,
And I found that though no others had bid,
a prize had been won by me.

-o0o-

AE FOND KISS

Robert Burns 1759-96

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him

While the star of hope she leaves him?

Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me,

Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy;

Naething could resist my Nancy;

But to see her was to love her,

Love but her, and love for ever.

Had we never loved sae kindly,

Had we never loved sae blindly,

Never met - or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!

Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!

Thine be ilka joy and treasure,

Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!

Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

ae = one, nae = no, ilka = every, sae = so

-o0o-

THE CAGED BIRD

Maya Angelou b.1928

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

-o0o-

THE OLD MAN’S COMFORTS AND HOW HE GAINED THEM,
Robert Southey 1774-1843

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,
"The few locks which are left you are grey;
You are hale, father William, a hearty old man;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," father William replied,
"I remembered that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,
"And pleasures with youth pass away.
And yet you lament not the days that are gone;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," father William replied,
"I remembered that youth could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,
"And life must be hastening away;
You are cheerful and love to converse upon death;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," father William replied,
"Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remembered my God!
And He hath not forgotten my age."

-o0o-

A BACKWARD SPRING
Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

The trees are afraid to put forth buds,
And there is timidity in the grass;
The plots lie gray where gouged by spuds,
   And whether next week will pass
Free of sly sour winds is the fret of each bush
   Of barberry waiting to bloom.

Yet the snowdrop's face betrays no gloom,
And the primrose pants in its heedless push,
Though the myrtle asks if it's worth the fight
   This year with frost and rime
   To venture one more time
On delicate leaves and buttons of white
From the selfsame bough as at last year's prime,
And never to ruminate on or remember
What happened to it in mid-December.

-o0o-

IN EXTREMIS

 John Updike 1932-2009

I saw my toes the other day.

I hadn't looked at them for months.

Indeed, they might have passed away.

And yet they were my best friends once.

When I was small, I knew them well.

I counted on them up to ten

And put them in my mouth to tell

The larger from the lesser. Then

I loved them better than my ears,

My elbows, adenoids, and heart.

But with the swelling of the years

We drifted, toes and I, apart.

Now, gnarled and pale, each said, j'accuse!

I hid them quickly in my shoes.

-o0o-

DO YOU HEAR THE CHILDREN WEEPING?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61

Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,

And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,

The young birds are chirping in the nest,

The young fawns are playing with the shadows,

The young flowers are blowing toward the west:

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

They are weeping bitterly!

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,

In the country of the free.

“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,

And we cannot run or leap;

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely

To drop down in them and sleep.

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,

We fall upon our faces, trying to go;

And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,

The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.

For, all day, we drag our burden tiring

Through the coal-dark, underground,

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron

In the factories, round and round.

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,

And their look is dread to see,

For they mind you of their angels in high places,

With eyes turned on Deity.

“How long,” they say, “how long, O cruel nation,

Will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart,—

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?

Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,

And your purple shows your path!

But the child’s sob in the silence curses deeper

Than the strong man in his wrath.”

[The above is part of “The Cry of the Children” a poem of 13 verses. It was written at the time "when government investigations had exposed the exploitation of children employed in coal mines and factories."]

-o0o-

LUCY
William Wordsworth 1770-1850

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

-o0o-

"HOPE" IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS
Emily Dickinson 1830-86

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

-o0o-

THE LANDSCAPES OF THE HUDSON RIVER SCHOOL
The new blog begins tomorrow
http://thelandscapesofthehudsonriverschool.blogspot.com

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

THE BATH 

Harry Graham 1874-1936

Broad is the Gate and wide the Path

That leads man to his daily bath;

But ere you spend the shining hour

With plunge and spray, with sluice and show'r -

With all that teaches you to dread

The bath as little as your bed -

Remember, whosoe'er you be,

To shut the door and turn the key!

I had a friend - my friend no more ! -

Who failed to bolt his bath-room door;

A maiden aunt of his, one day,

Walked in, as half-submerged he lay!

She did not notice nephew John,

And turned the boiling water on!

He had no time, nor even scope

To camouflage himself with soap,

But gave a yell and flung aside

The sponge, 'neath which he sought to hide!

It fell to earth I know not where!

He beat his breast in his depair,

And then, like Venus from the foam,

Sprang into view, and made for home!

His aunt fell fainting to the ground!

Alas! They never brought her round!

She died, intestate, in her prime,

The victim of another's crime;

And John can never quite forget

How, by a breach of etiquette,

He lost, at one fell swoop (or plunge)

His aunt, his honour, and his sponge.

-o0o-

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA

Charles Wolfe 1791-1823

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;

By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him,

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone

And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,–

But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone -

But left him alone with his glory.

-o0o-

FROST TONIGHT
Edith Matilda Thomas 1854-1925

Apple-green west and an orange bar,
And the crystal eye of a lone, one star . . .
And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will,
Frost to-night  -  so clear and dead-still."

Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud,
And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd,
The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied, -
The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.

The dahlias I might not touch till to-night!
A gleam of the shears in the fading light,
And I gathered them all, -  the splendid throng,
And in one great sheaf I bore them along.

' ' '
In my garden of Life with its all-late flowers
I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours:
"Frost to-night - so clear and dead-still" . . .
Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.

-o0o-

WHERE THE PICNIC WAS

Thomas Hardy

Where we made the fire,
In the summer time,
Of branch and briar
On the hill to the sea
I slowly climb
Through winter mire,
And scan and trace
The forsaken place
Quite readily.

Now a cold wind blows,
And the grass is grey,
But the spot still shows
As a burnt circle--aye,
And stick-ends, charred,
Still strew the sward
Whereon I stand,
Last relic of the band
Who came that day!

Yes, I am here
Just as last year,
And the sea breathes brine
From its strange straight line
Up hither, the same
As when we four came.
- But two have wandered far
From this grassy rise
Into urban roar
Where no picnics are,
And one--has shut her eyes
For evermore.

-o0o-