THE THRUSH'S NEST

John Clare 1793-1864

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush

That overhung a mole-hill large and round,

I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush 

Sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the sound

With joy; and, often an intruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day - 

How true she warped the moss to form a nest,

And modelled it from within with wood and clay;

And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,

There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,

Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;

And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,

A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,

Glad as that sunshine and the laughing sky.

-o0o-

THE SOLITARY REAPER

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

-o0o-

THE LONG WHITE SEAM

Jean Ingelow 1820–97

As I came round the harbour buoy,

  The lights began to gleam,

No wave the land-lock’d water stirr’d,

  The crags were white as cream;

And I mark’d my love by candle-light         

  Sewing her long white seam.

    It ’s aye sewing ashore, my dear,

      Watch and steer at sea,

    It ’s reef and furl, and haul the line,

      Set sail and think of thee.         

I climb’d to reach her cottage door;

  O sweetly my love sings!

Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,

  My soul to meet it springs

As the shining water leap’d of old,         

  When stirr’d by angel wings.

    Aye longing to list anew,

      Awake and in my dream,

    But never a song she sang like this,

      Sewing her long white seam.         

Fair fall the lights, the harbour lights,

  That brought me in to thee,

And peace drop down on that low roof

  For the sight that I did see,

And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear         

  All for the love of me.

    For O, for O, with brows bent low

      By the candle’s flickering gleam,

    Her wedding gown it was she wrought,

      Sewing the long white seam.

           -o0o-      

THE THOMAS HARDY POEM

She Charged Me

She charged me with having said this and that

To another woman long years before,

In the very parlour where we sat, -

Sat on a night when the endless pour

Of rain on the roof and the road below

Bent the spring of the spirit more and more . . .

- So charged she me; and the Cupid's bow

Of her mouth was hard, and her eyes, and her face,

And her white forefinger lifted slow.

Had she done it gently, or shown a trace

That not too curiously would she view

A folly passed ere her reign had place,

A kiss might have ended it. But I knew

From the fall of each word, and the pause between,

That the curtain would drop upon us two

Ere long, in our play of slave and queen.

-o=0=o-

A very big selection of Thomas Hardy poems can be found at
THOMAS HARDY
http://casterbridge.blogspot.com

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FIVE SHORT POEMS BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 1830-94

HOPE IS LIKE A HAREBELL

Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth,

Love is like a rose the joy of all the earth;

Faith is like a lily lifted high and white,

Love is like a lovely rose the world's delight;

Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth,

But the rose with all its thorns excels them both.

-o0o-

WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?

Who has seen the wind?

Neither I nor you.

But when the leaves hang trembling,

The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I.

But when the trees bow down their heads,

The wind is passing by.

-o0o-

A BIRTHDAY

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a watered shoot;

My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these,

Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a daïs of silk and down;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;

Because the birthday of my life

Is come, my love is come to me. 

-o0o-

A LINNET

A linnet in a gilded cage,

A linnet on a bough,

In frosty winter one might doubt

Which bird is luckier now.

But let the trees burst out in leaf,

And nests be on the bough,

Which linnet is the luckier bird,

Oh, who could doubt it now?

-o0o-

UP-HILL

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.

-o0o-

Finally the THOMAS HARDY poem

The Wound

I climbed to the crest,
   And, fog-festooned,
The sun lay west
   Like a crimson wound:

Like that wound of mine
   Of which none knew,
For I'd given no sign
   That it pierced me through.

-o0o-

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The new blog

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-o0o-

THE THOUSANDTH MAN
Rudyard Kipling  1865-1936

0ne man in a thousand, Solomon says.
Will stick more close than a brother.
And it's worth while seeking him half your days
If you find him before the other.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend
On what the world sees in you,
But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend
With the whole round world agin you.

'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show
Will settle the finding for 'ee.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.

But if he finds you and you find him,
The rest of the world don't matter;
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more talk
Than he uses yours for his spendings,
And laugh and meet in your daily walk
As though there had been no lendings.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call
For silver and gold in their dealings;
But the Thousandth Man he's worth 'em all
Because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,
In season or out of season.
Stand up and back it in all men's sight
With that for your only reason!

Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide
The shame or mocking or laughter,
But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot - and after!

-o0o-

THE HARDSHIP OF ACCOUNTING
Robert Frost  1874-1963

Never ask of money spent
Where the spender thinks it went.
Nobody was ever meant
To remember or invent
What he did with every cent.

-o0o-

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
Robert Herrick  1591-1674

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
  Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
  To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,        
  The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
  And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
  When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
  Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
  And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
  You may for ever tarry.

-o0o-

THE THOMAS HARDY POEM
Lament

How she would have loved
A party to-day! -
Bright-hatted and gloved,
With table and tray
And chairs on the lawn
Her smiles would have shone
With welcomings . . . But
She is shut, she is shut
From friendship's spell
In the jailing shell
Of her tiny cell.

Or she would have reigned
At a dinner to-night
With ardours unfeigned,
And a generous delight;
All in her abode
She'd have freely bestowed
On her guests . . . But alas,
She is shut under grass
Where no cups flow,
Powerless to know
That it might be so.

And she would have sought
With a child's eager glance
The shy snowdrops brought
By the new year's advance,
And peered in the rime
Of Candlemas-time
For crocuses . . . chanced
It that she were not tranced
From sights she loved best;
Wholly possessed
By an infinite rest!

And we are here staying
Amid these stale things
Who care not for gaying,
And those junketings
That used so to joy her,
And never to cloy her
As us they cloy! . . . But
She is shut, she is shut
From the cheer of them, dead
To all done and said
In a yew-arched bed.

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

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-o0o-

THE ECHOING GREEN
William Blake 1757-1827

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the spring.
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells’ cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing green.

Old John with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say:
‘Such, such were the joys
When we all, girls and boys,
In our youth-time were seen
On the echoing green.’

Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry;
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mother
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen
On the darkening green.

-o0o-

TO THE CUCKOO
William Wordsworth 1770-1850

O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!

-o0o-

IF I CAN STOP ONE HEART FROM BREAKING
Emily Dickinson 1830-86

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

-o0o-

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ADLESTROP

Edward Thomas 1878-1917

Yes. I remember Adlestrop—

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express-train drew up there

Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform. What I saw

Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

-o0o-

A WISH

Samuel Rogers 1763-1855

Mine be a cot beside the hill,

A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear;

A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing

In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees,

Where first our marriage-vows were giv'n,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze,

And point with taper spire to heav'n.

-o0o-

TO CELIA

Ben Johnson 1572-1637

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

         And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

         And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

         Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,

         I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

         Not so much honouring thee

As giving it a hope, that there

         It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

         And sent’st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

         Not of itself, but thee.

-o0o-

THE THOMAS HARDY POEM

John and Jane

I

He sees the world as a boisterous place

Where all things bear a laughing face,

And humorous scenes go hourly on,

Does John.

II

They find the world a pleasant place

Where all is ecstasy and grace,

Where a light has risen that cannot wane,

Do John and Jane.

III

They see as a palace their cottage-place,

Containing a pearl of the human race,

A hero, maybe, hereafter styled,

Do John and Jane with a baby-child.

IV

They rate the world as a gruesome place,

Where fair looks fade to a skull's grimace, -

As a pilgrimage they would fain get done -

Do John and Jane with their worthless son.

John and Jane

-o0o-

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IN A BATH TEASHOP

John Betjeman 1906-84

"Let us not speak, for the love we bear one another - 

Let us hold hands and look."

She such a very ordinary little woman;

He such a thumping crook;

But both, for a moment, little lower than the angels

In the teashop's ingle-nook.

-o0o-

THE LAST LAUGH

John Betjeman 1906-84

I made hay while the sun shone.

My work sold.

Now, if the harvest is over

And the world cold,

Give me the bonus of laughter

As I lose hold.

-o0o-

DARK LOCHNAGAR
George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove,
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war,
Though cataracts foam ‘stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander’d,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid.
On chieftains long perish’d my memory ponder’d
As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade.
I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star,
For fancy was cheer’d by traditional story
Disclos’d by the natives of dark Lochnagar!

Shades of the dead! Have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o’er his own Highland vale.
Round Lochnagar while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car.
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Lochnagar.

-o0o-

THE THOMAS HARDY POEM

A Wife in London
December 1899

I
She sits in the tawny vapour
That the Thames-side lanes have uprolled,
Behind whose webby fold-on-fold
Like a waning taper
The street-lamp glimmers cold.

A messenger's knock cracks smartly,
Flashed news in her hand
Of meaning it dazes to understand
Though shaped so shortly:
He - he has fallen - in the far South Land . . .

II
'Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker,
The postman nears and goes:
A letter is brought whose lines disclose
By the firelight flicker
His hand, whom the worm now knows:

Fresh - firm - penned in highest feather -
Page-full of his hoped return,
And of home-planned jaunts of brake and burn
In the summer weather,
And of new love that they would learn.

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YOUNG AND OLD

Charles Kingsley 1819-75

When all the world is young, lad,

  And all the trees are green,

And every goose a swan, lad,

  And every lass a queen,

Then hey for boot and horse, lad,

  And round the world away;

Young blood must have its course, lad,

  And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,

  And all the trees are brown;

And all the sport is stale, lad,

  And all the wheels run down,

Creep home, and take your place there,

  The spent and maimed among:

God grant you find one face there

  You loved when all was young.

-o0o-

LIFE

Daisaku Ikeda  b.1928

I will cast out

All the vagueness and indecision within me

Because my wish is to construct

The castle of my whole life

On the fulfilment of each promise that I make.

I want to live my life

As a surpassingly broadminded man

Known for being happy and honest

A person in whom people can have absolute trust.

I've put behind me

The age of dreaming about a rosy future

And with roots extended into life's reality

I realise that the power to create happiness

Derives from what we actually do today. 

-o0o-

ALL IN THE DOWNS

Thomas Hood (The Younger) 1835-74

I would I had something to do - or to think!

Or something to read, or to write!

I am rapidly verging on Lunacy’s brink,

Or I shall be dead before night.

In my ears has been ringing and droning all day,

Without ever a stop or a change,

That poem of Tennyson’s - heart-cheering lay! -

Of the Moated Monotonous Grange!

The stripes in the carpet and paper alike

I have counted, and counted all through.

And now I’ve a fervid ambition to strike

Out some path of wild pleasure that’s new.

They say if a number you count, and re-count,

That the time imperceptibly goes: -

Ah, I wish - how I wish! - I’d ne’er learnt the amount

Of my aggregate fingers and toes.

“Enjoyment is fleeting,” the proverbs all say,

“Even that, which it feeds upon, fails.”

I’ve arrived at the truth of the saying today,

By devouring the whole of my nails.

I have numbered the minutes, so heavy and slow,

Till of that dissipation I tire.

And as for exciting amusements - you know

One can’t ALWAYS be stirring the fire!

-o0o-

THE THOMAS HARDY POEM

A Broken Appointment

You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.

You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
-I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
You love not me.

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