THE VISIONARY

Emily Jane Bronte and Charlotte Bronte

Silent is the house,

All are laid asleep,

One alone looks out

O'er the snow wreaths deep.

Watching every cloud,

Dreading every breeze

That whirls the wildering drifts

And bends the groaning trees.

Cheerful is the hearth,

Soft the matted floor,

Not one shivering gust

Creeps through pane and door.

The little lamp burns straight,

Its rays shoot strong and far.

I trim it well to be

The wanderers guiding star,

Frown my haughty sire,

Chide my angry dame,

Set your slaves to spy,

Threaten me with shame.

But neither sire nor dame

Nor prying serf shall know

What angel nightly tracks

That waste of winter snow.

What I love shall come

Like visitant of air,

Safe in secret power

From lurking human snare.

Who loves me no word of mine

Shall e'er betray,

Though for faith unstained

My life must forfeit pay.

Burn then little lamp,

Glimmer straight and clear,

Hush a rusting wind stirs

Methinks the air.

He for whom I wait

Thus ever comes to me,

Strange power! I trust your might,

Trust thou my constancy.

-o0o-

ZUMMER AN' WINTER

William Barnes  1801-86

When I led by zummer streams

The pride o' Lea, as naighbours thought her,

While the zun, wi' evenen beams,

Did cast our sheades athirt the water;

Winds a-blowen,

Streams a-flowen,

Skies a-glowen,

Tokens ov my jay zoo fleeten,

Heightened it, that happy meeten.

Then, when maid an' man took pleaces,

Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances,

Showen in their merry feaces

Kindly smiles an' glisnen glances;

Stars a-winken,

Day a-shrinken,

Sheades a-zinken,

Brought anew the happy meeten,

That did meake the night too fleeten. 

-o0o-

SONG
John  Clare  1793-1864

Soft falls the sweet evening
Bright shines the one star
The night clouds they're leaning
On mountains afar
The moon in dim brightness
The fern in its lightness
Tinge the valley with whiteness
Both near and afar

O soft falls the evening
Around those sweet glens
The hill's shadows leaning
Half over the glen
There meet me my deary
I'm lonely and weary
And nothing can cheer me
So meet me agen

The gate it clap'd slightly
The noise it was small
The footstep fell lightly
And she pass'd the stone wall
And is it my deary
I'm no longer weary
But happy and cheery
For in thee I meet all

-o0o-

WHEN THEY BEGIN THE BEGUINE
Cole Porter  1891-1964

When they begin the beguine,
It brings back the sound of music so tender,
It brings back a night of tropical splendour,
It brings back a memory ever green.

I'm with you once more under the stars
And down by the shore an orchestra's playing
And even the palms seem to be swaying,
When they begin the beguine.

To live it again is past all endeavour
Except when that tune clutches my heart,
And there we are swearing to love forever
And promising never, never to part.

What moments divine, what rapture serene,
Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted
And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,
I know but too well what they mean.

So don't let them begin the beguine,
Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember,
Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember,
When they begin the beguine.

Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play
Till the stars that were there before return above you,
Till you whisper to me once more, darling I love you,
And we suddenly know what heaven we're in,
When they begin the beguine.

-o0o-

Now Online
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. . . and no purpose (yet)
http://apersonalscrapblog.blogspot.com

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IN REFERENCE TO HER CHILDREN

Anne Bradstreet  1612-72

I had eight birds hatched in one nest,

Four cocks there were, and hens the rest.

I nursed them up with pain and care,

Nor cost, nor labour did I spare,

Till at the last they felt their wing,

Mounted the trees, and learned to sing;

Chief of the brood then took his flight

To regions far and left me quite.

My mournful chirps I after send,

Till he return, or I do end:

Leave not thy nest, thy dam and sire,

Fly back and sing amidst this choir.

My second bird did take her flight,

And with her mate flew out of sight;

Southward they both their course did bend,

And seasons twain they there did spend,

Till after blown by southern gales,

They norward steered with filled sails.

A prettier bird was no where seen,

Along the beach among the treen.

I have a third of colour white,

On whom I placed no small delight;

Coupled with mate loving and true,

Hath also bid her dam adieu;

And where Aurora first appears,

She now hath perched to spend her years.

One to the academy flew

To chat among that learned crew;

Ambition moves still in his breast

That he might chant above the rest

Striving for more than to do well,

That nightingales he might excel.

My fifth, whose down is yet scarce gone,

Is 'mongst the shrubs and bushes flown,

And as his wings increase in strength,

On higher boughs he'll perch at length.

My other three still with me nest,

Until they're grown, then as the rest,

Or here or there they'll take their flight,

As is ordained, so shall they light.

If birds could weep, then would my tears

Let others know what are my fears

Lest this my brood some harm should catch,

And be surprised for want of watch,

Whilst pecking corn and void of care,

They fall un'wares in fowler's snare,

Or whilst on trees they sit and sing,

Some untoward boy at them do fling,

Or whilst allured with bell and glass,

The net be spread, and caught, alas.

Or lest by lime-twigs they be foiled,

Or by some greedy hawks be spoiled.

O would my young, ye saw my breast,

And knew what thoughts there sadly rest,

Great was my pain when I you fed,

Long did I keep you soft and warm,

And with my wings kept off all harm,

My cares are more and fears than ever,

My throbs such now as 'fore were never.

Alas, my birds, you wisdom want,

Of perils you are ignorant;

Oft times in grass, on trees, in flight,

Sore accidents on you may light.

O to your safety have an eye,

So happy may you live and die.

Meanwhile my days in tunes I'll spend,

Till my weak lays with me shall end.

In shady woods I'll sit and sing,

And things that past to mind I'll bring.

Once young and pleasant, as are you,

But former toys (no joys) adieu.

My age I will not once lament,

But sing, my time so near is spent.

And from the top bough take my flight

Into a country beyond sight,

Where old ones instantly grow young,

And there with seraphims set song;

No seasons cold, nor storms they see;

But spring lasts to eternity.

When each of you shall in your nest

Among your young ones take your rest,

In chirping language, oft them tell,

You had a dam that loved you well,

That did what could be done for young,

And nursed you up till you were strong,

And 'fore she once would let you fly,

She showed you joy and misery;

Taught what was good, and what was ill,

What would save life, and what would kill.

Thus gone, amongst you I may live,

And dead, yet speak, and counsel give:

Farewell, my birds, farewell adieu,

I happy am, if well with you. 

-o0o-

Born in Northampton in England, Anne Bradstreet was the most prominent of early English poets of North America and first female writer in the British North American colonies to be published.

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THE INCHCAPE ROCK

Robert Southey 1774-1843

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,

The Ship was still as she could be;

Her sails from heaven received no motion, 

Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 

The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock; 

So little they rose, so little they fell, 

They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok 

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; 

On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 

And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell, 

The Mariners heard the warning Bell; 

And then they knew the perilous Rock, 

And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok

The Sun in the heaven was shining gay, 

All things were joyful on that day; 

The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round,

And there was joyaunce in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 

A darker speck on the ocean green; 

Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck, 

And fix’d his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring, 

It made him whistle, it made him sing; 

His heart was mirthful to excess, 

But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape Float; 

Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat, 

And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 

And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row, 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape Float. 

Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound, 

The bubbles rose and burst around; 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the Rock, 

Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.” 

Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away, 

He scour’d the seas for many a day; 

And now grown rich with plunder’d store, 

He steers his course for Scotland’s shore. 

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky, 

They cannot see the sun on high; 

The wind hath blown a gale all day, 

At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand, 

So dark it is they see no land. 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon, 

For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.” 

“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar? 

For methinks we should be near the shore.” 

“Now, where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.” 

They hear no sound, the swell is strong, 

Though the wind hath fallen they drift along; 

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, 

“Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!” 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, 

He curst himself in his despair; 

The waves rush in on every side, 

The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But even in his dying fear, 

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear; 

A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,

The Devil below was ringing his knell.

-o0o-

SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING
Lord Byron, George Gordon

So, we'll go no more a roving
   So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
   And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
   And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
   And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
   And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
   By the light of the moon.

-o0o-

MY PRETTY ROSE TREE
William Blake 1757-1827

A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said, 'I've a pretty rose tree,'
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

-o0o-

BLOG NEWS
CONFUCIUS - HE SAY comes to an end on Sunday.
It is being replaced by CONFUCIUS THE MASTER which beginning on Monday at -
http://confuciusthemaster.blogspot.com

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A WINTER NIGHT

Sara Teasdale 1884-1933

My window-pane is starred with frost,

The world is bitter cold to-night,

The moon is cruel, and the wind

Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones,

The beggars pacing to and fro,

God pity all the poor to-night

Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

My room is like a bit of June,

Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,

But somewhere, like a homeless child,

My heart is crying in the cold. 

-o0o-

THE DARKLING THRUSH

Thomas Hardy  1840-1928

I leant upon a coppice gate

      When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

      The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

      Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

      Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be

      The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

      The wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

      Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

      Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among

      The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

      Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

      In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

      Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings

      Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

      Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

      His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

      And I was unaware.

-o0o-

From "The Merchant of Venice" Act 4 Scene 1

William Shakespeare  1564-1616

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this,

That, in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much

To mitigate the justice of thy plea;

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

-o0o-

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER
Thomas Moore  1779-1852

 'Tis the last rose of summer,
            Left blooming alone ;
      All her lovely companions
            Are faded and gone ;
      No flower of her kindred,
            No rose-bud is nigh,
      To reflect back her blushes,
            Or give sigh for sigh.

      I'll not leave thee, thou lone one !
            To pine on the stem ;
      Since the lovely are sleeping,
            Go sleep thou with them.
      Thus kindly I scatter
            Thy leaves o'er the bed,
      Where thy mates of the garden
            Lie scentless and dead.

      So soon may I follow,
            When friendships decay,
      And from Love's shining circle
            The gems drop away.
      When true hearts lie wither'd,
            And fond ones are flown,
      Oh ! who would inhabit
            This bleak world alone ?

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Four Poems by THOMAS HOOD  1789-1845

-o0o-

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 

I remember, I remember 

The house where I was born, 

The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn; 

He never came a wink too soon 

Nor brought too long a day; 

But now, I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember 

The roses red and white, 

The violets and the lily cups -

Those flowers made of light! 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 

The laburnum on his birthday,

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 

My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now, 

The summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky: 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy.

-o0o-

NO!

No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--
No "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--

No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!

No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

-o0o-

SILENCE

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave - under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d - no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan -
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

-o0o-

FLOWERS

I will not have the mad Clytie*,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of everyone.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand
The wolfsbane I should dread; -
Nor will I dreary rosemary
That always mourns the dead; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me -
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with blush,
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom's betrothed to the bee; -
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.

*In Greek mythology Clytie was a nymph was who was turned into a sunflower.

-o0o-

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A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

Edgar Allan Poe 1809-49

Take this kiss upon the brow!

          And, in parting from you now,

          Thus much let me avow -

          You are not wrong, who deem

          That my days have been a dream;

          Yet if hope has flown away

          In a night, or in a day,

          In a vision, or in none,

          Is it therefore the less gone?

          All that we see or seem

          Is but a dream within a dream.

          I stand amid the roar

          Of a surf-tormented shore,

          And I hold within my hand

          Grains of the golden sand -

          How few! Yet how they creep

          Through my fingers to the deep,

          While I weep - while I weep!

          O God! Can I not grasp

          Them with a tighter clasp?

          O God! Can I not save

          One from the pitiless wave?

          Is all that we see or seem

          But a dream within a dream?

-o0o-

INTERLUDE

Amy Lowell  1874-1925

When I have baked white cakes

And grated green almonds to spread upon them;

When I have picked the green crowns from the strawberries

And piled them, cone-pointed, in a blue and yellow platter;

When I have smoothed the seam of the linen I have been working;

What then?

To-morrow it will be the same:

Cakes and strawberries,

And needles in and out of cloth.

If the sun is beautiful on bricks and pewter,

How much more beautiful is the moon,

Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree;

The moon,

Wavering across a bed of tulips;

The moon,

Still,

Upon your face.

You shine, Beloved,

You and the moon.

But which is the reflection?

The clock is striking eleven.

I think, when we have shut and barred the door,

The night will be dark

Outside.

-o0o-

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

John Keats  1795-1821

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

So haggard and so woe-begone,

The squirrel's granary is full

And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever dew,

And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful, a faery's child:

Her hair was long, her foot was ligh,

And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long;

For sideways would she lean, and sing

A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew,

And sure in language strange she said,

"I love thee true!"

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she gazed and sighed deep,

And there I shut her wild, sad eyes -

So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,

And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide,

The latest dream I ever dreamed

On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

Who cried - "La belle Dame sans merci

Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill side.

And that is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing. 

-o0o-

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802
William Wordsworth  1770-1850

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

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UNDER A SPREADING CHESTNUT TREE

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

-o0o-

Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

-o0o-

MINSTREL MAN

Langston Hughes 1902-67

Because my mouth

Is wide with laughter

And my throat

Is deep with song,

You do not think

I suffer after

I have held my pain

So long?

Because my mouth

Is wide with laughter,

You do not hear

My inner cry?

Because my feet

Are gay with dancing,

You do not know

I die?

-o0o-

Untitled

Rabindranath Tagore 1861-1941

I want to give you something, my child,

for we are drifting in the stream of the world.

Our lives will be carried apart,

and our love forgotten.

But I am not so foolish as to hope that

I could buy your heart with my gifts.

Young is your life, your path long, and

you drink the love we bring you at one draught

and turn and run away from us.

You have your play and your playmates.

What harm is there if you have no time

or thought for us.

We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age

to count the days that are past,

to cherish in our hearts what our

hands have lost for ever.

The river runs swift with a song,

breaking through all barriers.

But the mountain stays and remembers,

and follows her with his love.

-o0o-

HAPPY THE MAN

John Dryden 1631-1700

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call today his own;

He who, secure within, can say,

Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul or rain or shine

The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

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