CHRISTMASTIDE

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

The rain-shafts splintered on me

As despondently I strode;

The twilight gloomed upon me

And bleared the blank high-road.

Each bush gave forth, when blown on

By gusts in shower and shower,

A sigh, as it were sown on

In handfuls by a sower.

A cheerful voice called, nigh me,

“A merry Christmas, friend!”

There rose a figure by me,

Walking with townward trend,

A sodden tramp’s, who, breaking

Into thin song, bore straight

Ahead, direction taking

Toward the Casuals’ gate.

[The Casual Ward was a place of refuge. Often, a queue of homeless people would form outside, waiting to get a bed for the night]

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MINSTRELS
William Wordsworth 1770-1850

The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened? Till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "Merry Christmas" wished to all.

-o0o-

MISTLETOE
Walter de la Mare 1873-1956

Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen - and kissed me there.

-o0o-

A POEM FOR NEW YEAR
Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1850-1919

What can be said in New Year rhymes,

That's not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,

We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,

We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,

We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,

We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of the year.

-o0o-

THE NEXT POET HERE WILL BE ON FRIDAY 9TH JANUARY

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THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  1807-82

The tide rises, the tide falls,

The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;

Along the sea-sands damp and brown

The traveller hastens toward the town,

      And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,

But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;

The little waves, with their soft, white hands,

Efface the footprints in the sands,

      And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;

The day returns, but nevermore

Returns the traveller to the shore,

      And the tide rises, the tide falls.

-o0o-

YE BANKS AND BRAES
Robert Burns 1759-96

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu' o' care!
Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine:
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And fondly sae did I o' mine;
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree!
And my fause luver staw my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

-o0o-

TO A FAT LADY SEEN FROM THE TRAIN
Frances Cornford  1886-1960

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
And shivering sweet to the touch?
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?

-o0o-

THE FAT WHITE WOMAN SPEAKS
G.K.Chesterton  1874-1936

Why do you rush through the field in trains,
Guessing so much and so much?
Why do you flash through the flowery meads,
Fat-head poet that nobody reads;
And why do you know such a frightful lot
About people in gloves as such?
And how the devil can you be sure,
Guessing so much and so much,
How do you know but what someone who loves
Always to see me in nice white gloves
At the end of the field you are rushing by,
Is waiting for his Old Dutch?

-o0o-

THE FAIR SINGER

Andrew Marvell  1621-78

To make a final conquest of all me,

Love did compose so sweet an enemy,

In whom both beauties to my death agree,

Joining themselves in fatal harmony;

That while she with her eyes my heart does bind,

She with her voice might captivate my mind.

I could have fled from one but singly fair:

My disentangled soul itself might save,

Breaking the curled trammels of her hair.

But how should I avoid to be her slave,

Whose subtle art invisibly can wreath

My fetters of the very air I breath?

-o0o-

BAGS OF MEAT

Thomas Hardy  1840-1928

“Here’s a fine bag of meat,” 

   Says the master-auctioneer, 

   As the timid, quivering steer, 

   Starting a couple of feet 

   At the prod of a drover’s stick, 

   And trotting lightly and quick, 

   A ticket stuck on his rump, 

Enters with a bewildered jump. 

   ”Where he’s lived lately, friends, 

   I’d live till lifetime ends: 

   They’ve a whole life everyday 

   Down there in the Vale, have they! 

   He’d be worth the money to kill 

And give away Christmas for goodwill.” 

   ”Now here’s a heifer - worth more 

   Than bid, were she bone-poor; 

   Yet she’s round as a barrel of beer”; 

"She’s a plum," said the second auctioneer. 

"Now this young bull - for thirty pound? 

   Worth that to manure your ground!” 

   ”Or to stand,” chimed the second one, 

   ”And have his picter done!” 

The beast was rapped on the horns and snout 

   To make him turn about. 

"Well," cried a buyer, "another crown - 

Since I’ve dragged here from Taunton Town!” 

   ”That calf, she sucked three cows, 

   Which is not matched for bouse 

   In the nurseries of high life 

By the first-born of a nobleman’s wife!” 

The stick falls, meaning, “A true tale’s told,” 

On the buttock of the creature sold, 

   And the buyer leans over and snips 

His mark on one of the animal’s hips. 

   Each beast, when driven in, 

Looks round at the ring of bidders there 

With a much-amazed reproachful stare, 

   As at unnatural kin, 

For bringing him to a sinister scene 

So strange, unhomelike, hungry, mean; 

His fate the while suspended between 

   A butcher, to kill out of hand, 

   And a farmer, to keep on the land; 

One can fancy a tear runs down his face 

When the butcher wins, and he’s driven from the place.

-o0o-

I KNOW A BANK

from "A Midsummer Night's Dream" spoken by Oberon

William Shakespeare  1564-1616

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

-o0o-

I BENDED UNTO ME A BOUGH

Thomas Edward Brown  1830-97  

I bended unto me a bough of May,

That I might see and smell:

It bore it in a sort of way,

It bore it very well.

But, when I let it backward sway,

Then it were hard to tell

With what a toss, with what a swing,

The dainty thing

Resumed its proper level,

And sent me to the devil.

I know it did - you doubt it?

I turned, and saw them whispering about it. 

-o0o-

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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.

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Now Online
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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-

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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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