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Posts
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@toybulldog wrote:
Sharon, sometimes I wonder if you’re really taking it seriously
” red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,
meat and potatoes…….. Shepherd’s Pie ! “
( w i n k )
:lol: :wink:
I HAD A GUINEA GOLDEN
by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
HAD a guinea golden;
I lost it in the sand,
And though the sum was simple,
And pounds were in the land,
Still had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye,
That when I could not find it
I sat me down to sigh.I had a crimson robin
Who sang full many a day,
But when the woods were painted
He, too, did fly away.
Time brought me other robins,–
Their ballads were the same,–
Still for my missing troubadour
I kept the “house at hame.”I had a star in heaven;
One Pleiad was its name,
And when I was not heeding
It wandered from the same.
And though the skies are crowded,
And all the night ashine,
I do not care about it,
Since none of them are mine.My story has a moral:
I have a missing friend,–
Pleiad its name, and robin,
And guinea in the sand,–
And when this mournful ditty,
Accompanied with tear,
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here,
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize upon his mind,
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.Emily Dickinson
God made a little gentian;
It tried to be a rose
And failed, and all the summer laughed.
But just before the snows
There came a purple creature
That ravished all the hill;
And summer hid her forehead,
And mockery was still.
The frosts were her condition;
The Tyrian would not come
Until the North evoked it.
“Creator! shall I bloom?”Emily Dickinson
Two butterflies went out at noon
And waltzed above a stream,
Then stepped straight through the firmament
And rested on a beam;And then together bore away
Upon a shining sea,–
Though never yet, in any port
Their coming mentioned be.If spoken by the distant bird,
If met in ether sea
By frigate or by merchantman,
Report was not to me.I eat my peas with honey
Ive done it all my life
It makes the peas taste funny
But it keeps them on the knifeEvening Solace
by Charlotte BrontëThe human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart’s best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly backa faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others’ sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.As relevant now, as then..
The March of the Dead
by Robert W. ServiceThe cruel war was over — oh, the triumph was so sweet!
We watched the troops returning, through our tears;
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,
And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers.
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between;
The bells were pealing madly to the sky;
And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen,
And the glory of an age was passing by.And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear;
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred.
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer;
We waited, and we never spoke a word.
The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread:
“Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black;
They are coming — it’s the Army of the Dead.”They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow;
They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride;
With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe,
And clotted holes the khaki couldn’t hide.
Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips!
The reeling ranks of ruin swept along!
The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips!
And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song!“They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn’t stop
On this, our England’s crowning festal day;
We’re the men of Magersfontein, we’re the men of Spion Kop,
Colenso — we’re the men who had to pay.
We’re the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain?
You owe us. Long and heavy is the score.
Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain,
And cheer us as ye never cheered before.”The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead;
Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice;
And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead,
The pity of the men who paid the price.
They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace;
Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam;
They were coming in their thousands — oh, would they never cease!
I closed my eyes, and then — it was a dream.There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street;
The town was mad; a man was like a boy.
A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet;
A thousand bells were thundering the joy.
There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret;
And while we stun with cheers our homing braves,
O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget
The graves they left behind, the bitter graves.
” In the spring of the year, vast numbers of emigrants who have newly
arrived from England or from Ireland, pass between Quebec and
Montreal on their way to the backwoods and new settlements of
Canada. If it be an entertaining lounge (as I very often found it)
to take a morning stroll upon the quay at Montreal, and see them
grouped in hundreds on the public wharfs about their chests and
boxes, it is matter of deep interest to be their fellow-passenger
on one of these steamboats, and mingling with the concourse, see
and hear them unobserved.The vessel in which we returned from Quebec to Montreal was crowded
with them, and at night they spread their beds between decks (those
who had beds, at least), and slept so close and thick about our
cabin door, that the passage to and fro was quite blocked up. They
were nearly all English; from Gloucestershire the greater part; and
had had a long winter-passage out; but it was wonderful to see how
clean the children had been kept, and how untiring in their love
and self-denial all the poor parents were.Cant as we may, and as we shall to the end of all things, it is
very much harder for the poor to be virtuous than it is for the
rich; and the good that is in them, shines the brighter for it. In
many a noble mansion lives a man, the best of husbands and of
fathers, whose private worth in both capacities is justly lauded to
the skies. But bring him here, upon this crowded deck. Strip from
his fair young wife her silken dress and jewels, unbind her braided
hair, stamp early wrinkles on her brow, pinch her pale cheek with
care and much privation, array her faded form in coarsely patched
attire, let there be nothing but his love to set her forth or deck
her out, and you shall put it to the proof indeed. So change his
station in the world, that he shall see in those young things who
climb about his knee: not records of his wealth and name: but
little wrestlers with him for his daily bread; so many poachers on
his scanty meal; so many units to divide his every sum of comfort,
and farther to reduce its small amount. In lieu of the endearments
of childhood in its sweetest aspect, heap upon him all its pains
and wants, its sicknesses and ills, its fretfulness, caprice, and
querulous endurance: let its prattle be, not of engaging infant
fancies, but of cold, and thirst, and hunger: and if his fatherly
affection outlive all this, and he be patient, watchful, tender;
careful of his children’s lives, and mindful always of their joys
and sorrows; then send him back to Parliament, and Pulpit, and to
Quarter Sessions, and when he hears fine talk of the depravity of
those who live from hand to mouth, and labour hard to do it, let
him speak up, as one who knows, and tell those holders forth that
they, by parallel with such a class, should be High Angels in their
daily lives, and lay but humble siege to Heaven at last.Which of us shall say what he would be, if such realities, with
small relief or change all through his days, were his! Looking
round upon these people: far from home, houseless, indigent,
wandering, weary with travel and hard living: and seeing how
patiently they nursed and tended their young children: how they
consulted ever their wants first, then half supplied their own;
what gentle ministers of hope and faith the women were; how the men
profited by their example; and how very, very seldom even a
moment’s petulance or harsh complaint broke out among them: I felt
a stronger love and honour of my kind come glowing on my heart, and
wished to God there had been many Atheists in the better part of
human nature there, to read this simple lesson in the book of Life “.American Notes
(extract from chapter XV)Charles Dickens
@toybulldog wrote:
” In the spring of the year, vast numbers of emigrants who have newly
arrived from England or from Ireland, pass between Quebec and
Montreal on their way to the backwoods and new settlements of
Canada. If it be an entertaining lounge (as I very often found it)
to take a morning stroll upon the quay at Montreal, and see them
grouped in hundreds on the public wharfs about their chests and
boxes, it is matter of deep interest to be their fellow-passenger
on one of these steamboats, and mingling with the concourse, see
and hear them unobserved.The vessel in which we returned from Quebec to Montreal was crowded
with them, and at night they spread their beds between decks (those
who had beds, at least), and slept so close and thick about our
cabin door, that the passage to and fro was quite blocked up. They
were nearly all English; from Gloucestershire the greater part; and
had had a long winter-passage out; but it was wonderful to see how
clean the children had been kept, and how untiring in their love
and self-denial all the poor parents were.Cant as we may, and as we shall to the end of all things, it is
very much harder for the poor to be virtuous than it is for the
rich; and the good that is in them, shines the brighter for it. In
many a noble mansion lives a man, the best of husbands and of
fathers, whose private worth in both capacities is justly lauded to
the skies. But bring him here, upon this crowded deck. Strip from
his fair young wife her silken dress and jewels, unbind her braided
hair, stamp early wrinkles on her brow, pinch her pale cheek with
care and much privation, array her faded form in coarsely patched
attire, let there be nothing but his love to set her forth or deck
her out, and you shall put it to the proof indeed. So change his
station in the world, that he shall see in those young things who
climb about his knee: not records of his wealth and name: but
little wrestlers with him for his daily bread; so many poachers on
his scanty meal; so many units to divide his every sum of comfort,
and farther to reduce its small amount. In lieu of the endearments
of childhood in its sweetest aspect, heap upon him all its pains
and wants, its sicknesses and ills, its fretfulness, caprice, and
querulous endurance: let its prattle be, not of engaging infant
fancies, but of cold, and thirst, and hunger: and if his fatherly
affection outlive all this, and he be patient, watchful, tender;
careful of his children’s lives, and mindful always of their joys
and sorrows; then send him back to Parliament, and Pulpit, and to
Quarter Sessions, and when he hears fine talk of the depravity of
those who live from hand to mouth, and labour hard to do it, let
him speak up, as one who knows, and tell those holders forth that
they, by parallel with such a class, should be High Angels in their
daily lives, and lay but humble siege to Heaven at last.Which of us shall say what he would be, if such realities, with
small relief or change all through his days, were his! Looking
round upon these people: far from home, houseless, indigent,
wandering, weary with travel and hard living: and seeing how
patiently they nursed and tended their young children: how they
consulted ever their wants first, then half supplied their own;
what gentle ministers of hope and faith the women were; how the men
profited by their example; and how very, very seldom even a
moment’s petulance or harsh complaint broke out among them: I felt
a stronger love and honour of my kind come glowing on my heart, and
wished to God there had been many Atheists in the better part of
human nature there, to read this simple lesson in the book of Life “.American Notes
(extract from chapter XV)Charles Dickens
As ever, a brilliant post and a perfect piece of writing for a Sunny Saturday Morning.
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
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