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Beast Of Codden Moor
fear rides the beast of codden moor
the men are hunting the beast of
codden moor
it run, s as fast as legs will carry
it, s breath steam, s on air so crisp
it, s heart beats a tempo of it, s own
faster faster faster faster faster
you beast of codden moor
but men ride horse, s fast as wind
to catch a beast on codden moor
that falls and tumbles through the snow
upon codden moor
it raises a head of strengh and beauty
a horn of bone lies within the head
of a beast of codden moor
death comes quick as spears stab down
as swords swish as they find virgin flesh
on this beast of codden moor
poem by Graham Russell
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The Moor has done his duty, the Moor may go.
The Day’s Luxury
You came from the heath and moor,
Bringing their aromas through my open door;
They used to see each other, the heath and moor,
When school broke up, when there were no girls left.
I spoke to you about the luxury of a day
Which carried a snuggling bear, a teddy bear,
Impossible to play with all day long,
In a house of forest and fields.
I saw you wait as if spell-bound,
An unbelieving little boy,
Who cherished the land of virtues
And the acres of friendship.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Desolate
From the sad eaves the drip-drop of the rain!
The water washing at the latchel door;
A slow step plashing by upon the moor;
A single bleat far from the famished fold;
The clicking of an embered hearth and cold;
The rainy Robin tic-tac at the pane.
'So as it is with thee
Is it with me,
So as it is and it used not to be,
With thee used not to be,
Nor me.'
So singeth Robin on the willow tree,
The rainy robin tic-tac at the pane.
Here in this breast all day
The fire is dim and low,
Within I care not to stay,
Without I care not to go.
A sadness ever sings
Of unforgotten things,
And the bird of love is patting at the pane;
But the wintry water deepens at the door,
And a step is plashing by upon the moor
Into the dark upon the darkening moor,
And alas, alas, the drip-drop of the rain!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Suffer Little Children
Over the moor, take me to the moor
Dig a shallow grave
And i'll lay me down
Over the moor, take me to the moor
Dig a shallow grave
And i'll lay me down
Lesley-anne, with your pretty white beads
Oh john, you'll never be a man
You'll never see your home again
Oh manchester, so much to answer for
Edward, see those alluring lights ?
Tonight will be your very last night
A woman said : "i know my son is dead
I'll never rest my hands on his sacred head"
Hindley wakes and hindley says :
Hindley wakes, hindley wakes, hindley wakes, and says :
"oh, wherever he has gone, i have gone"
But fresh lilaced moorland fields
Cannot hide the stolid stench of death
But fresh lilaced moorland fields
Cannot hide the stolid stench of death
Hindley wakes and says :
Hindley wakes, hindley wakes, hindley wakes, and says :
"oh, whatever he has done, i have done"
But this is no easy ride
For a child cries :
"find me ... find me, nothing more
We are on a sullen misty moor
We may be dead and we may be gone
But we will be, we will be, we will be, right by your side
Until the day you die
This is no easy ride
We will haunt you when you laugh
Yes, you could say we're a team
You might sleep
You might sleep
You might sleep
But you will never dream !
Oh, you might sleep
But you will never dream !
You might sleep
But you will never dream !
Oh manchester, so much to answer for
Oh manchester, so much to answer for
Oh, find me, find me !
Find me !
I'll haunt you when you laugh
Oh, i'll haunt you when you laugh
You might sleep
But you will ...
Oh ...
Over the moors, i'm on the moors
Oh, over the moors
Oh, the child is on the moors
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Enemy Of Thyself
United we stand. Divided we fall.
This is how they've conquered us all.
Black from white
Rich from poor
Christian from Jew
Gentile from Moor.
Oh they are clever in so many ways.
And we acquiesce through all of our days.
Waiting for a Savior to help us now
Surely He's coming pretty soon somehow.
But what if He doesn't?
Tell me, what then?
Will it be left in
the hands of men?
God help us all if that is the case
for as we look into each other's face
We see
Black and white
Rich and poor
Christian and Jew
Gentile and Moor
and therein lies the disgrace.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Bronte Legend
They say she was a creature of the moor,
A lover of the angels, silence bound.
She sought no friendships. She was too remote,
Her sister Charlotte found.
I know she nursed her brother till he died,
Although she didn't like him; that she had
Housework and all the ironing to do,
Because her maids were bad.
And in the midst of it she wrote a book.
There could have been small leisure for the moor
Or wandering! She used to mend and sew,
The family was so poor.
Her brother died. But she died just as soon
As she had nursed dear Charlotte through the shock
Of Patrick's death. Contemplative? Well, well!
No Simeon of the Rock!
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Irish Air
Over the Wicklow mountains,
Where the air is pure as can be.
Over the hills and moor lands,
The waterfalls to see.
Spectacular the waters fall
Between the crevices deep,
To splash on rocks and boulders,
Down the mighty mountains steep.
The peat bogs on the moor land,
For fires to warm are toiled.
The men and women working.
Their clothes and hands are soiled.
But ‘tis worth the toil and strife
To see the Wicklow mountains dear.
To know the joy of being in Erin,
Where the air is crisp and clear.
You can keep your city factories,
And your office blocks so tall.
For to live and work in Ireland,
Is to know you have it all.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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Hope The Hornblower
'Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;
Sluggards, awake, and front the morn!
Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;
The sun's on meadow and mill.
Follow me, hearts that love the chase;
Follow me, feet that keep the pace:
Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride,
We ride by moor and hill.'
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away?
What is the quarry afoot to-day?
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away,
And what the game ye kill?
Is it the deer, that men may dine?
Is it the wolf that tears the kine?
What is the race ye ride, ye ride,
Ye ride by moor and hill?
'Ask not yet till the day be dead
What is the game that's forward fled,
Ask not yet till the day be dead
The game we follow still.
An echo it may be, floating past;
A shadow it may be, fading fast:
Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride,
We ride by moor and hill'
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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At the Moor
At the Moor
Wanderer in the blackened wind. Dry reeds whisper
in the stillness of the moor. A column of savage birds
ensues in the dawning sky.
Over murky waters they cross.
Uproar. From the crumbling shack
the black wings of rot flutter up.
Crippled birches sigh in the wind.
Evening in the forsaken tavern. The way home is shrouded
by the tender sadness of the grazing herd.
Night becomes manifest: toads emerge from the silver water.
Translated by Eric Plattner & Joseph Suglia
……………………………………………………………………
Am Moor
Wanderer im schwarzen Wind; leise flüstert das dürre Rohr
In der Stille des Moors. Am grauen Himmel
Ein Zug von wilden Vögeln folgt;
Quere über finsteren Wassern.
Aufruhr. In verfallener Hütte
Aufflattert mit schwarzen Flügeln die Fäulnis;
Verkrüppelte Birken seufzen im Wind.
Abend in verlassener Schenke. Den Heimweg umwittert
Die sanfte Schwermut grasender Herden,
Erscheinung der Nacht: Kröten tauchen aus silbernen Wassern.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Seeing off Du Shisi South of the River
Jingzhou Dongwu mutual meet water for place
You go spring river now wide
Sunset travel sail where moor
End of sky one look break person heart
Jingzhou and Dongwu are both on the water,
You travel down the river in spring, now the level is high.
A sail is underway at sunset, what place will it moor?
Looking to the end of the sky can break a man's heart.
poem by Meng Haoran
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It is a bare Moor that he goes over, and gets not a Cow.
We should not moor a ship with one anchor, or our life with one hope.
quote by Epictetus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Shell
O little, whisp'ring, murm'ring shell, say cans't thou tell to me
Good news of any stately ship that sails upon the sea?
I press my ear, O little shell, against thy rosy lips;
Cans't tell me tales of those who go down to the sea in ships?
What, not a word? Ah hearken, shell, I've shut the cottage door;
There's scarce a sound to drown thy voice, so silent is the moor,
A bell may tinkle far away upon its purple rise;
A bee may buz among the heath--a lavrock cleave the skies.
But if you only breathe the name I name upon my knees,
Ah, surely I should catch the word above such sounds as these.
And Grannie's needles click no more, the ball of yarn is done,
And she's asleep outside the door where shines the merry sun.
One night while Grannie slept, I dreamed he came across the moor,
And stood, so handsome, brown and tall, beside the open door:
I thought I turned to pick a rose that by the sill had blown,
(He liked a rose) and when I looked, O shell, I was alone!
Across the moor there dwells a wife; she spaed my fortune true,
And said I'd plight my troth with one who ware a jacket blue;
That morn before my Grannie woke, just when the lapwing stirred,
I sped across the misty rise and sought the old wife's word.
With her it was the milking time, and while she milk'd the goat,
I ask'd her then to spae my dream, my heart was in my throat--
But that was just because the way had been so steep and long,
And not because I had the fear that anything was wrong.
'Ye'll meet, ye'll meet,' was all she said; 'Ye'll meet when it is mirk.'
I gave her tippence that I meant for Sabbath-day and kirk;
And then I hastened back again; it seemed that never sure
The happy sun delay'd so long to gild the purple moor.
That's six months back, and every night I sit beside the door,
And while I knit I keep my gaze upon the mirky moor;
I keep old Collie by my side--he's sure to spring and bark,
When Ronald comes across the moor to meet me in the dark.
I _know_ the old wife spaed me true, for did she not fore-tell
I'd break a ring with Ronald Grey beside the Hidden Well?
It came to pass at shearing-time, before he went to sea
(We're nighbours' bairns) how _could_ she know that Ronald cared
for me.
So night by night I watch for him--by day I sing and work,
And try to never mind the latch--he's coming in the dark;
Yet as the days and weeks and months go slipping slowly thro',
I wonder if the wise old wife has spaed my fortune true!
Ah, not a word about his ship? Well, well, I'll lay thee by.
I see a heron from the marsh go sailing in the sky,
The purple moor is like a dream, a star is twinkling clear--
Perhaps the meeting that she spaed is drawing very near!
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Ill on a journey;
my dreams wander
over a withered moor.
haiku by Matsuo Basho
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Autumn days come quickly like the running of a hound on the moor.
The Jew ruins himself with passovers, the Moor with wedding feasts, and the Christian with lawsuits.