A Bush Study, A La Watteau
HE.
See the smoke-wreaths how they curl so lightly skyward
From the ivied cottage nestled in the trees:
Such a lovely spot—I really feel that I would
Be happy there with children on my knees.
SHE.
No, you wouldn’t. These are merely idle fancies
Of a gentleman much given to day-dreams.
These chimneys always smoke, and, then the chance is
You would have a scolding wife and babe that screams.
HE.
Ah! but look! just there, above that lowly cottage,
Birds are flitting in the sunlight clear and pure;
And the three-score years and ten—man’s poor allottage—
Might be passed away with pleasure there, I’m sure.
SHE.
Now, pray listen, oh, vain wanderer from the city,
And look bravely up and meet my searching eyes:
Would you give up all your town life, bright and witty,
Just because the cottage smoke curls to the skies?
HE.
I regret to find you’re one of those young ladies—
Pet productions of this artificial age:
Rural solitude to you is simply Hades,
And your paradise the ballroom or the stage.
SHE.
Yes, forsooth! and why? Because, my airy dreamer,
I can use my eyes as well as gaily dance—
See the Husband, Wife, the Lover, Dupe and Schemer,
All whirling past and weaving a romance.
HE.
You think, then, Miss, such dreadful social questions
Are like cards, designed to pass away the time;
Do you not perceive that all these pseudo-Christians
Are but moths that flutter round the candle Crime?
SHE.
At the play, too, where I oft with dear mamma go,
There’s the drama being acted in the boards;
And Othello, Desdemona, and Iago
In the boxes, p’raps, without the paint and swords.
HE.
Well, that may be, but the life of show and fashion
You so prize above the simple joys around,
Is all false; more noble manhood and true passion
In the daily lives of rustics may be found.
SHE.
Think you then that those who dwell in rural places
Are quite free from every evil thought and deed?
Pray speak unto the swain who hither paces
With slow steps, as though in pain, across the mead.
HE.
If you will not sneer, I’ll ask him for his story;
But expect not that his daily life shall be
Full of famous deeds; he careth not for glory,
But lived by honest labour, pure and free.
SHE.
Speak on; speak! and let me hear this modern idyll
From the lips of yonder heavy-footed swain;—
By-the-bye, his wild, erratic sort of sidle
Seems to indicate that he the bowl doth drain.
HE.
Hush—he’ll overhear….O tell me, gentle cottar,
Dwellest thou here remote from carking care and strife?
SUNDOWNER.
What’s that to you? Are you a bloated squatter?
Better clear, old man [hic] ’companied by your wife.
HE.
Thou mistakest me, thou toil-worn man and humble;
I own no lands where graze the peaceful sheep.
Thou art stirred with deep emotion, and dost mumble—
Speak up bravely, brother man, and do not weep.
SUNDOWNER.
Hot to-day, guv’nor; let’s go and have a liquor;
Lady take anything?—Bless you I can pay—
Haven’t had one yet, and nothing makes me sicker
Than abstaining altogether such a day.
Sings
Shearing sheep is dry work,
Kissing girls is sly work;
But drinking deep is my work;
So, let’s drink, boys, drink!
HE.
Come, Mabel, come. He is worse than Turk or Bulgar,
And his presence doth the very air pollute.
SHE.
Well, I must confess he is a trifle vulgar;
But what you say now, my dreamer?
HE.
I am mute.
poem by Arthur Patchett Martin
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Related quotes
Autumn
I love the fitful gust that shakes
The casement all the day,
And from the glossy elm tree takes
The faded leaves away,
Twirling them by the window pane
With thousand others down the lane.
I love to see the shaking twig
Dance till the shut of eve,
The sparrow on the cottage rig,
Whose chirp would make believe
That Spring was just now flirting by
In Summer's lap with flowers to lie.
I love to see the cottage smoke
Curl upwards through the trees,
The pigeons nestled round the cote
On November days like these;
The cock upon the dunghill crowing,
The mill sails on the heath a-going.
The feather from the raven's breast
Falls on the stubble lea,
The acorns near the old crow's nest
Drop pattering down the tree;
The grunting pigs, that wait for all,
Scramble and hurry where they fall.
poem by John Clare (1865)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Curl
You curl, you know how to curl,
Yes you know a curl in your hair
And you curl yourself like a
Hair, in your bed,
It is so cold and no one
Sleeps here
No one comes
There is no hello
As guest and no
Hi to pretend
You are coming
Well, you curl, you know how to curl,
Like your hair,
This time, curl forever,
Nothing straight till the end,
Eternal curl,
Still
Touch it
It bounces and rebounces,
touch it again,
and be silent
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Indian Pipes
THE pipes of peace! Erect and white
In this dark, piney place where light
May enter seldom,—thus they grow
Up from the mold and mosses low,
Like ghostly shadows of the night.
This was the spot,—I know it well.
Here died the chief, so legends tell:
From out the shade a traitor dart
Sped to its mark in that brave heart;
I found an arrow where he fell.
And deep below the moss and mold
They say his bones lie stark and cold;
Yet never dared men seek him here,—
It is so still, so dark, so drear,
The pines so lone, his grave so old.
O pipes of peace, why do ye spring
From this red soil, from that dread Thing?
Could peace for his fierce ashes wait?
A life of war, a death of hate,—
What did that fateful arrow bring?
In Happy Hunting Grounds is he
Atone with every enemy?
There doth he puff the peace-pipe slow?—
Methinks pale smoke-wreaths curl to me.
poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 22, Issue 6 (1897)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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We're All God's Children
Album: Peace In The Valley
Here comes a Baptist, here comes a Jew
There goes a Mormon and a Muslim too
I see a Buddist and a Hindu
I see a Catholic and I see you
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
You like the day, and I like the night
He's into country and he's isn't quit
There's folks on the left and the far right
But that doesn't mean that we have to fight
We're all god's children
All god's children
Yeah, We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
White folks, yellow folks, black and tan
On the same planet in the same plan
A feminist woman and a he man
We're all playin' the magic hand
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
Oh, We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
We're all god's children
All god's children
Yeah, We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
We're all god's children
All god's children
We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
Yeah, We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
We're all black and white
We're all precious in his sight
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
Why can't we all be
One big happy family...
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fifteen
You curl, you know how to curl,
Yes you know a curl in your hair
And you curl yourself like a
Hair, in your bed,
It is so cold and no one
Sleeps here
No one comes
There is no hello
As guest and no
Hi to pretend
You are coming
Well, you curl, you know how to curl,
Like your hair,
This time, curl forever,
Nothing straight till the end,
Eternal curl,
Still
Touch it
It bounces and re-bounces,
touch it again,
and be silent
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Cottage Home
1.
My home, my home, my cottage home,
Thou fair and lovely spot,
How sad and lonely is my soul,
When I can view thee not;
The vines may blossom in my path,
And flowers I most adore,
But what are all their charm to me,
If not beside my door.
2.
Home is a name ne'er forget,
Like other names of earth;
We never grow old to love
The spot that gave us birth;
And when in dreams of faded years;
Of all our youthful pride,
How sweet to dwell beneath the roof,
Where our dear parents died.
3.
My home, my home, my cottage home,
I'll love thee evermore,
And evry heart that greets me when
I reach thy humble door;
And though my mother's smile be gone;
My mother's watchful care,
I love to dwell beneath the roof,
For home was always there.
poem by Septimus Winner
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A Little Cottage
A little cottage nestled in the hills,
its roof is thatched
and it windows carry Georgian squares.
In its garden pretty flowers grow;
while in the fields,
seeds of corn are sown.
Snug within its stonewalls
lives a family,
husband, wife and their two sons.
Sadness filled the cottage one day
when the sons were called to war.
Candles were lit; prayers were said
for their safe return.
Years rolled by, paintwork peeled,
but the little cottage was still a home
with its fire warm.
Day after day, year after year
they waited for their sons return.
Then came what they dreaded most,
letters laced with black
to say that their sons had fallen
in fields far away
and would not be coming back.
A wreath of black hangs on the door
for their soldier boys
who will come home no more.
Sorrow again gripped the walls.
As years followed,
the little cottage fell into disrepair.
Within this once happy home
only sadness rang.
The husband and wife
grew old in their years,
but always held the memory
of two young lost lives.
Slowly they too faded away.
Now the little cottage
stands silent for all to see.
Falling down from lack of repair,
but always holding memories
of happiness once there.
poem by David Harris
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Happy Hour
Its happy hour again
I think I might be happy if I wasnt out with them
And theyre happy its a lovely place to be
Happy that the fire is real the barman is a she
Where the haircuts smile
And the meaning of style
Is a night out with the bass
Where you win or you lose
And its them who choose
And if you dont win then youve lost
What a good place to be
Dont believe it
cause they speak a different language
And its never really happened to me
{its happy hour again}
Dont believe it
cause they speak a different language
And its never really happened to me
{its happy hour again}
Its another night out with the boss
Following in footsteps overgrown with moss
And they tell me that women grow on trees
And if you catch them right they will land upon their knees
Where they open all their wallets
And they close all their minds
And they love to buy you all a drink
And then we ask all the questions
And you take all your clothes off
And go back to the kitchen sink
song performed by by Housemartins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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See The Children
(la la la la la la la...)
I stopped the car
The other day
I had to ask a little
Girl the way
I thought she'd show me
Better if she got inside
And once inside
I thought i'd taker her
For a little ride...
So i see the children
Feel the children
See the children
Feel the children
All the time...
See the children
Feel the children
See the children
Feel the children
All the time...
I'm a supermarket santa
Underneath the christmas tree
The little one all like to
Come and sit upon my knee
I have to hold them tightly
'cause they fall to the floor
A little concern ain't
Against the law...
So i see the children
Feel the children
See the children
Feel the children
All the time
See the children
(something something something??) all the time
I pass by the infant school
Every single day
I push sweeties through the fence
But the kids just run way
I only want to talk with them
And join in their fun
But all the little children do
Is run run run run run run run run...
(la la la la la la, la la la la la la..etc..)
See the children
Feel the children all the time..
See the children
Feel the children
See the children
Feel the children
All the time........
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sharing Dreams
He had a dream of living a life of rustic idyll, to see and feel
seasons, so he bought a derelict cottage in pastoral Algarve.
Took his wife along, explained how the cottage would look
like when done up; she said nothing. With help of workmen
he began repair and life for a while was primitive. He saw his
wife was not happy, when she said she had go home to look
after her daughter, he understood. Months went, but a day
in February the home was ready, he had even acquired a dog.
Outside the almond trees were shedding and petals looked as
pink snow. Rang her, but she didn´t want to come and live in
his bucolic wonderland. "But I thought you liked it", he said.
"You never asked me, took me for granted, this is you dream
not mine…" The cottage was still and cold, his dog sensed his
dejections jumped up on his lap liking his face. He went into
the shed, collected wood for the fireplace, his dream was now
like an old coat too comfy to throw away.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Kentish Garden
THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.
There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.
There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.
There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.
And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.
And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.
There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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End Of The World!
pan fried tators,
grilled trout,
cool clear spring water.
smoke rising slow,
the coffee starts to boil.
black crows circle,
eyes down in the brush.
clouds chasing forever,
nowhere else to be!
night fall coming,
you can feel the trees whisper.
mountains in the distance,
nod without a word.
curl up together
to the crackle of the fire.
while the old dog watches
for the end of the world!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Gardener XVIII: When Two Sisters
When the two sisters go to fetch
water, they come to this spot and
they smile.
They must be aware of somebody
who stands behind the trees when-
ever they go to fetch water.
The two sisters whisper to each
other when they pass this spot.
They must have guessed the secret
of that somebody who stands behind
the trees whenever they go to
fetch water.
Their pitchers lurch suddenly, and
water spills when they reach this
spot.
They must have found out that
somebody's heart is beating who
stands behind the trees whenever
they go to fetch water.
The two sisters glance at each other
when they come to this spot, and they
smile.
There is a laughter in their swift-
stepping feet, which makes confusion
in somebody's mind who stands behind
the trees whenever they go to
fetch water.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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When The Two Sisters Go To Fetch Water
WHEN the two sisters go to fetch water, they come to this spot and they smile.
They must be aware of somebody who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.
The two sisters whisper to each other when they pass this spot.
They must have guessed the secret of that somebody who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.
Their pitchers lurch suddenly, and water spills when they reach this spot.
They must have found out that somebody's heart is beating who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.
The two sisters glance at each other when they come to this spot, and they smile.
There is a laughter in their swift-stepping feet, which makes confusion in somebody's mind who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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This House This Home
in this house the music of the night
is the soft rain from the sky falling upon the grass
like tiptoeing mothers watching their young children
sleeping and kissing their foreheads
there is no burning fire here from wood
and there is no smoke from a cigarette
it is dark as usual but it is desirable
even darker as there are no stars tonight
i am not sad
i am at home with myself in this house
i hear the symphony of winds and whispers
from the leaves of trees and the chants of earthworms
it is cold and so i have closed all the windows and doors
& then i curl beneath my blanket of roses
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ooo Baby Your Mojo Overloads
My blood boils,
And my pressure rises.
My heart thumps,
And my throat gets lumpy.
My legs feel weak,
And my feet can't lead me.
I want to go,
But I'm moping like a dope!
Ooo baby your mojo overloads.
Whatever it is,
You've got me snacking on that!
And,
Ooo baby your mojo overloads.
My toes curl up,
And you've got my opened nose!
My blood boils,
And my pressure rises.
My heart thumps,
And my throat gets lumpy.
My legs feel weak,
And my feet can't lead me.
I want to go,
But I'm moping like a dope!
Like a yo-oh-oh-yo!
Oh baby your mojo overloads.
Whatever it is,
You've got me snacking on that!
And,
Ooo baby your mojo overloads.
My toes curl up,
And you've got my opened nose!
Say,
Ooo baby your mojo overloads.
Whatever it is,
I want to snack on that!
Ooo baby your mojo overloads.
My toes curl up,
And you've got my opened nose!
My toes curl up,
And I know they show!
Ooo baby you're a mojo overloadah.
Like a smoke shoulder cooking,
Rotated and rolled.
Ooo baby you've got my heart and took over.
My toes curl up,
And I know they show!
Ooo baby you're a mojo overloadah.
Like a smoke shoulder cooking,
Rotated and rolled.
Ooo baby you've got my heart and took over.
My toes curl up,
And I know they show!
Ooo baby you're a mojo overloadah.
I'm afraid to stand 'cause I'll fall right over.
Yesss,
Ooo baby you're a mojo overloadah.
You've got me stirred up like a race car motor.
And,
Ooo baby you're a mojo overloadah.
I can float on water and not be in a boat!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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O you, dear trees, you have learned so much of beauty
O you, dear trees, you have learned so much of beauty,
You must have studied this only the ages long!
Men have thought of God and laughter and duty.
And of love. And of song.
But you, dear trees, from your birth to your hour of dying,
Have cared for this one way only of being wise.
Lovely, lovely, lovely, the sapling sighing.
Lovely the dead tree lies.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Wedlock
I
Come, my little one, closer up against me,
Creep right up, with your round head pushed in my breast.
How I love all of you! Do you feel me wrap you
Up with myself and my warmth, like a flame round the wick?
And how I am not at all, except a flame that mounts off you.
Where I touch you, I flame into being;—but is it me, or you?
That round head pushed in my chest, like a nut in its socket,
And I the swift bracts that sheathe it: those breasts, those thighs and knees,
Those shoulders so warm and smooth: I feel that I
Am a sunlight upon them, that shines them into being.
But how lovely to be you! Creep closer in, that I am more.
I spread over you! How lovely, your round head, your arms,
Your breasts, your knees and feet! I feel that we
Are a bonfire of oneness, me flame flung leaping round you,
You the core of the fire, crept into me.
II
And oh, my little one, you whom I enfold,
How quaveringly I depend on you, to keep me alive,
Like a flame on a wick!
I, the man who enfolds you and holds you close,
How my soul cleaves to your bosom as I clasp you,
The very quick of my being!
Suppose you didn’t want me! I should sink down
Like a light that has no sustenance
And sinks low.
Cherish me, my tiny one, cherish me who enfold you.
Nourish me, and endue me, I am only of you,
I am your issue.
How full and big like a robust, happy flame
When I enfold you, and you creep into me,
And my life is fierce at its quick
Where it comes off you!
III
My little one, my big one,
My bird, my brown sparrow in my breast.
My squirrel clutching in to me;
My pigeon, my little one, so warm
5o close, breathing so still.
My little one, my big one,
I, who am so fierce and strong, enfolding you,
If you start away from my breast, and leave me,
How suddenly I shall go down into nothing
Like a flame that falls of a sudden.
And you will be before me, tall and towering,
And I shall be wavering uncertain
Like a sunken flame that grasps for support.
IV
But now I am full and strong and certain
With you there firm at the core of me
Keeping me.
How sure I feel, how warm and strong and happy
For the future! How sure the future is within me;
I am like a seed with a perfect flower enclosed.
I wonder what it will be,
What will come forth of us.
What flower, my love?
No matter, I am so happy,
I feel like a firm, rich, healthy root,
Rejoicing in what is to come.
How I depend on you utterly
My little one, my big one!
How everything that will be, will not be of me,
Nor of either of us,
But of both of us.
V
And think, there will something come forth from us.
We two, folded so small together,
There will something come forth from us.
Children, acts, utterance
Perhaps only happiness.
Perhaps only happiness will come forth from us.
Old sorrow, and new happiness.
Only that one newness.
But that is all I want.
And I am sure of that.
We are sure of that.
poem by D.H. Lawrence from Look! We Have Come Through! (1918)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Suppose We Should Feel Happy
Suppose we should feel happy for to live another day
When one more wealthy person by the reaper called away
Into the life hereafter if there be such a thing
Who can say of this paradise where happy angels sing.
Suppose we should feel happy though circumstance we curse
We may not have much money though things could be far worse
And we ought to count our blessings for our good gift of health
Though it would seem a bonus to add to that some wealth.
Suppose we should feel happy and we ought not complain
If we can't afford the roof repairs though it always leaks in rain
This is the Christian principle 'be happy with your lot'
But how can you feel happy if money you haven't got? .
Suppose you should feel happy though the rent is overdue
And the landlord for his payment is pressurizing you
And your fridge is almost empty and not much food left to eat
And you and your wife and two young children might soon be on the street.
Suppose we should feel happy though we are in the red
And we can't sleep for worrying we toss and turn in bed
And the refrigerator is empty and the child cry to be fed
And suppose we should feel happy 'those words are easily said'.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Eyes of an Angel
Children at play on merrygorounds, happy
and laughing no pushing no fighting not
kicking one to the ground.
Children on their knees side of their
beds asking for peace and stop the
bloodshed.
Parents tucking their children in for the
night with their teddy bears at their side.
Angels see how precious children are,
their desire to learn and grow with love.
poem by Patricia Merritt
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