Bluebell Wood
Children tiptoe through the bluebell wood
making no sound as they go.
It seems like only yesterday
we saw our children play
the games we used to do.
Now we smile at our grandchildren
playing hide and seek
in the same bluebell wood
where we did play.
Our hair maybe silver and white,
but we are still young at heart
and want to join them
tiptoeing through the bluebell wood.
19 March 2011
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A dappled ocean
Waves of shaded blue in spring
A wild bluebell wood
haiku by Charles Wiles
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The New-England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving Day
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house away!
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play-
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood-
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball,
And stay as long as we can.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells.
Over the river, and through the wood-
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurra for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie!
poem by Lydia Maria Francis Child
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Through The Wood
THROUGH the wood, the green wood, the wet wood, the light wood,
Love and I went maying a thousand lives ago;
Shafts of golden sunlight had made a golden bright wood
In my heart reflected, because I loved you so.
Through the wood, the chill wood, the brown wood, the bare wood,
I alone went lonely no later than last year,
What had thinned the branches, and wrecked my dear and fair wood,
Killed the pale wild roses and left the rose-thorns sere?
Through the wood, the dead wood, the sad wood, the lone wood,
Winds of winter shiver through lichens old and grey,
You ride past forgetting the wood that was our own wood
All our own--and withered as ever a flower of May.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rainy beach times
Children playing on a beach,
Nowhere to hide nowhere to seek,
Using there minds to play there games,
Running In the sand on a rainy day,
It dose not matter if the sun doesn't shine,
If the wind blows hard and the sands not dry,
There having fun so that's just fine,
Playing on a beach at two, three, and five,
With sand in there shoes and between there toes,
And wind swept hair and soggy clothes,
They feel no cold only time for fun
The moaning starts when they wet there bum,
It must look like desert to someone so young,
Who's two foot high and full of fun,
What an adventure it must be,
Playing in the sand and feeling free,
I can't remember ever being that high,
But we all must have though's of rainy beach times,
So as I stand here now alone on the beach,
Watching them play no hide and seek,
Spending this moment through children's eyes,
As they have there adventure and a rainy beach times.
Kevin Glenn
29-08-2011
poem by Kevin Glenn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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PC Games
PC Games are children's favorite nowadays
Oh! those days have gone
When children used to play in the fields
They used to play football, cricket and hockey...
Now children are busy playing PC games
Various games like Farm Ville, City ville, Empire Earth, San Andreas, Age of Empires etc
Some of them are so addicted to it
They don't study
But others are exceptional
Playing those PC games are harmful for eyes, health etc
Those games are 3D and 2D...
PC games...
What about those old games?
poem by Z.I. Mahmud
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spellbound
A bluebell wood, such a sight to see,
Blue haze wrapped softly around each tree.
Sweet perfume just drifting through the air,
Oh, how I wish that I could be there.
So restful to the eyes and the mind,
A beauty that is so well defined.
One sea of blossom over the ground,
Oh, how I wish to observe, spellbound.
Those stems of bells, that silently ring,
Welcoming in the newly born spring.
A mass of flowers, a carpet fine,
Oh, how I wish that they could be mine.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bluebell
The Bluebell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air :
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit's care.
There is a spell in purple heath
Too wildly, sadly dear ;
The violet has a fragrant breath,
But fragrance will not cheer,
The trees are bare, the sun is cold,
And seldom, seldom seen ;
The heavens have lost their zone of gold,
And earth her robe of green.
And ice upon the glancing stream
Has cast its sombre shade ;
And distant hills and valleys seem
In frozen mist arrayed.
The Bluebell cannot charm me now,
The heath has lost its bloom ;
The violets in the glen below,
They yield no sweet perfume.
But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell,
'Tis better far away;
I know how fast my tears would swell
To see it smile to-day.
For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fall
Adown that dreary sky,
And gild yon dank and darkened wall
With transient brilliancy;
How do I weep, how do I pine
For the time of flowers to come,
And turn me from that fading shine,
To mourn the fields of home!
poem by Emily Brontë from Selections from the literary remains of Emily and Anne Brontë (1850)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Something Special
Maurice white, wayne vaughn & wanda vaughn
Love is like something special
Compared to none, its pure celestial
The game of love and life is here to stay
Day by day, your heart will find a way to win
Love is like the same ole game we use to play
Hide and seek from yesterday is still in play
Love is like something special
Burns like fire and keeps you warm
To play the game of love and not get burned
Win or lose, learn the rules, its all in livin
Love is like the same ole game we use to play
Hide and seek from yesterday is still in play
Love and games, the burning flame
Love and games, remains the same
Love and games, the same ole pain
Love is like something special
Your fragrance is the spice if life
The game of love, it seems to have no age
Wind the clock, move the hands, now lets turn the page
song performed by by Earth Wind And Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New-Year's Eve
As when at twelve o'clock
Strong January opes the gates of Life
And we that were so cabined and so dark
Within the round tower of the rounded year
Feel the far Spring blown in on us and look
Straight to the primroses, and with the swallow
Skim thro' the dawns of daffodils and up
To bluebell skies, and from the bluebell skies,
Like a wild hawk upon a flight of doves,
Swoop upon June and Paradise, and on
Beyond the bounds of Eden to an Earth
Boss'd with great purples of new-clustered wine
Betwixt the tented harvests red and gold,
And so into a cloud, and know no more--
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-65
Blue Trumpet Bush
(Strobilanthes tomentosa
Aechmanthera gossypina)
Little eyes look at so many
Little brain eats as many
Yet too little known only
Puzzling blues as are many
My folly'Bluebell, Bluebell'
Yelled my mouth of little
In brain gathered brittle
Ho, but different and subtle
Shrubby bush leafed elliptic
Blue, violet, purplish hectic
Clustered flora trumpet-magic
Tubed raise of an elysian chic
Hunt o' my heart hunt ceaseless
Anyway for blue trumpet endless
Stop, hear her hush relentless
Wonder at the goddess ageless
poem by Indira Renganathan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Unseen Playmate
When children are playing alone on the green,
In comes the playmate that never was seen.
When children are happy and lonely and good,
The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.
Nobody heard him, and nobody saw,
His is a picture you never could draw,
But he's sure to be present, abroad or at home,
When children are happy and playing alone.
He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass,
He sings when you tinkle the musical glass;
Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why,
The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!
He loves to be little, he hates to be big,
'T is he that inhabits the caves that you dig;
'T is he when you play with your soldiers of tin
That sides with the Frenchmen and never can win.
'T is he, when at night you go off to your bed,
Bids you go to sleep and not trouble your head;
For wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf,
'T is he will take care of your playthings himself!
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sea-Saw (more writing fun)
If I saw a wood boat afloat
Upon the sea,
Would what I see possibly be
The wood I cut from a tree?
For when I saw a tree
I would like to think I see,
What the wood I saw
Could be.
If all I saw in wood from a tree
Was all I saw that there was to see,
Would what I did saw
Be the wood that I now see?
And if the wood I once did saw
Was indeed made into that ship on the sea,
Would it even be possible to know that here what I see
Is the wood once sawed by me?
All I here would dare to share is:
I see what I saw, and I saw what I see,
And therefore the wood I do saw could one day be
The boat I may see, afloat upon the sea.
See?
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Playmates
It's sixty years ago, the people say:
Two village children, neighbours born and bred,
One morning played beneath a rotten tree
That came down crash and caught them as they fled;
And one was killed and one was left unhurt
Except for certain fancies in his head.
And though it's all so very long ago
He's never left the wood a single day;
I've often met him peeping through the leaves
And chuckling to himself, an old man grey;
And once he started in his cracked old voice:
'We're playing I'm a merchant lost his way,
She's robbers in the wood behind yon tree,
The minute we grow up too big to play' -
poem by Ralph Hodgson
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Poem: 'Playtime Slayer
- 6. May.2006 -
Unsuspecting children play, nothing seems amiss
They are jumping, they are running, they’re just ‘being kids’
Unsuspecting children play, unnoticing this little girl
She is crying, she is dying, carrying the weight of the world
Unsuspecting children play, laughing to themselves
They are so unknowing of this little girls living hell
Unsuspecting children play, having so much fun
This girl is used to being bullied, but she’s not the only one
Unsuspecting children play, unknowing of this pain
They don’t even see this girl… they don’t let her join their game
Unsuspecting children play, as a young girls life falls apart
They don’t even suspect; this little girl ‘self-harms’
poem by Rachel Ann Clark
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Bluebell of May
Poetic Style - Acrostic.
B lue is the colour of God's sky
L ithe is the spirit that passes by
U nassuming and modest am I...
E nglish Bell, in the woodland I lie.
B oys and girls come out to play
E njoying the gift of a sunny day
L ittle ones carry my blooms away
L ook I'm a legend, 'bluebell of May'.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Todays Reality
I long to hear that sound again
The happy voices of children,
of children playing happily.
I must rely on memory.
My fledglings from the nest have flown
and they have children of their own
But alas they are too far away
to hear their children at their play.
We’ve reached another stage in life,
There’s only me and my good wife.
I care for her she cares for me
exactly as it ought to be.
It’s sad but true we only see
our grandchildren infrequently.
(7-Aug-07)
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dying Child
He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.
His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea
He held one in his hands to sing,
Which filled his heart with glee.
Infants, the children of the spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at spring?
He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,
As childhood's sweet delight.
And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got;
They met with plaintive sighs.
When winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,
He died so quietly.
poem by John Clare
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4. Well Rattled
The cowboys all dug a large pit
Around which some boulders did fit
Then piled up the wood which lit
To keep the cold out where they sit
One went to fetch some more wood
His trail boss said he thought he should
A nice dry pile that looked real good
Where snakes liked hide if they could
The wind got up spooking the cattle
It hid the slight sound of a rattle
From wood came the snake to do battle
And all the cowhand did was prattle
Vexed the snake started to slide
The cowhands fear he could'nt hide
He stood there with legs open wide
And now the poor cowboy can't ride
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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The Path
RUNNING along a bank, a parapet
That saves from the precipitous wood below
The level road, there is a path. It serves
Children for looking down the long smooth steep,
Between the legs of beech and yew, to where
A fallen tree checks the sight: while men and women
Content themselves with the road and what they see
Over the bank, and what the children tell.
The path, winding like silver, trickles on,
Bordered and even invaded by thinnest moss
That tries to cover roots and crumbling chalk
With gold, olive, and emerald, but in vain.
The children wear it. They have flattened the bank
On top, and silvered it between the moss
With the current of their feet, year after year.
But the road is houseless, and leads not to school.
To see a child is rare there, and the eye
Has but the road, the wood that overhangs
And underyawns it, and the path that looks
As if it led on to some legendary
Or fancied place where men have wished to go
And stay; till, sudden, it ends where the wood ends.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Oh Ellen To Play Fun Sticks With You.
What a love and joy to see you,
Your blond hair shines in the sun,
Your smile doth capture my heart strings,
We are going to have such fun
Gran dad walkies you say to me,
As you tightly hold my hand,
Let’s go play hide and seek,
Under this tree I will count and stand,
A bridge over the stream in the wood let’s look,
I will gather some twigs for Fun sticks we will play,
We both throw our Fun sticks into the brook,
Whose twig will be first under the bridge this way?
Such fun and so delightful,
We have had such a lovely day,
We are so exhausted,
And you are so tired and need your sleep,
I feel we are so lucky,
To have a grand daughter like you,
And also such a daughter,
Who made sure we got to know you,
Such a love so overwhelming,
So sure so strong so true,
One thing I will always remember,
Is when I played Fun Sticks with you?
(Ref Winnie the Pooh)
poem by Anthony Foster
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