Glosa
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
The lowing herd winds solely o’er the lea.
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way
and leaves the world to darkness and to me
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
A hush descends upon the countryside,
now is the hour when owls come out to prey.
Like ghosts on silent feathered wings they glide
The lowing herds winds slowly oe’r the lea.
Quite soon they will be relieved of their distress.
The bursting udders emptied easily.
Their heightened pace betrays their eagerness.
The ploughman homewards plods his weary way.
He’s more than ready for his evening meal,
he and his horse have worked along hard day
and both were glad to hear the tocsin bell.
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
I wait and watch for the stars to appear
and marvel at their punctuality.
I wonder if they too some signal hear
Poeticpiers aka ivor
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Britain's Slough and Upton
Brief Synopsis:
Just prior to German air raids on Slough
in World War Two, Thames Valley was
progressing with a new industrial plan,
which could have brought distress to
the peaceful rural land...John Betjeman,
the poet, wrote rhyming words to disapprove;
what more could a disappointed Laureate do?
'Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough,
it isn't fit for humans now'. John Betjeman.
But Slough today is a pleasant town,
where every amenity can be found...
and yew trees surround the graveyard
of the Norman Church of renown.
'Twas here ~ in his own Slough garden
Sir William Hershall of astronomy fame
built the world's large telescope,
for which stargazers honour his name.
And Sir Thomas Gray, poet supreme,
wrote a most delightful theme:
I now quote the first four lines of a very
long poem from historical times:
'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard'
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
the lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
the plowman homeward plods his weary way
and leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Thomas Gray.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Elegy
The cur foretells the knell of parting day;
The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The wise man homewards plods; I only stay
To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When the bell tolls
At times when I hear
a church bell that tolls,
I know that there
is more to life
than just living.
On a Sunday
the bell tolls almost endlessly,
(like a alarm clock)
before the service begins.
At times when I hear
a church bell that tolls,
it rings for a funeral
and I am glad
that I’m alive.
At a wedding
the bell sings a joyful song
and everyone smiles at each other
and wait for the bride to appear.
In the dead of night
the bell tolls lonely
no one cares about
the time that it keeps,
as sleep creeps deeper
into everybody’s soul.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I hear and Reflect
A bell tolls sonorously
one single chime. Then silence reigns
It wakes me from my reverie.
Conscious again of aches and pains.
I had lost temporarily
in contemplation of the past
That single knell reminding me
Of the long years which quickly passed.
Before the years caught up with me
For old age does not come alone
It brings along infirmity.
Which hitherto you have not known.
When you are young you do not know
What future lies ahead of you
but as you live and learn and grow
You will become as others do.
Much more aware than what you were
of how your body will re- act.
To the stress and strain you bear.
That you must think before you act.
Gone is the energy of youth
You used to waste without a thought
You slowly come to learn the truth
That rude health can’t be sold or bought.
As long as I can hear that chime
which has disturbed my reverie
I can be certain that this time
The death knell does not ring for me.
Each day an opportunity
To do things I can still do
although slow and steadily.
My body still allows me to.
Although I pay in aches and pains
I do not think the price too high.
My interest in life remains.
I am too busy far, to die.
I know I will eventually
but do not let it worry me
It is the only certainty
the bell will toll one day for me.
23-Nov-08
http: //
blog.mypace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Bell Tolls
The bell tolls not to alarm us
about a break of war
The bell tolls not to announce
the funeral of a great magician
The bell tolls not for classes
to start the school-year calendar.
But it is ringing for you and me
to bend our knees,
To intercede for our land
and for ourselves
The bell tolls to say a prayer
that opens up
avenues to God's love and mercy.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Listen to my voice my lost love
Listen to my voice my lost love
Within me it pants and cries loud for you
From the depth of my soul my sighs reach above
Wherever you are; for you I endlessly rue
Listen my love in far land to my heart's throbs
Wherever you are in this wide wonder globe
Within me rages the tempest of your sweet memory
Since long you left, you abandoned me in agonizing misery
There was a time I remember when you were kind
When your voices were softly waving into my mind
And their words gently inspiring and inviting
To yield these divine thoughts so exciting
There was a time when love for us was blind
And the whole world was a dreaming song
And the song was lastly maddening
Then it all crashing went wrong
And now I dreamed a dream of time gone by
When hope and joy were high
And life was so worthy of living
I dreamed then that love would never die
Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no flower unsmelled, no wine untasted
Where are you love in this wide world
With ways crossing and paths mingling
Where humans meet in thin
And part for ever not to each other to be seen
A human soul craves and yearns
Yet the feet fail, and body shrinks
It will never find nor meet
What was eternally lost
I dream that God would be forgiving
And the heart persistently prays
And wish you well beyond the touch of time's prey
From the maze of my heart my voice longs for your living
My final days upon the land
Are closing near at hand
The day of sad mourning
The finale of anguish and yearning
Yet I will wait for you my love until
The last of my moments upon this world is killed
Until all pages of life are flipped and that day will come
And I to my cankering age succumb
As the dark night tolls the knell of parting day
The lowing sheep linger slowly over vast lea
The field ants homeward plod their weary way
And leave the world to darkness and to me
Soon far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife
I will lie away from sober wishes never tamed to stray
Locked in coffine in cool sequestered vale without life
As this whole world keeps its on going noise astray
My spirit huants my lifes last hours
Over the window hangs moulding flowrs
The air in my room is damp, and hushed and close
My life before the angle of death takes repose
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
As my wish fades to see you just once before I leave
Copy rights 2010
All rights reserved
Sick fancies of a tired mind
A bell rings out, a deep toned bell.
A single chime; that’s ominous.
What does that single chime foretell?
So resonant and sonorous
It marks the passing of the hour.
Perhaps the passing of a soul
It issues from the ivied tower
and echoes imitate its toll.
I long to know but I must wait
while night hours crawl slowly past
deliberately to agitate.
It seems to me the night hours last
much longer than they ought to do.
When aches and pains keep me awake
Although I know it isn’t true.
It seems to be for pity’s sake.
My morbid fancies lead me to
conclusions that I should not draw
As morbid fancies tend to do
more often than they did before.
There’s nothing left in life for me
I’ve run my race I’m satisfied
That friendly death will set me free.
I‘ve been alone since my wife died.
I know I won’t hear my death knell
I find the thought amuses me
but there is no one I can tell
about this thought that tickles me.
When my call comes I will rejoice
I’ve long been waiting patiently
but we are given little choice
I will greet my death eagerly.
I’m weary and I long to go
but know I have to wait my turn.
Although I wish it wasn’t so
I must wait patiently and yearn.
16-Jul-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When The Sleepy Man Comes
When the Sleepy Man comes with the dust on his eyes,
(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)
He shuts up the earth, and he opens the skies.
(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
He smiles through his fingers, and shuts up the sun;
(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)
The stars that he loves he lets out one by one.
(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
He comes from the castles of Drowsy-boy Town;
(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)
At the touch of his hand the tired eyelids fall down.
(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
He comes with a murmur of dream in his wings;
(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)
And whispers of mermaids and wonderful things.
(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
Then the top is a burden, the bugle a bane;
(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)
When one would be faring down Dream-a-way Lane.
(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
When one would be wending in Lullaby Wherry,
(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!)
To Sleepy Man's Castle, by Comforting Ferry.
(So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
How I Wish The Bell Tolls For Me
for whom the bell tolls?
i ask that
it must toll for me,
but the bell never really
toll for me,
always, it tolls for someone else,
a friend for 15 years
a relative close to the family,
a baby newly born in town,
a man conscious of his health,
the non-smoker and non-drinker alike,
the successful politician,
the wife of an expatriate,
the rich gambler, oh, the bell tolls for all of them
and there were banquets and city lights
and eulogies
and expensive garments of the priest
i wish the bell tolls for me,
but who am i to really say?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Quietude for M lady Lucianne
Across the meadows bells are ringing.
Overhead the birds are winging
homewards to their roosting place
As twilight falls, the hour of grace
which separates the day from night.
When darkness overcomes the light,
the western sky is tinged with red
The weary sun retires to bed
the sky takes on a darker hue
changing from ice to midnight blue.
Then one by one the stars appear
against the blue as beacons clear.
I sit and watch contentedly
as quietude envelopes me.
27-Apr-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What nonsense is this?
I see the moon, the moon sees me but she sees more than I can see.
I am earth bound I cannot fly but she serenely floats on high
and bathes world in silver light. Which can relieve the darkest night.
She grants to all men equally, sufficient light for them to see.
The cloak of darkness does not hide, lying in wait for prey outside
werewolves, vampires, ghosts and ghouls. The flying predators are owls,
that haunt the night on noiseless wings in search of mice and smaller things.
The silver moonlight reassures to some extent but does not cure.
ancestral fears. Although far fetched are nonetheless so deeply etched
in the collective memories of human kind. The vague unease
which is still felt by men today when darkness falls and night holds sway.
Of course does not apply to us, just to the superstitious.
18-Aug-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Wood By The Sea
I DWELL in the wood that is dark and kind
But afar off tolls the main,
Afar, far off I hear the wind,
And the roving of the rain.
The shade is dark as a palmer's hood,
The air with balm is bland:
But I wish the trees that breathe in the wood
Were ashes in God's hand.
The pines are weary of holding nests,
Are aweary of casting shade;
Wearily smoulder the resin crests
In the pungent gloom of the glade.
Weary are all the birds of sleep,
The nests are weary of wings,
The whole wood yearns to the swaying deep,
The mother of restful things.
The wood is very old and still,
So still when the dead cones fall,
Near in the vale or away on the hill,
You can hear them one and all.
And their falling wearies me;
If mine were the will of God,–oh, then
The wood should tramp to the sounding sea,
Like a marching army of men!
But I dwell in the wood that is dark and kind,
Afar off tolls the main;
Afar, far off I hear the wind
And the roving of the rain.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
All change for M lady Adria
Familiar landmarks disappear
gradually as darkness falls.
Though if you listen you can hear
the roosting birds exchanging calls.
From nests in tree you cannot see
though you’re aware that they’re still there
Enwrapped in night fall’s mystery.
There is no way you can compare
the quiet countryside at night
with the busy and bustling day.
All life moves faster in sunlight
until the sun sets anyway.
Darkness can make the world we see
into a realm of fantasy.
26-Jul-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Homeward Going
GRAY smoke in the green leaves,
Someone homeward going,
No sound in the lone hills . . .
Only cattle lowing.
Still trees and a hushed world,
Leaf and limb unshaken,
No wind in the tall grass,
Creeksides bird-forsaken.
Pale, pale and with mute lips
One in shadow lying —
Near gone from the green world,
Sorrow nigh him sighing.
Day's strife and a life's strife
Each in quiet ending;
Life's light and the dark of death
Softly interblending.
One star on a far ridge,
Home the Homeward going,
No sound on the lone hills . . .
Only cattle lowing.
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Altercation
when i step there
for the first time i know
the difference between
silence and
shutting up, that soundless scream
that only your ears
can hear and people wonder
what is happening inside
your tiny world
where you always live and
there is no
specific address
as the streets wind up to nowhere
the world is full of noise
and as you see you imagine people
as like you
all in the flurry of the winds
of disgust
and then i ask you to see the
light at the post
it is 6: 30 in the evening
and lights begin
to make a claim of their
own islands
amidst the crowd of
passers-by
i ask you once again
to listen to the clicking of the
watch inside your
heart
and try to erase the
imagined scream
i agree it is an evening
loveless in itself
there is only you
and no one else
for i am but a stone to you
in your garden
of sands
i urge you to listen
carefully and close your eyes
and open them
once again
searching for the red
color of the
longing
it is deep into the night
when trees are but
shadows
and the winds create
a stir of
falling leaves
those that last only
for the night
and i assure you
there is nothing
here but leaves
yes, leaves and
leaves
softly falling to the grass
carried by the
sounds of the flurry
of invisible wings
and i am telling you
it could be
hope dressed
like maple.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To The Chapel Bell
"Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
Am now enforst a far unfitter task
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds,"
For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.
Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell,
That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;
And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,
To quit or Morpheus or the Muses bower.
Better to lie and dose, than gape amain,
Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.
Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers
Say hast thou ever summoned from his rest,
One being awakening to religious awe?
Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast?
Or rather, do not all reluctant creep
To linger out the hour, in listlessness or sleep?
I love the bell, that calls the poor to pray
Chiming from village church its chearful sound,
When the sun smiles on Labour's holy day,
And all the rustic train are gathered round,
Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best
And pleas'd to hail the day of piety and rest.
Or when, dim-shadowing o'er the face of day,
The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,
As thro' the forest gloom I wend my way,
The minster curfew's sullen roar I know;
I pause and love its solemn toll to hear,
As made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.
Nor not to me the unfrequent midnight knell
Tolls sternly harmonizing; on mine ear
As the deep death-fraught sounds long lingering dwell
Sick to the heart of Love and Hope and Fear
Soul-jaundiced, I do loathe Life's upland steep
And with strange envy muse the dead man's dreamless sleep.
But thou, memorial of monastic gall!
What Fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given?
Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall
The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven;
And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nosal tone,
And Roman rites retain'd, tho' Roman faith be flown.
poem by Robert Southey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Just in case
The death knell sounds sonorously.
The mourners dressed decorously
have come to say their last farewell.
Invited by the tolling bell.
Some come to pay their last respects.
Nobody mentions his defects.
An unspoken conspiracy.
A custom universally.
observed by all the human race.
A funeral is not the place
to criticise the newly dead.
Perhaps because we live in dread.
That vengeful ghosts will take offence.
We choose to lie in self defence.
19/09/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Fox
The shepherd on his journey heard when nigh
His dog among the bushes barking high;
The ploughman ran and gave a hearty shout,
He found a weary fox and beat him out.
The ploughman laughed and would have ploughed him in
But the old shepherd took him for the skin.
He lay upon the furrow stretched for dead,
The old dog lay and licked the wounds that bled,
The ploughman beat him till his ribs would crack,
And then the shepherd slung him at his back;
And when he rested, to his dog's surprise,
The old fox started from his dead disguise;
And while the dog lay panting in the sedge
He up and snapt and bolted through the hedge.
He scampered to the bushes far away;
The shepherd called the ploughman to the fray;
The ploughman wished he had a gun to shoot.
The old dog barked and followed the pursuit.
The shepherd threw his hook and tottered past;
The ploughman ran but none could go so fast;
The woodman threw his faggot from the way
And ceased to chop and wondered at the fray.
But when he saw the dog and heard the cry
He threw his hatchet--but the fox was bye.
The shepherd broke his hook and lost the skin;
He found a badger hole and bolted in.
They tried to dig, but, safe from danger's way,
He lived to chase the hounds another day.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Small tragedies.
Darkness descending silently.
Enfolds the quiet countryside.
A blanket of tranquillity
Which only last ‘til morning light.
As day light fades and twilight falls.
Signalling it's time to rest
The air is filled with sleepy calls
As each small bird seeks out it's nest.
Though other creatures hunt at night.
On silent wings seek out their prey
To satisfy their appetite
Fierce predators that sleep by day.
The darkness does not guarantee.
Small animals security.
Saturday,05 May 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Spring-Watching Pavilion
A gentle spring evening arrives
airily, unclouded by worldly dust.
Three times the bell tolls echoes like a wave.
We see heaven upside-down in sad puddles.
Love's vast sea cannot be emptied.
And springs of grace flow easily everywhere.
Where is nirvana?
Nirvana is here, nine times out of ten.
poem by Ho Xuan Huong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!