Thoughts Fer The Discuraged Farmer
The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin'
locus' trees;
And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,
And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the
sly,
Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.
The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his
wings
And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,
And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.
You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the
plow--
Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not
a-carin' how;
So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the
wing--
But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;
And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin'
right,
Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!
They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,
And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,
And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener
still;
It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.
Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded
out,
And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!
Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and
dry
Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,
Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?
Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?--Does he walk, er does
he run?
Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare just like they've
allus done?
Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er
voice?
Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice?
Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;
The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.
Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me
and you.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Related quotes
When The Frost Is On The Punkin
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey cock
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below the clover over-head!
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don't know how to tell it but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me
I'd want to 'commodate 'em all the whole-indurin' flock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Wortermelon Time
Old wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,
And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,
Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin--
Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.
Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best,
And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and
the dew
Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr
breast;
And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; ain't
you?
They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line;
And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer
knows;
And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine,
I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.
It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red.
And it's some says 'The Little Californy' is the best;
But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,
Is the old 'Edingburg Mounting-sprout,' of the west
You don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelon
vines--
'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons,
shore;--
I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines,
Which may be a fact you have heerd of before
But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with
care,
You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's
pride and joy,
And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air
As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.
I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound
When you split one down the back and jolt the halves
in two,
And the friends you love the best is gethered all around--
And you says unto your sweethart, 'Oh, here's the
core fer you!'
And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all,
Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight
As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,
And they holler fer some more, with unquenched
appetite.
Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat--
A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr
hands,
And when they 'saw' it through theyr mouth sich music
can't be beat--
'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick
understands.
Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored
meat,
And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed
betwixt
The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth,
And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood
mixed.
Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away
To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,
And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day,
And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a-comin'
on.
And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and
trees,
And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver
mice,
And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,
And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored
slice.
Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,
And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,
Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin--
Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Sonnet XLVII
TRust not the treason of those smyling lookes,
vntill ye haue theyr guylefull traynes well tryde:
for they are lyke but vnto golden hookes,
that from the foolish fish theyr bayts doe hyde:
So she with flattring smyles weake harts doth guyde,
vnto her loue and tempte to theyr decay,
whome being caught she kills with cruell pryde,
and feeds at pleasure on the wretched pray:
Yet euen whylst her bloody hands them slay,
her eyes looke louely and vpon them smyle:
that they take pleasure in her cruell play,
and dying doe them selues of payne beguyle.
O mighty charm which makes men loue theyr bane,
and thinck they dy with pleasure, liue with payne.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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A Paralell Between Bowling And Preferment
Preferment, like a Game at bowles,
To feede our hope with diverse play
Heer quick it runnes, there soft it rowles:
The Betters make and shew the way.
As upper ground, so great Allies
Doe many cast on theyr desire:
Some uppe are thrust, and forc't to rise,
When those are stopt that would aspire.
Some whose heate and zeale exceed
Thrive well by Rubbs that curb theyr hast
Some that languish in theyr speede
Are cherisht by a gentle blast.
Some rest: and others cutting out
The same by whome themselves were made:
Some fetch a compasse farre about
And secretly the marke invade.
Some gett by knocke, and so advance
Theyr fortune by a boystrous ayme:
And some who have the sweetest chance
Theyr mistresse hitt, and winne the game.
The fayrest casts are those that owe
No thanks to Fortunes giddy sway:
Such honest men good bowles doe throw,
Whose owne true Byass cutts the way.
poem by William Strode
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Poem 19
LEt no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares,
Be heard all night within nor yet without:
Ne let false whispers breeding hidden feares,
Breake gentle sleepe with misconceiued dout.
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadful sights
Make sudden sad affrights;
Ne let housefyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes,
Ne led the Ponke, nor other euill sprights,
Ne let mischiuous witches with theyr charmes,
Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not,
Fray vs with things that be not.
Let not the shriech Oule, nor the Storke be heard:
Nor the night Rauen that still deadly yels,
Nor damned ghosts cald vp with mighty spels,
Nor griefly vultures make vs once affeard:
Ne let th'unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking
Make vs to wish theyr choking.
Let none of these theyr drery accents sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet LXXXIII
MY hungry eyes, through greedy couetize,
Still to behold the obiect of theyr payne:
with no contentment can themselues suffize,
but hauing pine, and hauing not complayne
For lacking it, they cannot lyfe sustayne,
and seeing it, they gaze on it the more:
in theyr amazement lyke Marcissus vayne
whose eyes him staru'd: so plenty makes me pore.
Yet are myne eyes so filled with the store
of that fayre sight, that nothing else they brooke:
but loath the things which they did like before,
and can no more endure on them to looke.
All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me,
and all theyr shewes but shadowes sauing she.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Poem 14
NOw al is done; bring home the bride againe,
bring home the triumph of our victory,
Bring home with you the glory of her gaine,
With ioyance bring her and with iollity.
Neuer had man more ioyfull day then this,
Whom heauen would heape with blis.
Make feast therefore now all this liue long day,
This day for euer to me holy is,
Poure out the wine without restraint or stay,
Poure not by cups, but by the belly full,
Poure out to all that wull,
And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine,
That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.
Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall,
And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine,
And let the Graces daunce vnto the rest;
For they can doo it best:
The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing,
To which the woods shal answer & theyr eccho ring.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Wet Weather Talk
It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
Men giner'ly, to all intents--
Although they're ap' to grumble some--
Puts most their trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come;--
That is, the commonality
Of men that's lived as long as me,
Has watched the world enough to learn
They're not the boss of the concern.
With _some_, of course, it's different--
I've seed _young_ men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestial ball!
But, all the same, the rain some way
Rained jest as hard on picnic-day;
Er when they railly wanted it,
It maybe wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existence, dry and wet
Will overtake the best of men--
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The sun off now and then;
But maybe, while you're wondern' who
You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And _want_ it--out'll pop the sun,
And you'll be glad you ain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too--
They's too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waiting round to do
Before the plowin''s done;
And maybe, like as not, the wheat,
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will ketch the storm--and jest about
The time the corn 's a-jintin' out!
These here cy-clones a-foolin' round--
And back'ard crops--and wind and rain,
And yit the corn that's wallered down
May elbow up again!
They ain't no sense, as I kin see,
In mortals, sich as you and me,
A-faultin' Nature's wise intents,
And lockin' horns with Providence!
It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Sonnet XXXI
Ah why hath nature to so hard a hart,
giuen so goodly giftes of beauties grace?
whose pryde depraues each other better part,
and all those pretious ornaments deface.
Sith to all other beastes of bloody race,
a dreadfull countenaunce she giuen hath:
that with theyr terrour al the rest may chace,
and warne to shun the daunger of theyr wrath.
But my proud one doth worke the greater scath,
through sweet allurement of her louely hew:
that she the better may in bloody bath,
of such poore thralls her cruell hands embrew.
But did she know how ill these two accord,
such cruelty she would haue soone abhord.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Unriled Joy after James Whitcomb RILEY When the Frost is on the Punkin
Unriled Joy
When the current links computer screen to internet online,
when the 'Royal Crown' is fairly set upon fair features fine,
Then her sweetness sempiternal needs no coffee to invent
pure parody from paradise, no syllables misspent.
Far from ice and snow know Florida is haven of the Gods -
It even switched Obama which upset some Harris clods,
and all praise her peerless poems their true laurel leaves assign
When the current links computer screen to internet online.
4 January 2009
after When the Frost is on the Punkin James Whitcomb RILEY 1849_1916
and My Life of Riley Joy BURKI-WATSON 1950_20xx
When the Frost is on the Punkin
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here —
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock —
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries — kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below — the clover overhead! —
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse saussage, too! ...
I don't know how to tell it — but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on ME —
I'd want to 'commodate 'em — all the whole-indurin' flock —
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
James Whitcomb RILEY 1849_1916
RILEY James Whitcomb 1849_1916 rile1_0004 PXX_NXX When the Frost is on the Punkin_When the Frost is on the Punkin
My Life of Riley
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face,
I am adding cubes to coffee as I dream of breathing space.
‘Cause I know I’m in the tropics and it’s time to plan my day,
‘Fore the sun gets any hotter, with its radiant display.
There is somethin’ quite instinctive ‘bout the way I just accept
How my mind slips quick to thinkin’ ’bout that place that’s cool and wet.
It’s a Southern sort-of posture that is met with Southern grace,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.
There’s a beach that’s surely waitin’ with white sand and standin’ seas,
Where the wind is surely playin’ in the arms of swayin’ trees.
So I’m packin’ up my cooler, with six-packs of Royal Crown
Stackin’ up the bread with fixins’, then I’m icin’ them all down.
Grab my beach bag from the table, where it parks right handily
Grab a towel, and grab some lotion - don’t forget the MP 3.
I can leave behind my troubles - send my frown to outer space,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.
There is somethin’ kinda steamy ‘bout the weather we have here,
Not exactly like a sauna - ‘cause it’s saltier than there.
All the orange trees seem to love it as do lemons and key limes,
And the many bloomin’ flowers - Spanish moss and clingin’ vines.
At the beach the coolin’ breezes tease my senses all day long,
While I sit ‘neath my umbrella with my too-cool Raybans on.
I can dream that I am sailin’, leave behind that old home place,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.
There’s no point in belly achin’ ‘bout the rain that’s overdue
I just wipe my brow and ponder all that Northern folks go through.
They’re shovelin’ snow and scrapin’ ice - and a’missin’ all this bliss
Where warmin’ winds kiss cooler seas, there is naught to find amiss.
I can think of nothin’ finer than the joy of surf and sand,
All my senses stand elated - sated by this promised land.
Florida the land of sunshine - holds me in its warm embrace,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.
http: //allpoetry.com/poem/4891765
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Poem 5
WAke now my loue, awake; for it is time,
The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed,
All ready to her siluer coche to clyme,
And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed.
Hark how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies
And carroll of loues praise.
The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft,
The thrush replyes, the Mauis descant playes,
The Ouzell shrills, the Ruddock warbles soft,
So goodly all agree with sweet content,
To this dayes merriment.
Ah my deere loue why doe ye sleepe thus long,
When meeter were that ye should now awake,
T'awayt the comming of your ioyous make,
And hearken to the birds louelearned song,
The deawy leaues among.
For they of ioy and pleasance to you sing,
That all the woods them answer & theyr eccho ring.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Poem 8
HArke how the Minstrels gin to shrill aloud,
Their merry Musick that resounds from far,
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling Croud,
That well agree withouten breach or iar.
But most of all the Damzels doe delite,
When they their tymbrels smyte,
And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet,
That all the sences they doe rauish quite,
The whyles the boyes run vp and downe the street,
Crying aloud with strong confused noyce,
As if it were one voyce.
Hymen io Hymen, Hymen they do shout,
That euen to the heauens theyr shouting shrill
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill,
To which the people standing all about,
As in approuance doe thereto applaud
And loud aduance her laud,
And euermore they Hymen Hymen sing,
that al the woods them answer and theyr eccho ring.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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The Clover
Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose,
And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime
throws
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays
Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;
But what is the lily and all of the rest
Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest
That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew
Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?
I never set eyes on a clover-field now,
Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,
But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane
As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;
And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,
Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam
With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love
Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.
And so I love clover--it seems like a part
Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;
And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow
And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;
And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,
To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,
And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom
While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Poem 1
YE learned sisters which haue oftentimes
beene to me ayding, others to adorne:
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That euen the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simply layes,
But ioyed in theyr prayse.
And when ye lift your owne mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or loue, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your dolefull dreriment.
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside,
And hauing all your heads with girland crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loues prayses to resound,
Ne let the same of any be enuide,
So Orpheus did for his owne bride,
So I vnto my selfe alone will sing,
The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Tom Johnson's Quit
A passel o' the boys last night--
An' me amongst 'em--kindo got
To talkin' Temper'nce left an' right,
An' workin' up 'blue-ribbon,' _hot_;
An' while we was a-countin' jes'
How many bed gone into hit
An' signed the pledge, some feller says,--
'Tom Johnson's quit!'
We laughed, of course--'cause Tom, you know,
_He's_ spiled more whisky, boy an' man,
And seed more trouble, high an' low,
Than any chap but Tom could stand:
And so, says I '_He's_ too nigh dead.
Far Temper'nce to benefit!'
The feller sighed agin, and said--
'Tom Johnson's quit!'
We all _liked_ Tom, an' that was why
We sorto simmered down agin,
And ast the feller ser'ously
Ef he wa'n't tryin' to draw us in:
He shuck his head--tuck off his hat--
Helt up his hand an' opened hit,
An' says, says he, 'I'll _swear_ to that--
Tom Johnson's quit!'
Well, we was stumpt, an' tickled too,--
Because we knowed ef Tom _had_ signed
Ther wa'n't no man 'at wore the 'blue'
'At was more honester inclined:
An' then and there we kindo riz,--
The hull dern gang of us 'at bit--
An' th'owed our hats and let 'er whizz,--
'_Tom Johnson's quit!_'
I've heerd 'em holler when the balls
Was buzzin' 'round us wus 'n bees,
An' when the ole flag on the walls
Was flappin' o'er the enemy's,
I've heerd a-many a wild 'hooray'
'At made my heart git up an' git--
But Lord!--to hear 'em shout that way!--
'_Tom Johnson's quit!_'
But when we saw the chap 'at fetched
The news wa'n't jinin' in the cheer,
But stood there solemn-like, an' reched
An' kindo wiped away a tear,
We someway sorto' stilled agin,
And listened--I kin hear him yit,
His voice a-wobblin' with his chin,--
'Tom Johnson's quit--
'I hain't a-givin' you no game--
I wisht I was!... An hour ago,
This operator--what's his name--
The one 'at works at night, you know?--
Went out to flag that Ten Express,
And sees a man in front of hit
Th'ow up his hands an' stagger--yes,--
_Tom Johnson's quit_.'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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On The Death Of Sir Tho: Peltham
Meerly for man's death to mourne
Were to repine that man was borne.
When weake old age doth fall asleepe
Twere foule ingratitude to weepe:
Those threads alone should pull out tears
Whose sodayne cracke breaks off some years.
Heere tis not so: full distance heere
Sunders the cradle from the beere.
A fellow-traveller he hath beene
So long with Time: so worne to skinne,
That were hee not just now bereft,
His Body first his soule had left,
Threescore and tenne is Nature's date,
Our journey when wee come in late.
Beyond that time the overplus
Was granted not to him, but us.
For his own sake the Sun nere stood,
But only for the peoples good.
Even so his breath held out by aire
Which poore men uttered in theyr prayer:
And as his goods were lent to give,
So were his dayes that they might live,
Soe ten years more to him were told
Enough to make another olde.
O that Death would still doe soe;
Or else on good men would bestow
That wast of years which unthrifts fling
Away by theyr distempering,
That some might thrive by this decay
As well as that of land and clay.
'Twas now well done: no cause to moane
On such a seasonable stone.
Where death is but an Host, we sinne
Not bidding welcome to his Inne.
Sleepe, sleepe, thy rest, good man, embrace;
Sleepe, sleepe, th' ast trode a weary race.
poem by William Strode
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dark Hour
And now, when merry winds do blow,
And rain makes trees look fresh,
An overpowering staleness holds
This mortal flesh.
Though well I love to feel the rain,
And be by winds well blown --
The mystery of mortal life
Doth press me down.
And, In this mood, come now what will,
Shine Rainbow, Cuckoo call;
There is no thing in Heaven or Earth
Can lift my soul.
I know not where this state comes from --
No cause for grief I know;
The Earth around is fresh and green,
Flowers near me grow.
I sit between two fair rose trees;
Red roses on my right,
And on my left side roses are
A lovely white.
The little birds are full of joy,
Lambs bleating all the day;
The colt runs after the old mare,
And children play.
And still there comes this dark, dark hour --
Which is not borne of Care;
Into my heart it creeps before
I am aware.
poem by William Henry Davies
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To My Old Friend, William Leachman
Fer forty year and better you have been a friend to me,
Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity,
You allus had a kind word of counsul to impart,
Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart.
When I burried my first womern, William Leachman, it was you
Had the only consolation that I could listen to--
Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had rallied from the blow,
And when you said I'd do the same, I knowed you'd ort to know.
But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare--
Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the open air--
And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields a frozen glare,
And the neghbors' sleds and wagons congergatin' ev'rywhare.
I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away;
I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray;
And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two--
And my eyes'd never thawed out ef it hadn't been fer you!
We set thare by the smoke-house--me and you out thare alone--
Me a-thinkin'--you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone--
You a-talkin'--me a-thinkin' of the summers long ago,
And a-writin' 'Marthy--Marthy' with my finger in the snow!
William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I could then;
And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again,
And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say:
'Be rickonciled and bear it--we but linger fer a day!'
At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you and me--
Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be;
And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here,
In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your sheer.
It was better than the meetin', too, that nine-mile talk we had
Of the times when we first settled here and travel was so bad;
When we had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on 'Shanks's mare,'
And 'blaze' a road fer them behind that had to travel thare.
And now we was a-trottin' 'long a level gravel pike,
In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like--
Two of us on the front seat, and our wimmern-folks behind,
A-settin' in theyr Winsor-cheers in perfect peace of mind!
And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight:--
Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach; thare Gash Morgan had the fight
With the old stag-deer that pronged him--how he battled fer his life,
And lived to prove the story by the handle of his knife.
Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and we
Had tuck our grindin' to it in the Fall of Forty-three--
When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all the way,
And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day.
Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the 'Travelers' Rest,'
And thare, beyent the covered bridge, 'The Counter-fitters' Nest'--
Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted--that a man was murdered thare,
And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the place somewhare.
And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two--
You know we talked about the times when that old road was new:
How 'Uncle Sam' put down that road and never taxed the State
Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't _dim_-onstrate?
Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past;
But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last;
And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end,
I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.
With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane,
And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane,
I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name,
Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the same!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Tunning of Elenor Rumming
Tell you I chyll,
If that ye wyll
A whyle be styll,
Of a comely gyll
That dwelt on a hyll:
But she is not gryll,
For she is somwhat sage
And well worne in age;
For her vysage
It would aswage
A mannes courage.
Her lothely lere
Is nothynge clere,
But ugly of chere,
Droupy and drowsy,
Scurvy and lowsy;
Her face all bowsy,
Comely crynkled,
Woundersly wrynkled,
Lyke a rost pygges eare,
Brystled wyth here.
Her lewde lyppes twayne,
They slaver, men sayne,
Lyke a ropy rayne,
A gummy glayre:
She is ugly fayre;
Her nose somdele hoked,
And camously croked,
Never stoppynge,
But ever droppynge;
Her skynne lose and slacke,
Grained lyke a sacke;
With a croked backe.
Her eyen gowndy
Are full unsowndy,
For they are blered;
And she gray hered;
Jawed lyke a jetty;
A man would have pytty
To se how she is gumbed,
Fyngered and thumbed,
Gently joynted,
Gresed and annoynted
Up to the knockles;
The bones of her huckels
Lyke as they were with buckels
Togyther made fast:
Her youth is farre past:
Foted lyke a plane,
Legged lyke a crane;
And yet she wyll jet,
Lyke a jollyvet,
In her furred flocket,
And gray russet rocket,
With symper the cocket.
Her huke of Lyncole grene,
It had ben hers, I wene,
More then fourty yere;
And so doth it apere,
For the grene bare thredes
Loke lyke sere wedes,
Wyddered lyke hay,
The woll worne away;
And yet I dare saye
She thynketh herselfe gaye
Upon the holy daye,
Whan she doth her aray,
And gyrdeth in her gytes
Stytched and pranked with pletes;
Her kyrtel Brystow red,
With clothes upon her hed
That wey a sowe of led,
Wrythen in wonder wyse,
After the Sarasyns gyse
With a whym wham,
Knyt with a trym tram,
Upon her brayne pan,
Lyke an Egyptian,
Capped about:
When she goeth out
Herselfe for to shewe,
She dryveth downe the dewe
Wyth a payre of heles
As brode as two wheles;
She hobles as a gose
With her blanket hose
Over the falowe;
Her shone smered wyth talowe,
Gresed upon dyrt
That baudeth her skyrt.
Primus passus
And this comely dame,
I understande, her name
Is Elynour Rummynge,
At home in her wonnynge;
And as men say
She dwelt in Sothray,
In a certayne stede
Bysyde Lederhede.
She is a tonnysh gyb;
The devyll and she be syb.
But to make up my tale,
She breweth noppy ale,
And maketh therof port sale
To travellars, to tynkers,
To sweters, to swynkers,
And all good ale drynkers,
That wyll nothynge spare,
But drynke tyll they stare
And brynge themselfe bare,
With, "Now away the mare,
And let us sley care,
As wyse as an hare!"
Come who so wyll
To Elynour on the hyll,
Wyth, "Fyll the cup, fyll,"
And syt there by styll,
Erly and late:
Thyther cometh Kate,
Cysly, and Sare,
With theyr legges bare,
And also theyr fete,
Hardely, full unswete;
Wyth theyr heles dagged,
Theyr kyrtelles all to-jagged,
Theyr smockes all to-ragged,
Wyth titters and tatters,
Brynge dysshes and platters,
Wyth all theyr myght runnynge
To Elynour Rummynge,
To have of her tunnynge:
She leneth them on the same.
And thus begynneth the game.
Instede of coyne and monny,
Some brynge her a conny,
And some a pot with honny,
Some a salt, and some a spone,
Some theyr hose, some theyr shone;
Some ran a good trot
With a skellet or a pot;
Some fyll theyr pot full
Of good Lemster woll:
An huswyfe of trust,
Whan she is athrust,
Suche a webbe can spyn,
Her thryft is full thyn.
Some go streyght thyder,
Be it slaty or slyder;
They holde the hye waye,
They care not what men say,
Be that as be maye;
Some, lothe to be espyde,
Start in at the backe syde,
Over the hedge and pale,
And all for the good ale.
Some renne tyll they swete,
Brynge wyth them malte or whete,
And dame Elynour entrete
To byrle them of the best.
Than cometh an other gest;
She swered by the rode of rest,
Her lyppes are so drye,
Without drynke she must dye;
Therefore fyll it by and by,
And have here a pecke of ry.
Anone cometh another,
As drye as the other,
And wyth her doth brynge
Mele, salte, or other thynge,
Her harvest gyrdle, her weddyng rynge,
To pay for her scot
As cometh to her lot.
Som bryngeth her husbandes hood,
Because the ale is good;
Another brought her his cap
To offer to the ale-tap,
Wyth flaxe and wyth towe;
And some brought sowre dowe;
Wyth, "Hey, and wyth, Howe,
Syt we downe a-rowe,
And drynke tyll we blowe,
And pype tyrly tyrlowe!"
Some layde to pledge
Theyr hatchet and theyr wedge,
Theyr hekell and theyr rele,
Theyr rocke, theyr spynnyng whele;
And some went so narrowe,
They layde to pledge theyr wharrowe,
Theyr rybskyn and theyr spyndell,
Theyr nedell and theyr thymbell:
Here was scant thryft
Whan they made suche shyft
Theyr thrust was so great,
They asked never for mete,
But drynke, styll drynke,
"And let the cat wynke,
Let us washe our gommes
From the drye crommes!"
But some than sat ryght sad
That nothynge had
There of theyre awne,
Neyther gelt nor pawne;
Suche were there menny
That had not a penny,
But, whan they should walke,
Were fayne wyth a chalke
To score on the balke,
Or score on the tayle:
God gyve it yll hayle!
For my fyngers ytche;
I have wrytten to mytche
Of this mad mummynge
Of Elynour Rummynge:
Thus endeth the gest
Of this worthy fest!
Quod Skelton, Laureat.
poem by John Skelton
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The Grass Is Greener
The grass is greener so they say.
We venture to another lawn.
We still don't water and care for that grass.
That grass will be gone.
We focus on what we do not have.
Rather than what we do.
A crazy cycle of wanting more.
A jaded point of view.
Keeping up with the Joneses
A mad and thankless place.
Never stopping to smell the roses.
Running an endless race.
Life passes you by, then it's taken from you.
By a thief walking in the night.
Our wants they steal from all our needs.
Your life's a script you can't rewrite.
So value all it is that you have.
For you truly have been blessed.
Live a life that's full and abundant.
Live a life that is your best.
Grass is greener where it's watered.
With much love and with much care.
If home is where your heart is.
Put your love and your time there.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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