New England Mind
My mind matches this understand land.
Outdoors the pencilled tree, the wind-carved drift,
Indoors the constant fire, the careful thrift
Are facts that I accept and understand.
I have brought in red berries and green boughs-
Berries of black alder, boughs of pine.
They and the sunlight on them, both are mine.
I need no florist flowers in my house.
Having lived here the years that are my best,
I call it home. I am content to stay.
I have no bird's desire to fly away.
I envy neither north, east, south, nor west.
My outer world and inner make a pair.
But would the two be always of a kind?
Another latitude, another mind?
Or would I be New England anywhere?
poem by Robert Francis
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Related quotes
4. Blow me down
The North wind blew on Monday
As the East wind got the flu
The West wind blew on Tuesday
As the South wind never knew
The North East wind had Wednesday
As the South West wasn’t chuffed
The North West blew on Thursday
As the South East hardly puffed
The East and West blew Friday
As the others had a rest
The North and South blew Saturday
As the weekends were the best
The lot of them had Sunday
As the winds turned into storm
The whole of them had Monday off
As the week got back to norm
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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The People Want Peace
Got to land those war planes....,
Bury the guns....,
Hold back the subs...,
All the missles and bombs...,
Raise your voices high...,
And start singin' with me....,
Let's do what's right....,
I know you'll agree....,
The People Want Peace....,
There's no other way...,
The People Want Peace....,
Startin' today....,
From the south to the north....,
West to the east....,
There's no doubt in my mind....,
The People Want Peace....! ! !
We worked and we slaved....,
For so many years....,
Let's share some laughter....,
Forget all the tears....,
I know we can live....,
Without envy and greed....,
With freedom to choose....,
That's why I believe....,
The People Want Peace....,
There's no other way...,
The People Want Peace....,
Startin' today....,
From the south to the north....,
West to the east....,
There's no doubt in my mind....,
The People Want Peace....! ! !
poem by Trade Martin
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Wind
He shouts in the sails of the ships at sea,
He steals the down from the honeybee,
He makes the forest trees rustle and sing,
He twirls my kite till it breaks its string.
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
He calls up the fog and hides the hills,
He whirls the wings of the great windmills,
The weathercocks love him and turn to discover
His whereabouts -- but he's gone, the rover!
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
The pine trees toss him their cones with glee,
The flowers bend low in courtesy,
Each wave flings up a shower of pearls,
The flag in front of the school unfurls.
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Wind
He shouts in the sails of the ships at sea,
He steals the down from the honeybee,
He makes the forest trees rustle and sing,
He twirls my kite till it breaks its string.
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
He calls up the fog and hides the hills,
He whirls the wings of the great windmills,
The weathercocks love him and turn to discover
His whereabouts -- but he's gone, the rover!
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
The pine trees toss him their cones with glee,
The flowers bend low in courtesy,
Each wave flings up a shower of pearls,
The flag in front of the school unfurls.
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
poem by Amy Lowell
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House On A Cliff
Indoors the tang of a tiny oil lamp. Outdoors
The winking signal on the waste of sea.
Indoors the sound of the wind. Outdoors the wind.
Indoors the locked heart and the lost key.
Outdoors the chill, the void, the siren. Indoors
The strong man pained to find his red blood cools,
While the blind clock grows louder, faster. Outdoors
The silent moon, the garrulous tides she rules.
Indoors ancestral curse-cum-blessing. Outdoors
The empty bowl of heaven, the empty deep.
Indoors a purposeful man who talks at cross
Purposes, to himself, in a broken sleep.
poem by Louis Macneice
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In Your Mind There Remains Unrest
If you can't see it in the East.
And it can't be seen in the North.
So you look about in the West,
To declare that the South is best.
But,
Yet in your mind there remains unrest.
If you can't see it in the East.
And it can't be seen in the North.
So you look about in the West,
To declare that the South is best.
You seek a model,
In the East.
One you can bottle,
From the North.
To establish a nest,
One picked from the West.
And,
In the South you'll have that house...
Successfully built by an architect.
You seek a model,
In the East.
One you can bottle,
From the North.
To establish a nest,
One picked from the West.
And,
In the South you'll have that house...
Successfully built by an architect.
If you can't see it in the East.
And it can't be seen in the North.
So you look about in the West,
To declare that the South is best.
But,
Yet in your mind there remains unrest.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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St. Valentine's Day
The South is a dream of flowers
With a jewel for sky and sea,
Rose-crowns for the dancing hours,
Gold fruits upon every tree;
But cold from the North The wind blows forth
That blows my love to me.
The stars in the South are gold
Like lamps between sky and sea;
The flowers that the forests hold.
Like stars between tree and tree;
But little and white Is the pale moon's light
That lights my love to me.
In the South the orange grove
Makes dusk by the dusky sea,
White palaces wrought for love
Gleam white between tree and tree,
But under bare boughs Is the little house
Warm-lit for my love and me.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Wind Of Prediction
As the trees play in the breeze
Do you wonder what it may mean.
Does the wind coming from a certain direction
Mean something we should heed.
North wind blows cold and dry
Originating from the elements of earth
Read as the wind of death, colour black
Time to abondon issues no longer needed
Heed the news from the North.
West wind blows moist and fertile
Elements of water, coloured blue
Soothing, sensitive and healing.
Touch the cleansing power of the West.
South wind blows hot and dry
Of element fire, colour red
Usethe initiative and passion
To boost the ideals
Haste to feel the southern breeze.
East wind blows from the orient light
Assaulting with cold dry feel
Symbol of air, coloured white
Trust new starts from the East.
North South East and West
Thus the world changes
From whence it blows
That is what it will show
Predictions blown around.
poem by Alison Smith
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I Am' tree series # 2
i am tall
i am straight
i am ' TREE
as i see my leaves falling to the ground
surrounding my trunk like a skirt.
my branches stretch to all four corners
north, south, east, west
and as they fall, i know then
that i am dying.
i stretch my head to the father sun
and scream for his strength.
and down to mother earth
to quench my thirst.
for hundreds of years, i have lived
and flourished with a beauty that
all mankind admires.
i then realized that it was' autumn.'
i am replenishing my life,
to enter a new one.
as my branches, which touch each point
north, south, east, west
so are the four seasons.
'i am ' tree
i live, i die, i revive.
my beauty like love is eternal
in the eyes of the beholder.
'I AM' TREE.
poem by Louis Rams
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Appearances
I hated them when I was four years old,
The bright pink berries on the pepper tree.
And now they seem quite beautiful to me.
My tower of dreams when I was four years old
Was such a tree. Its branches hid me well,
Although I so disliked the berries' smell.
I had my dreams when I was four years old . . .
But groundling now, who once could mount in air,
I judge the high-swung bright pink berries, fair.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Understanding the mind of a young woman
You cannot understand the mind of a young woman
Its like a religion
Facts and myths are told
Always beyond comprehension
You will figure out the facts
Small, little facts
Through the years of being together
Yet when you gather
Will your fellow man
(O so much better!)
Every single fact you tell is different from another
A man will tell a fact of a woman,
another man will say it is not true
And tell them his own facts
In which another argument will pursue
I shall explain more simply
Why it is pointless to understand the mind of a young woman
Because all women are different!
Men have the same mind
Women are individuals
She has her own feelings, experiences-
Secrets…
The mind of women is not for men to know
Because it is ours alone
Only women possess this gift
Or curse some may call it
To understand the mind of a woman
You must be one of our own
So if you wish to be one of our own
You may ask us, the secrets of a woman
If not
Don’t even try
poem by Fidelis Patronus
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The Spice-Tree
This is the song
The spice-tree sings:
"Hunger and fire,
Hunger and fire,
Sky-born Beauty—
Spice of desire,"
Under the spice-tree
Watch and wait,
Burning maidens
And lads that mate.
The spice-tree spreads
And its boughs come down
Shadowing village and farm and town.
And none can see
But the pure of heart
The great green leaves
And the boughs descending,
And hear the song that is never ending.
The deep roots whisper,
The branches say:—
"Love to-morrow,
And love to-day,
And till Heaven's day,
And till Heaven's day."
The moon is a bird's nest in its branches,
The moon is hung in its topmost spaces.
And there, to-night, two doves play house
While lovers watch with uplifted faces.
Two doves go home
To their nest, the moon.
It is woven of twigs of broken light,
With threads of scarlet and threads of gray
And a lining of down for silk delight.
To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves,
Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree;—
And one is the kiss I took from you,
And one is the kiss you gave to me.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Birds at Winter Nightfall (Triolet)
Around the house the flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone
From holly and cotoneaster
Around the house. The flakes fly!--faster
Shutting indoors that crumb-outcaster
We used to see upon the lawn
Around the house. The flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone!
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Evening In A Sugar Orchard
From where I lingered in a lull in march
outside the sugar-house one night for choice,
I called the fireman with a careful voice
And bade him leave the pan and stoke the arch:
'O fireman, give the fire another stoke,
And send more sparks up chimney with the smoke.'
I thought a few might tangle, as they did,
Among bare maple boughs, and in the rare
Hill atmosphere not cease to glow,
And so be added to the moon up there.
The moon, though slight, was moon enough to show
On every tree a bucket with a lid,
And on black ground a bear-skin rug of snow.
The sparks made no attempt to be the moon.
They were content to figure in the trees
As Leo, Orion, and the Pleiades.
And that was what the boughs were full of soon.
poem by Robert Frost
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Desire To Know You
First World,
Second World,
A Third World call when a bard writes;
Flow with my mind and let us rule the world.
In my mind,
In my world,
With my views to teach many;
The desire to know you matters to me.
To appreciate it,
To love it,
A Third World call when a bard writes;
The hope to work with you.
Of a world full of questions and answers,
Of the love of the muse that muses;
To swim with an empty bowl at hand with,
The vision still in mind.
Together we live, together we can make it;
Two heads are better than one.
First World,
Second World,
Write like a writer and teach like a teacher;
Two heads are better than one.
Indoors and outdoors activities,
The comedy of one's life;
There are no distances in friendship.
Together we live, together we camn make it;
Like the actions of one's move.
To appreciate it and to love it,
To write it and to learn from it,
A world full of questions and answers;
The desire to know you matters to me.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Individuals
In the west we look to the east.
In the east we look to the west.
In the south we look to the north
and in the north we look to the south.
Wherever we are we look to the opposite
for the mystical sunshine
we see in others eyes.
That promise of plenty
everyone seems to have.
Each life is individual
to be lived the same way.
Each will have separate roads
along which to travel.
Each will find something
in what others have declined.
Each will find a path
to the heaven that they seek
as the individuals we are.
20 September 2010
poem by David Harris
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The Withering Of The Boughs
I CRIED when the moon was mutmuring to the birds:
'Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind.'
The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill,
And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
I know of the leafy paths that the witches take
Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool,
And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake;
I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind
Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool
On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round
Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly.
A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound
Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind
With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;
I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Fortuna
The wind blows east, the wind blows west,
And the frost falls and the rain:
A weary heart went thankful to rest,
And must rise to toil again, 'gain,
And must rise to toil again.
The wind blows east, the wind blows west,
And there comes good luck and bad;
The thriftiest man is the cheerfulest;
'Tis a thriftless thing to be sad, sad,
'Tis a thriftless thing to be sad.
The wind blows east, the wind blows west;
Ye shall know a tree by its fruit:
This world, they say, is worst to the best; --
But a dastard has evil to boot, boot,
But a dastard has evil to boot.
The wind blows east, the wind blows west;
What skills it to mourn or to talk?
A journey I have, and far ere I rest;
I must bundle my wallets and walk, walk,
I must bundle my wallets and walk.
The wind does blow as it lists alway;
Canst thou change this world to thy mind?
The world will wander its own wise way;
I also will wander mine, mine,
I also will wander mine.
poem by Thomas Carlyle
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just how right I am
I just can’t understand
how it is that
the world can’t understand
how right I am
and how wrong it is
OK, we’ll excuse the world, for the moment,
since it is far removed from my person
and my mind
so it can’t really be expected to understand my
unfailing rightness:
just how right I am and how just I am;
but the family, my family –
no, not the family of man
but the damned family of mine, my blood and bones and skin –
I can’t understand for the world of me
why my own family
that eats at the table with me
can’t understand
how right I am
and wrong they are…
just how right I am
and how just I am…
Look, I can understand about the world
but I just can’t understand
how the family….
I mean, this is where the family is important
for if the family can give me
just a little support –
just a teeny-weeny bit – I mean how much
does it take
for the family to see
how right I am
and how wrong the family is.
Is that really asking for too much?
You see, I’m sure you can see,
if only the family could agree
the world itself would see
how right I am…
But what is to be done?
prophets are never accepted
in their own home
and so in their own family too…
and so perhaps the truth lies in this cliché…
still, if one looks at it clearly,
I just can’t understand
how it is that
the world, which includes that silly family of mine,
can’t understand
how right I am
and how wrong it is
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Farewell To Florida
I
Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
Key West sank downward under massive clouds
And silvers and greens spread over the sea. The moon
Is at the mast-head and the past is dead.
Her mind will never speak to me again.
I am free. High above the mast the moon
Rides clear of her mind and the waves make a refrain
Of this: that the snake has shed its skin upon
The floor. Go on through the darkness. The waves fly back
II
Her mind had bound me round. The palms were hot
As if I lived in ashen ground, as if
The leaves in which the wind kept up its sound
From my North of cold whistled in a sepulchral South,
Her South of pine and coral and coraline sea,
Her home, not mine, in the ever-freshened Keys,
Her days, her oceanic nights, calling
For music, for whisperings from the reefs.
How content I shall be in the North to which I sail
And to feel sure and to forget the bleaching sand ...
III
I hated the weathery yawl from which the pools
Disclosed the sea floor and the wilderness
Of waving weeds. I hated the vivid blooms
Curled over the shadowless hut, the rust and bones,
The trees likes bones and the leaves half sand, half sun.
To stand here on the deck in the dark and say
Farewell and to know that that land is forever gone
And that she will not follow in any word
Or look, nor ever again in thought, except
That I loved her once ... Farewell. Go on, high ship.
IV
My North is leafless and lies in a wintry slime
Both of men and clouds, a slime of men in crowds.
The men are moving as the water moves,
This darkened water cloven by sullen swells
Against your sides, then shoving and slithering,
The darkness shattered, turbulent with foam.
To be free again, to return to the violent mind
That is their mind, these men, and that will bind
Me round, carry me, misty deck, carry me
To the cold, go on, high ship, go on, plunge on.
poem by Wallace Stevens
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