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Gipsy

The poppies that in Spring I sow,
In rings of radiance gleam and glow,
Like lords and ladies gay.
A joy are they to dream beside,
As in the air of eventide
They flutter, dip and sway.

For some are scarlet, some are gold,
While some in fairy flame unfold,
And some are rose and white.
There's pride of breeding in their glance,
And pride of beauty as they dance
Cotillions of delight.

Yet as I lift my eyes I see
Their swarthy kindred wild and free.
Who flaunt it in the field.
"Begone, you Romanies!" I say,
"Lest you defile this bright array
Whose loveliness I shield."

My poppies are a sheen of light;
They take with ecstasy the sight,
And hold the heart elate . . . .
Yet why do I so often turn
To where their outcast brothers burn
With passion at my gate?

My poppies are my joy and pride;
Yet wistfully I gaze outside
To where their sisters yearn;
Their blowzy crimson cups afire,
Their lips aflutter with desire
To give without return.

My poppies dance a minuet;
Like courtiers in silk they set
My garden all aglow . . . .
Yet O the vagrants at my gate!
The gipsy trulls who peer and wait! . . .
Calling the heart they know.

poem by Robert William Service
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A Song Of Poppies

I love red poppies! Imperial red poppies!
Sun-worshippers are they;
Gladly as trees live through a hundred summers
They live one little day.

I love red poppies! Impassioned scarlet poppies!
Ever their strange perfume
Seems like an essence brewed by fairy people
From an immortal bloom.

I love red poppies! Red, silken, swaying poppies!
Deep in their hearts they keep
A magic cure for woe--a draught of Lethe--
A lotus-gift of sleep.

I love red poppies! Soft silver-stemmed, red poppies,
That from the rain and sun
Gather a balm to heal some earth-born sorrow,
When their glad day is done.

poem by Virna Sheard
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The Prince's Progress (excerpt)

"Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate.
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.

"Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.

"Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?

"We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
That used to be so brown.

"We never heard her speak in haste;
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.

"You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread."

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Poppies

Poppies they say adieu, goodbye,
men fought, yet did not want to die,
Poppies were tossing, waving free,
as war took lives so poignantly.

Poppies upstanding, boldly grow,
youth enlisted but did not know,
Poppieswould represent such pain,
that they would never forget the slain.

Poppies beautiful, fresh and new,
All one bright colour, flawless hue,
Poppies petals see where they land,
upon a face, an arm or a hand.

Poppies vibrant, stunningly red,
softly surround each silent head,
Poppies fragile, dainty and neat,
guard the space around their feet.

Poppies carpeting the hard ground,
where the marching of boots resound,
Poppies whose wind blown seas of blood,
captured them like a mighty flood.

Poppies tell of their dreams long lost, ,
we hear their names, we count the cost.
Poppies bring tears as we recall,
our loved ones parted from us all.

Poppies they say goodbye, adieu,
men fought for me, they fought for you.
Those tossing poppies, waving free,
mean remembrance to you and me.

Copyright. Ernestine Northover

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Two Schools

I put my heart to school
In the world, where men grow wise,
"Go out," I said, "and learn the rule;
Come back when you win a prize."

My heart came back again:
"Now where is the prize?" I cried. ----
"The rule was false, and the prize was pain,
And the teacher's name was Pride."

I put my heart to school
In the woods, where veeries sing,
And brooks run cool and clear;
In the fields, where wild flowers spring,
And the blue of heaven bends near.
"Go out," I said: "you are half a fool,
But perhaps they can teach you here."

"And why do you stay so long,
My heart, and where do you roam?"
The answer came with a laugh and a song, ---
"I find this school is home."

poem by Henry Van Dyke
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You're right—

234

You're right—"the way is narrow"—
And "difficult the Gate"—
And "few there be"—Correct again—
That "enter in—thereat"—

'Tis Costly—So are purples!
'Tis just the price of Breath—
With but the "Discount" of the Grave—
Termed by the Brokers—"Death"!

And after that—there's Heaven—
The Good Man's—"Dividend"—
And Bad Men—"go to Jail"—
I guess—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Another Acrostic ( In the style of Father William )

"Are you deaf, Father William!" the young man said,
"Did you hear what I told you just now?
"Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head
"Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!
"A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
"Is my friend, so I beg to remark:
"Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down
"Entitled 'The Hunt of the Snark?'"

"Pack it up in brown paper!" the old man cried,
"And seal it with olive-and-dove.
"I command you to do it!" he added with pride,
"Nor forget, my good fellow to send her beside
"Easter Greetings, and give her my love."

poem by Lewis Carroll
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The rock-a-by lady

The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street
Comes stealing; comes creeping;
The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,
And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet -
She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,
When she findeth you sleeping!

There is one little dream of a beautiful drum -
"Rub-a-dub!" it goeth;
There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,
And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come
Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum,
And a trumpet that bloweth!

And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams
With laughter and singing;
And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,
And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,
And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,
The fairies go winging!

Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?
They'll come to you sleeping;
So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,
For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street,
With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,
Comes stealing; comes creeping.

poem by Eugene Field
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Poppies

Seeing poppies growing in the wild,
Takes me back to when I was a child.
We’d often go for walks on a Sunday,
And often spot poppies along the way.

My dad’s hand I would tightly hold,
As I spied the poppies bright and bold.
Because I was young and very small,
The poppies seemed to be so very tall.

There was a field full of them, which I adored.
By their appearance, I never ever grew bored.
The large field where the poppies once grew,
Soon made way for a factory, shiny and new.

True to say, it was only empty waste ground,
But it was our little haven, which we found.
I think they should have left the field alone,
So as, through it, other people could still roam.

I know everyone nowadays talks about progress,
But there are times, when it’s not always for the best.
When they cleared that large patch of waste land,
That stunning view became something very bland.

To me, they are a flower which brings much cheer,
As they remind me of times, which I hold so dear.
Now, when I spot poppies growing here and there,
They remind me of the days, when I had little care.

That riot of colour. That sea of red:
That vision is still there in my head.
I can still picture it in my mind’s eye,
And recall those days of times gone by.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No

Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."

poem by Michael Drayton
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Pity Me, Loo!

On the sunset borders of the mountains I stray,
Of a dear home dreaming 'yond the snow peaks far away,
While the bubbling brook beside me goes dancing along,
As it seeks the "Golden Gate" of the ocean blue;
And a lone bird murmurs in the bush-top his song--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

Tra la la la, la la la la
From mate to mate the carol rings:
Tra la la la, la la la la!
la la la la
A thousand valleys through;
Yet the lone bird sorrows as he plaintively sings--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

'Neath the rocks I'm treading there are treasures of gold,
But by far more precious is my own native mold.
Nevermore, in search of Beauty need Fancy take wings:
Here is beauty, here is grandeur, at ev'ry view;
Yet my heart grows heavy, and the lone bird still sings--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

In the green-clad valley where the wayward brook mends
There are homes most charming--there are warmhearted friends.
Lovely dell! it seems an Eden, afloat in mid-air,
As if God had sent from Heaven a creation new;
But its charm is broken, for my heart is not there--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

poem by Henry Clay Work
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A Poet's Wooing

I woo'd a woman once,
But she was sharper than an eastern wind.
Tennyson

"What may I do to make you glad,
To make you glad and free,
Till your light smiles glance
And your bright eyes dance
Like sunbeams on the sea?
Read some rhyme that is blithe and gay
Of a bright May morn and a marriage day?"
And she sighed in a listless way she had,--
"Do not read--it will make me sad!"

"What shall I do to make you glad--
To make you glad and gay,
Till your eyes gleam bright
As the stars at night
When as light as the light of day
Sing some song as I twang the strings
Of my sweet guitar through its wanderings?"
And she sighed in the weary way she had,--
"Do not sing--it will make me sad!"

"What can I do to make you glad--
As glad as glad can be,
Till your clear eyes seem
Like the rays that gleam
And glint through a dew-decked tree?--
Will it please you, dear, that I now begin
A grand old air on my violin?"
And she spoke again in the following way,--
"Yes, oh yes, it would please me, sir;
I would be so glad you'd play
Some grand old march--in character,--
And then as you march away
I will no longer thus be sad,
But oh, so glad--so glad--so glad!"

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses

I saw Lord Buddha towering by my gate
Saying: "Once more, good youth, I stand and wait."
Saying: "I bring you my fair Law of Peace
And from your withering passion full release;
Release from that white hand that stabbed you so.
The road is calling. With the wind you go,
Forgetting her imperious disdain —
Quenching all memory in the sun and rain."

"Excellent Lord, I come. But first," I said,
"Grant that I bring her these twelve roses red.
Yea, twelve flower kisses for her rose-leaf mouth,
And then indeed I go in bitter drouth
To that far valley where your river flows
In Peace, that once I found in every rose."

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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The Gardener XXVI: What Comes From Your Willing Hands

"What comes from your willing
hands I take. I beg for nothing
more."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If there be a stray flower for me
I will wear it in my heart."
"But if there be thorns?"
"I will endure them."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If but once you should raise your
loving eyes to my face it would make
my life sweet beyond death."
"But if there be only cruel
glances?"
"I will keep them piercing my
heart."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Woman At The Gate

"Where is your little boy to-day?"
I asked her at the gate.
"I used to see him at his play,
And often I would wait:
He was so beautiful, so bright,
I watched him with delight.

"He had a tiny motor-car
And it was painted red;
He wound it up; it ran so far,
So merrily it sped.
I think he told me that it was
A gift from Santa Claus."

The woman said: "It ran so far
He followed it with joy.
Then came a real motor-car,--
He sought to save his toy . . .
My little boy is far away
Where angel children play.

"His father perished in the War;
Now I am all alone,
And death is all I'm longing for . . ."
So said with face of stone
That woman. "Curse their crazy cars
And cruel wars!"

poem by Robert William Service
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I Wonder.

In Flanders Fields red poppies grow.
But long dead warriors lie below.
Their rotted bodies nourishing
The scarlet poppies flourishing..

As if to draw attention to.
The graves of men who never knew.
That they would not see their homes more
But here they lie for evermore.

In Flanders Fields lost heroes lie.
In unmarked graves beneath the sky.
Far from the which gave them birth
They add their substance to the earth.

Which Belgian farmers cultivate.
Selected randomly by fate.
There can be few survivors left

But those of us who choose to go
To Flanders where the poppies grow.
All make the trip to show respect
Numbers dwindling as you'd expect.

There's very few now left to go.
To see the scarlet poppies glow
The numbers grow less day by day.
When they are called they must obey.

Rejoining those who went before.
The men who fell in the Great War.
I wonder will poppies still grow
When there's no one left to go.

Monday,25 June 2012

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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My Fairy

I have a fairy by my side
Which says I must not sleep,
When once in pain I loudly cried
It said "You must not weep"
If, full of mirth, I smile and grin,
It says "You must not laugh"
When once I wished to drink some gin
It said "You must not quaff".

When once a meal I wished to taste
It said "You must not bite"
When to the wars I went in haste
It said "You must not fight".

"What may I do?" at length I cried,
Tired of the painful task.
The fairy quietly replied,
And said "You must not ask".

Moral: "You mustn't."

poem by Lewis Carroll
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A Child in the Garden

When to the garden of untroubled thought
I came of late, and saw the open door,
And wished again to enter, and explore
The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought,
And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught,
It seemed some purer voice must speak before
I dared to tread that garden loved of yore,
That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.

Then just within the gate I saw a child, --
A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear;
He held his hands to me, and softly smiled
With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear:
"Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me;"
"I am the little child you used to be."

poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Hill, The

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old. . . ." "And when we die
All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
-- "Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"

"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;
"We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
-- And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

poem by Rupert Brooke
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Would You Know?

Would you know the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a?
Eyes must be downcast and staid,
Cheeks must flush for shame-a!
She may neither dance nor sing,
But, demure in everything,
Hang her head in modest way
With pouting lips that seem to say,
"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
Though I die of shame-a!"
Please you, that's the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a!

When a maid is bold and gay
With a tongue goes clang-a,
Flaunting it in brave array,
Maiden may go hang-a!
Sunflower gay and hollyhock
Never shall my garden stock;
Mine the blushing rose of May,
With pouting lips that seem to say
"Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
Though I die for shame-a!"
Please you, that's the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a!

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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I Dreamt, I Dreamt Of Poppies

I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
Growing wild in yonder field
They were blooming red and wonderful
Like a dancer, laced and frilled

Fluttering in the sunshine
Like waves of autumn grain
Or a rolling sea…majestic
As a queen in summer reign

I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
What a glorious display
In a blaze that flamed the skyline
Of a desert far away

I couldn't see the reason
Yet, they flourished in the sand
When all around was barren
In this brutal foreign land

I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
Like a ribbon drawn in blood
A slash on the horizon
In a soulless evil flood

The sky was dark and eerie
And smoke had filled the air
The atmosphere, chaotic
With shouting everywhere

I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
In a garden by a stream
The blooms were bold, were beautiful
More vibrant than a dream

Aside a marble stone
Where hand to heart I wept
For the soul that lay in slumber
Beneath the sod he slept

poem by Leria Hawkins
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