April Tears Were Falling
On a late April evening
In two thousand and two,
The breezes blew southerly
Beneath sky of pale blue...
Our Queen Mother's funeral was over
England's fair Lady we shall ever adore;
Her fine regal spirit ascended on high
To heaven's sweet golden shore,
Where reigned her dear Love, the King
Who died many years before.
May God in His unfailing kindess
Take care of them both evermore.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Home Thoughts from Abroad
April in England–daffodils are growing
By every wayside, golden, tall and fair;
April–and all the little winds are blowing
The scents of springtime through the sunny air.
April in England–God, that we were there!
April in England–and her sons are lying
On these red fields, and dreaming of her shore;
April–we hear the thrushes' songs replying
Each unto each, above the cannons' roar;
April in England–shall we see it more?
April in England–there's the cuckoo calling
Down in her meadows where the cowslip gleams;
April–and little showers are softly falling,
Dimpling the surface of her babbling streams;
April in England–how the shrapnel screams!
April in England–blood and dust and smother,
Screaming of horses, men in agony.
April–full many of thy sons, O Mother,
Never again those dewy dawns shall see.
April in England–God, keep England free!
poem by Norah M. Holland
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My Cottage Home
1.
My home, my home, my cottage home,
Thou fair and lovely spot,
How sad and lonely is my soul,
When I can view thee not;
The vines may blossom in my path,
And flowers I most adore,
But what are all their charm to me,
If not beside my door.
2.
Home is a name ne'er forget,
Like other names of earth;
We never grow old to love
The spot that gave us birth;
And when in dreams of faded years;
Of all our youthful pride,
How sweet to dwell beneath the roof,
Where our dear parents died.
3.
My home, my home, my cottage home,
I'll love thee evermore,
And evry heart that greets me when
I reach thy humble door;
And though my mother's smile be gone;
My mother's watchful care,
I love to dwell beneath the roof,
For home was always there.
poem by Septimus Winner
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At Last
O mother, open the window wide
And let the daylight in;
The hills grow darker to my sight
And thoughts begin to swim.
And mother dear, take my young son,
(Since I was born of thee)
And care for all his little ways
And nurse him on thy knee.
And mother, wash my pale pale hands
And then bind up my feet;
My body may no longer rest
Out of its winding sheet.
And mother dear, take a sapling twig
And green grass newly mown,
And lay them on my empty bed
That my sorrow be not known.
And mother, find three berries red
And pluck them from the stalk,
And burn them at the first cockcrow
That my spirit may not walk.
And mother dear, break a willow wand,
And if the sap be even,
Then save it for sweet Robert’s sake
And he’ll know my soul’s in heaven.
And mother, when the big tears fall,
(And fall, God knows, they may)
Tell him I died of my great love
And my dying heart was gay.
And mother dear, when the sun has set
And the pale kirk grass waves,
Then carry me through the dim twilight
And hide me among the graves.
poem by Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal
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O'Donohue's Mistress
Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, returns to me.
Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eves,
Fair lake, thou'rt dearest to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him
Who dwells, bright lake, in thee.
Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
White Steed, most joy to thee;
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
My love, my chief, to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch'd, thy long mane curls,
Fair Steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Around my love and thee.
Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet that death will be,
Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, I'll die for thee.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Magnificat
THIS is Christ's birthday: long ago
He lay upon His Mother's knee,
Who kissed and blessed Him soft and low--
God's gift to her, as you to me.
My baby dear, my little one,
The love that rocks this cradling breast
Is such as Mary gave her Son:
She was more honoured, not more blest.
He smiled as you smile: not more sweet
Than your eyes were those eyes of His,
And just such little hands and feet
As yours Our Lady used to kiss.
The world's desire that Mother bore:
She held a King upon her knee:
O King of all my world, and more
Than all the world's desire to me!
I thank God on the Christmas morn,
For He has given me all things good:
This body which a child has borne,
This breast, made holy for his food.
High in high heaven Our Lady's throne
Beside her Son's stands up apart:
I sit on heaven's steps alone
And hold my king against my heart.
Across dark depths she hears your cry;
She sees your smile, through worlds of blue
Who was a mother, even as I,
And loved her Child, as I love you.
And to her heart my babe is dear,
Because she bore the Babe Divine,
And all my soul to hers draws near,
And loves Him for the sake of mine!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Three Roads
There is a town in Ireland,
A little town I know;
Its girls have tender Irish eyes
Beneath their brows of snow;
And in the field around it
The Fairy Hawthorns grow.
O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
The sweet brown thrushes sing.
And from that little city
Three roads forever run
And on those roads the people,
The father and the son,
The mother and the daughter,
Walk till the day is done.
O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
The thrushes sadly sing.
One road runs to the seaport
Where stately vessels lie -
American, Australian -
The weeping exiles cry,
Farewell to Grave and Hearthstone!
Dear Ireland - good-bye!
O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
'Farewell!' the thrushes sing.
One road it is a red, red road -
That road to England goes;
The battle-drums are sounding,
The trump of battle blows;
And Ireland's sons go forth to fight
Against Red England's foes.
O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And within her heart of green
The mournful thrushes sing.
One road it is a quiet road;
They travel it full slow,
Their eyes are filled with sorrow,
The silent folk who go
To where the Stones of Silence
Are shining, row on row.
O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And a Lady fair and grand,
And the thrushes sing the keen
Of the Dead - in Ireland.
poem by Victor James Daley
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Serenade
THE western wind is blowing fair
Across the dark Ægean sea,
And at the secret marble stair
My Tyrian galley waits for thee.
Come down! the purple sail is spread,
The watchman sleeps within the town,
O leave thy lily-flowered bed,
O Lady mine come down, come down!
She will not come, I know her well,
Of lover's vows she hath no care,
And little good a man can tell
Of one so cruel and so fair.
True love is but a woman's toy,
They never know the lover's pain,
And I who loved as loves a boy
Must love in vain, must love in vain.
O noble pilot tell me true
Is that the sheen of golden hair?
Or is it but the tangled dew
That binds the passion-flowers there?
Good sailor come and tell me now
Is that my Lady's lily hand?
Or is it but the gleaming prow,
Or is it but the silver sand?
No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew,
'Tis not the silver-fretted sand,
It is my own dear Lady true
With golden hair and lily hand!
O noble pilot steer for Troy,
Good sailor ply the labouring oar,
This is the Queen of life and joy
Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!
The waning sky grows faint and blue,
It wants an hour still of day,
Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,
O Lady mine away! away!
O noble pilot steer for Troy,
Good sailor ply the labouring oar,
O loved as only loves a boy!
O loved for ever evermore!
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The Sisters - A Picture By Barry
The shade for me, but over thee
The lingering sunshine still;
As, smiling, to the silent stream
Comes down the singing rill.
So come to me, my little one,--
My years with thee I share,
And mingle with a sister's love
A mother's tender care.
But keep the smile upon thy lip,
The trust upon thy brow;
Since for the dear one God hath called
We have an angel now.
Our mother from the fields of heaven
Shall still her ear incline;
Nor need we fear her human love
Is less for love divine.
The songs are sweet they sing beneath
The trees of life so fair,
But sweetest of the songs of heaven
Shall be her children's prayer.
Then, darling, rest upon my breast,
And teach my heart to lean
With thy sweet trust upon the arm
Which folds us both unseen!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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To Mother, Sweet Mother (on Mother's Day,2012)
Sweet mother,
We remember
Our stay together,
With dear father!
Can we ever
Forget your love and care?
We can never
Return your gifts, precious and rare!
Mother, you were a lady great;
Someone, no one on earth could hate;
A teacher, home-maker, top-rate;
You changed for better, our fate!
Your good nature, we can't equate;
Your roles in life, we can't under-state;
Your sacrifices, we can't enumerate;
Your example, we want to emulate.
We cannot thank you mother dear,
With words, gifts, savories, flower!
You put us on the road to God;
We pray you get the Lord's reward!
Today, you aren't alive
But, you were the queen-bee
Of our pleasant hive!
"Happy Mother's Day,2012! " dear mom,
(Late) Mrs. Stella Antoniswami, Old Chungam, Coimbatore
By loving dad (Late) and all children
Copyright by Dr John Celes 7-5-'12
poem by John Celes
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A Calendar of Sonnets: April
No days such honored days as these! While yet
Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide
For some fair thing which should forever bide
On earth, her beauteous memory to set
In fitting frame that no age could forget,
Her name in lovely April's name did hide,
And leave it there, eternally allied
To all the fairest flowers Spring did beget.
And when fair Aphrodite passed from earth,
Her shrines forgotten and her feasts of mirth,
A holier symbol still in seal and sign,
Sweet April took, of kingdom most divine,
When Christ ascended, in the time of birth
Of spring anemones, in Palestine.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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The Wind
O, wind! what saw you in the South,
In lilied meadows fair and far?
I saw a lover kiss his lass
New-won beneath the evening star.
O, wind! what saw you in the West
Of passing sweet that wooed your stay?
I saw a mother kneeling by
The cradle where her first-born lay.
O, wind! what saw you in the North
That you shall dream of evermore?
I saw a maiden keeping tryst
Upon a gray and haunted shore.
O, wind! what saw you in the East
That still of ancient dole you croon?
I saw a wan wreck on the waves
And a dead face beneath the moon.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Hattie House
Air -- "Lily Dale"
Come all kind friends, wherever you may be,
Come listen to what I say,
It's of a little girl that was pleasant to see,
And she died while out doors at play.
CHORUS:
Oh! Hattie, dear Hattie,
Sweet little Hattie House --
May the flowers ever bloom o'er the little tomb,
Of our loved one, Hattie House.
She had blue eyes and light flaxen hair,
Her little heart was light and gay,
She said to her mother, that morning fair,
"Mother, can I go out and play?"
Her mother tied her bonnet on,
Not thinking it would be the last
She would ever see her dear little one
In this world, little Hattie House.
She left the house, this dear little girl,
On that bright and pleasant day --
She went to play with two little girls
That were near about her age.
She was not gone but a little while
When they heard her playmates call --
Her friends hastened there to save the child,
Alas, she was dead and gone.
Those little girls will not forget
The day little Hattie died,
For she was with them when she fell in a fit,
While playing by their side.
She was her parents' only child,
And her age was near six years,
And now she has left them for a while --
Left all her friends in tears.
She has left this world of grief and woe,
Dear friends, she has left behind --
She is waiting on the other shore,
To meet them bye and bye.
One fine morning, the fifth of July,
The summer flowers were in bloom,
Eighteen seventy-one, little Hattie died,
And is sleeping in her tomb.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Our Lady of Health, Vailangkanni!
O Queen of Heaven, Star of Sea!
Our dear Annai Vailangkanni!
So many met a grave, watery!
Could you not stall the Tsunami?
A lady with her infant child,
Who wore stars for crown on her head,
Had appeared in a divine way,
When sailors prayed for help, that day!
The Portuguese promised to build
A church for her if she would quell
The stormy sea, threatening to kill;
And take them safe to shore God-willed!
They knelt and prayed to her with tears:
‘Mother of Jesus, take our fears;
O Spare our lives for ones all dear! ’
The Queen of Health did promptly hear.
The sea became all quiet, calm;
The ship was protected from harm;
The sailors landed on the shore
Where stood ajar, a church’s door!
Our lady with infant Jesus
Had saved their lives from Satan’s curse;
Their hearts with gratitude afilled;
By miracle, the sea was stilled!
They built a bigger church for her;
And hoisted flag of dear Mother;
The church wrought miracles with time,
As people flocked to her all clime.
O Queen of Heaven, Star of Sea!
Our dear Annai Vailangkanni!
How many died so easily!
Could you not stall the Tsunami?
Perhaps, if they had prayed to her,
She would have saved their lives, mother;
Yet, those inside the Church escaped,
As sea-water did not enter!
While many those around saw death,
Caught by the swirling killer waves,
With death and destruction galore,
The church was spared by miracle!
Pray for us, O Mother Mary!
With tears we say the Rosary;
Our lives at times do turn scary;
Our cross in life, Help us carry!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-24-2008
poem by John Celes
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The Captive Child
September 8: 1650
Child in girlhood's early grace,
Pale white rose of royal race,
Flower of France, and England's flower,
What dost here at twilight hour
Captive bird in castle-hold,
Picture-fair and calm and cold,
Cold and still as marble stone
In gray Carisbrook alone?
--Fold thy limbs and take thy rest,
Nestling of the silent nest!
Ah fair girl! So still and meek,
One wan hand beneath her cheek,
One on the holy texts that tell
Of God's love ineffable;--
Last dear gift her father gave
When, before to-morrow's grave,
By no unmanly grief unmann'd,
To his little orphan band
In that stress of anguish sore
He bade farewell evermore.
Doom'd, unhappy King! Had he
Known the pangs in store for thee,
Known the coarse fanatic rage
That,--despite her flower-soft age,
Maidenhood's first blooming fair,--
Fever-struck in the imprison'd air
As rosebud on the dust-hill thrown
Cast a child to die alone,--
He had shed, with his last breath,
Bitterer tears than tears of death!
As in her infant hour she took
In her hand the pictured book
Where Christ beneath the scourger bow'd,
Crying 'O poor man!' aloud,
And in baby tender pain
Kiss'd the page, and kiss'd again,
While the happy father smiled
On his sweet warm-hearted child;
--So now to him, in Carisbrook lone,
All her tenderness has flown.
Oft with a child's faithful heart
She has seen him act his part;
Nothing in his life so well
Gracing him as when he fell;
Seen him greet his bitter doom
As the mercy-message Home;
Seen the scaffold and the shame,
The red shower that fell like flame;
Till the whole heart within her died,
Dying in fancy by his side.
--Statue-still and statue-fair
Now the low wind may lift her hair,
Motionless in lip and limb;
E'en the fearful mouse may skim
O'er the window-sill, nor stir
From the crumb at sight of her;
Through the lattice unheard float
Summer blackbird's evening note;--
E'en the sullen foe would bless
That pale utter gentleness.
--Eyes of heaven, that pass and peep,
Do not question, if she sleep!
She has no abiding here,
She is past the starry sphere;
Kneeling with the children sweet
At the palm-wreathed altar's feet;
--Innocents who died like thee,
Heaven-ward through man's cruelty,
To the love-smiles of their Lord
Borne through pain and fire and sword.
poem by Francis Turner Palgrave
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The Seas of England
The seas of England are our old delight:
Let the loud billow of the shingly shore
Sing freedom on her breezes evermore
To all earth’s ships that sailing heave in sight!
The gaunt sea-nettle be our fortitude,
Sturdily blowing where the clear wave sips;
O, be the glory of our men and ships
Rapturous, woe unheeding hardihood!
There is great courage in a land that hath
Liberty guarded by the unearthly seas;
And ev’n to find peace at the last in these
How many a sailor hath sailed down to death!
Their names are like a splendour in an old song;
Their record shines like bays along the years;
Their jubilation is the cry man hears
Sailing sun-fronted the vast deeps among.
The seas of England are our old delight:
Let the loud billow of the shingly shore
Sing freedom on her breezes evermore
To all earth’s ships that sailing heave in sight!
poem by Walter de la Mare
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Balade
(from the French of Wenceslas, Duke of Brabant and Luxembourg, who died in 1384.)
I cannot tell, of twain beneath this bond,
Which one in grief the other goes beyond,---
Narcissus, who to end the pain he bore
Died of the love that could not help him more;
Or I, that pine because I cannot see
The lady who is queen and love to me.
Nay--for Narcissus, in the forest pond
Seeing his image, made entreaty fond,
'Beloved, comfort on my longing pour':
So for a while he soothed his passion sore;
So cannot I, for all too far is she---
The lady who is queen and love to me.
But since that I have Love's true colours donned,
I in his service will not now despond,
For in extremes Love yet can all restore:
So till her beauty walks the world no more
All day remembered in my hope shall be
The lady who is queen and love to me.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Lenore
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!-
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.
"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem how be sung
By you- by yours, the evil eye,- by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"
Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy
bride.
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes
The life still there, upon her hair- the death upon her eyes.
"Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of
Heaven!
Let no bell toll, then,- lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth!
And I!- to-night my heart is light!- no dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!"
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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Mother Died
today my mother died
unapreciated by those she bore
at her departure they cried
for they never saw there mother before,
smiling but immobile.
today my mother died
after years of taking care of us
in retrospect we were stupid
for her love we dint reciprocate
alone we are
without a mother anymore
there never will be another like her
like my mother.
a lavish funeral
an expensive casket
an expensive proceeding
and what not
can atone not
for our ingratitude
poem by Kelvin Karani
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Torturous
In April - quite some time ago - her
mother died in a sea of flames, but
the wound is still raw, she cannot
forget how little time they spent
together
In April last year her partner died in an
accident that left her knee injured for
life; this April brought the death of his
mother also - my child, the only thing
left is trying to
Load the dice on your behalf, impossible
to know the cause of your torturous route
through a tragic life - by visualising future
happiness in meditation, I'm trying to
enlist the help
Of universal forces and love - to attract more
prosperity and joy for you; take shelter with
us as a safe refuge - start to focus on visions
that will lead to fulfilment of dreams…
****************************** ***
Carine's partner Nico died on 29 April 2011
and we have received word that his mother,
Katinka, died this morning 4 April 2012 -
and Carine's own mother Leonie also died
in April quite a few years ago - April has
become such a scary month for her; the
only recourse left for her stepmother is
to pray for her future happiness…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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A letter to My Dad
Dad it's been twenty years,
since you have been gone now
when ever I think of you
the thought, brings tears
There's so much to tell
you, I don't know where to begin
two months, after you died
we had a son, he's so big now, I'm in a spell
I wanted for you, to meet my wife,
in a way you did, only at your funeral,
by then, it was to late
strangers were we, but never any strife
Between us, there was no hate or any love
many wasted words had we
I would like to mention, we have a daughter,
and she's sweet as a dove
Remeber the day, that you gave me old shep
he was a very fine dog
for a long time, I had him
for many years, he had a lot of pep
After nine years, he died too,
seems like ever thing I love
dies sooner or later
and that makes me feel, very blue
You don't realize, how much you love
some one, until their gone,
and then they
fly away like a dove
Toward the end, we had some good talks
you told me many things i didn't know
at your farm, on our many walks
You told me how you played ball,
it must have been something,
to have played back then
my son, dad like you is very tall
I have a very happy life
dad, I wish you could meet
my son and daughter,
also my wife
Dad, it's to bad, I didn't know you better,
too many years were wasted
and I should have told you, I love you,
so that's the reason, for this letter
written June 18,1990 In Memory of my dad Elmer W. Foulk
Born September 13,1904 Died October 10,1970