En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Bad Year

MAY, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June
No blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves,
And arid Summer wilted these full soon,
And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves;
Plaintive October saddened for the year,

But wild November raged that hope was past,
Shrieking, “All days of life are made how drear—
Wild whirls of snow! and Death comes driving fast.”
Yet sane December when the winds fell low,
And cold calm light with sunshine tinkled clear,

Harkened to bells more sweet than long ago,
And meditated in a mind sincere:—

“Beneath these snows shining from yon red west
How sleep the blooms of some delighted May,
And June shall riot, lovely as the best

That flung their odors forth on all their way;
Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath,
Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air,

Her gentle colors”—sane December saith
“They come, they come—O heart, sigh not ‘They were.’”

poem by Edward William Thomson
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Verses II

Supposed to have been written in the New Forest,
in early Spring.
AS in the woods, where leathery Lichen weaves
Its wint'ry web among the sallow leaves,
Which (through cold months in whirling eddies blown)
Decay beneath the branches once their own,
From the brown shelter of their foliage sear,
Spring the young blooms that lead the floral year:
When, waked by vernal suns, the Pilewort dares
Expand her spotted leaves, and shining stars
And (veins empurpling all her tassels pale)
Bends the soft Wind-flower in the tepid gale;
Uncultured bells of azure Jacynth's blow,
And the breeze-scenting Violet lurks below:
So views the wanderer, with delighted eyes,
Reviving hopes from black despondence rise,
When, blighted by adversity's chill breath,
Those hopes had felt a temporary death;

Then with gay heart he looks to future hours,
When love shall dress for him the summer bowers.
And, as delicious dreams enchant his mind,
Forgets his sorrows past, or gives them to the wind.

poem by Charlotte Smith
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Roses In The Snow

(ruth franks)
I met my darlin in the springtime
When all the flowers were in bloom
And like the flowers our love blossomed
We married in the month of june
Our love was like a burning ember
It warmed us as a golden glow
We had sunshine in december
And threw our roses in the snow
Now God has taken my darlin
And left me with a memory
A memory I will always cherish
Are these last words he said to me
Our love was like a burning ember
It warmed us as a golden glow
We had sunshine in december
And threw our roses in the snow
My darlins buried on the hillside
Where all the wild spring flowers grow
And when winter snows start fallin
On his grave Ill place a rose
Our love was like a burning ember
It warmed us as cold winds blow
We had sunshine in december
And threw our roses in the snow

song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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October Girl

I married an October girl
but met her in December's cold,
I remember well
that winter of our meeting
you could not say that it was swell
that frosty first time greeting.

I saw her a second time
October in the spring
when light shone from her face
and joined with my light within;
she blew a gentle breeze
with freshness in her haste
to meet again the man
who previously in December
she had not seemed
so keen to chase.

She blew into my life in spring
through summer and the fall
and swirled around the boughs
of my many outreaching branches,
until she bared me of all the leaves
I'd grown throughout my life
and pointed to the roots of me
that held me strong in strife.

October is a blustery girl
with many winds of change
sometimes with an angry squall
that bares wintered teeth
with lightening storms of rage,
but I never did meet a girl
with such a warm embrace.

I married that October girl
we married in the spring
and as I wait to see
what summer's breeze may bring
I know that October's girl
will shine her light within
as I soar up so very high
upon October's wind.

poem by David Taylor
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Greeting Us With A New Surprise

After the March winds
we have the April rain.
Now in May we watch
the pretty flows grow.
June, July and August
are the flowering seasons
at the height of the noonday’s sun.
September brings the autumn leaves
near the closing of the year.
October seems to bear all
as the autumn leaves begin to fall.
November brings a chill
to every living thing
announcing winter is on its way.
December’s snow blankets
the hard frozen ground.
January brings in a new year
to February’s valentines.
And so each moth rolls by,
each greeting us with a new surprise.

23-24 May 2008

poem by David Harris
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If Not For June

If not for June,
My memories of Winter in December...
With a wish to witness,
The freshness of Spring March would bring...
Would not still remain so vivid.
As if only yesterday visited.
If not for June.

If not for June,
My eyesight would not be teased...
By the freedom felt in Summer,
With hopes that linger of those things I could do,
Under clear skies showing bright Sun.
And seeing the fun shared by nearly everyone,
If not for June.

And if not for June I would not be able to reminisce,
From so many experiences I could pick.
June seems to be the month I can do this.
With a thankfulness I am still in the midst,
Of a year that appears to have just begun.
With so much left to offer before it is done.
And for me this happens only when June comes.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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[revised 11-19-09] Getting Through October and Beyond

What was it about October
That made us think
Spring would not be coming back?

The weather rattled at us,
Leaves fell,
Leaving us feeling

It's not going to get any better.
No amount of experience or
Logic will helped,

Spring last year didn't help,
When the shorter days of
Fall and Winter closed in.

Beyond October?

What was it about October
That assured us
Spring will be coming back?

The weather hinted of changes,
Leaves brave enough
To let go one by one,

Or be pushed in bunches by the wind
Took momentary flight, and
Abandoned their accustomed tree.

They made room for new buds
Provided cover for the soil and
Food for those below.

Lots of work to get ready
For Spring next year and to
Just get through Fall and Winter.

Then came November.

November brought
What October teased.
October warned us,
Rushed at us,

Then seemed to pull back
Like a gentle rolling surf.
On a rough November day
A wave rushed over our heads

Knocked us down and threatened
To pull us far out to sea.
As we floated
We saw the shore disappear.

No one will come to help.
They won't even know we're gone.
'I've got to get to December! '
We scream.

'New Year's Day! Easter!
May Day! MAY DAY! '
And we will
Even if we have no idea

Why or how

poem by Tom J. Mariani
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When New Year Comes

When New Year Comes
Everybody Shivers
In the month of January
Which is cold and Airy
In February winter get’s Weary
Prepares for Leaving
Paving way for spring to come
In the month of March
Flowers loom Large
April comes
Summer knocks on the Door
When May comes,
Sun Brightens
Mangoes ripe and Juicy
Long hot days
Make June very tiring
Holidays for Children
All wait for Rain
Monsoon at its Peak
When July arrives
Rain brings Smile
August is the month of Freedom
Sometimes sticky sometimes Hot
In September one feels
Better then August
We call it Autumn
One see’s Flowers
Which are colourful and Rosy
October is the festival Month
Weather is good
Winter getting Ready
November makes everybody Happy
Everybody enjoys
Lights of Deepawali(Festival of Light)
In the Cold month of December
Christmas celebrated
Throughout the the World
Everybody says goodbye to the year
Welcomes New Year
On the night of 31’st December

poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Juno Gave the Summer

A sun for hearts – tempered rhythm in her flares;
The naked tan – bikini line a cry for stares;
Gregarious green, beguiled by colours en rapport –
The park’s alive! So what’s to hanker after more?

Children scream while parents dream their fantasies,
Igniting under brilliance –
They think they share resilience to the
Ultraviolet hues;
To lie displayed au naturel
Is what they’d rather choose!

And Helios peers at lovers in their
Heady worlds: vibrant leas to
Roam in hand; calming seas –
Satin sand insensible as
Water runs her ripples cross the
Shore – so like the park, it really
Cries for very little more!

In the garden, roses clamber for attention –
Pouting blooms, wafting scent –
Our floral monarch June’s event!
And fingers green receive the praise
From toiling hard for coloured blaze.

Compelled, I walk the countenance of sunny June
As Mother Nature danced amok in her saloon
Of roaring life, that came of youth in early spring
And nurtured in maternal warmth beneath her wing.

Eyes bedewed, I mellow in a reverie
– Hope renewed –
As Juno saw to suckle me with
Quintessential summer.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
All rights reserved

See the link below for notes on this poem:

http: //succumbedtothinking.webs.com/featuredpoems.htm

June June June June June June June in summer
Summer for June summer for June summer for June in summer
June June June June June June June in summer
Summer for June summer for June summer for June in summer
June June June June June June June in summer
Summer for June summer for June summer for June in summer
June June June June June June June in summer
Summer for June summer for June summer for June in summer
Summer summer June summer June in summer summer

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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A Calendar of Sonnets: November

This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays
Willidly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet's day of pain?

poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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The Impossible Dream

I dream the impossible dream

I dream of snow that falls in
June,

I dream of pink and white tinsel
Hanging from the sky

With white and blue carnation
falling like rain

I dream of the turtle dove singing
Me your medley of song

I dream of the night’s with sunshine
Shooting stars of cupid arrows
Sail

I dream of love when December is
Really a summer’s day

I dream of a love back in the summer
Of 71..

When the night’s were young and love
Blossom of roses..

I dreamed of times when everything
Was fine

When I was young and you were my
Shining star.

To dream the impossible dream when
When sky was yellow

And rain was blue

The snow fell in June

When days of December was gray
With long white icicles

Glisten as sparkling diamond hanging
From branches..

poem by Carolyn Sears
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Since We Must Die

Though we must die, I would not die
When fields are brown and bleak,
When wild-geese stream across the sky,
And the cart-lodge timbers creak.
For it would be so lone and drear
To sleep beneath the snow,
When children carol Christmas cheer,
And Christmas rafters glow.

Nor would I die, though we must die,
When yeanlings blindly bleat,
When the cuckoo laughs, and lovers sigh,
And O, to live is sweet!
When cowslips come again, and Spring
Is winsome with their breath,
And Life's in love with everything-
With everything but Death.

Let me not die, though we must die,
When bowls are brimmed with cream,
When milch-cows in the meadows lie,
Or wade amid the stream;
When dewy-dimpled roses smile
To see the face of June,
And lad and lass meet at the stile,
Or roam beneath the moon.

Since we must die, then let me die
When flows the harvest ale,
When the reaper lays the sickle by,
And taketh down the flail;
When all we prized, and all we planned,
Is ripe and stored at last,
And Autumn looks across the land,
And ponders on the past:
Then let me die.

poem by Alfred Austin
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January Jumps About

January jumps about
in the frying pan
trying to heat
his frozen feet
like a Canadian.

February scuttles under
any dish's lid
and she thinks she's dry because she's
thoroughly well hid
but it still rains all month long
and it always did.

March sits in the bath tub
with the taps turned on.
Hot and cold, cold or not,
Has the Winter gone?
In like a lion, out like a lamb
March on, march on, march on.

April slips about
sometimes indoors
and sometimes out
sometimes sheltering from a little
shower of bright rain
in an empty milk bottle
then dashing out again.

May, she hides nowhere,
nowhere at all,
Proud as a peacock
walking by a wall.
The Maytime O the Maytime,
full of leaf and flower.
The Maytime O the Maytime
is the loveliest of all.

June discards his shirt and
trousers by the stream
and takes the first dip of the year
into a jug of cream.
June is the gay time
of every girl and boy
who run about and sing and shout
in pardonable joy.

July by the sea
sits dabbling with sand
letting it run out of
her rather lazy hand,
and sometimes she sadly
thinks: "As I sit here
ah, more than half the year is gone,
the evanescent year."

August by an emperor
was given his great name.
It is gold and purple
like a Hall of Fame.
(I have known it rather cold
and wettish, all the same.)

September lies in shadows
of the fading summer
hearing, in the distance,
the silver horns of winter
and not very far off
the coming autumn drummer.

October, October
apples on the tree,
the Partridge in the Wood and
the big winds at sea,
the mud beginning in the lane
the berries bright and red
and the big tree wildly
tossing its old head.

November, when the fires
love to burn, and leaves
flit about and fill the air
where the old tree grieves.
November, November
its name is like a star
glittering on many things that were
but few things that are.

Twelfth and last December.
a few weeks away
we hear the silver bells
of the stag and the sleigh
flying from the tundras
far far away
bringing to us all the gift
of our Christmas Day.

poem by George Barker
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A Season of Wine and Roses

Remember when the wine was red,
and the rose was red, as well ~
and how the two were wed as one,
when the sunlight softly fell.

The pinkened kiss, the gentle blush,
beneath a soft, green canopy ~
and wine flowed there beside the rose,
'til sunlight set on autumn's eve.

And there within the autumn's breath,
came an orange and golden kiss ~
that found the wine and lovely rose,
beguiled by summer's bliss...

remembering when the wine was sweet,
and the rose was a budding bloom ~
and velvet was the reddened wine,
when the red rose danced in June.

Thinly brown, with winter's death,
the vine and thorn entwine ~
and wait impatiently for spring,
when, once more, a life they'll find.

And now upon the chilling wind,
there's a whisper that gently fell ~
'Remember when the wine was red,
and the rose was red, as well'...

poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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Beneath The Snow

’Twas near the close of the dying year,
And December’s winds blew cold and drear,
Driving the snow and sharp blinding sleet
In gusty whirls through square and street,
Shrieking more wildly and fiercely still
In the dreary grave-yard that crowns the hill.

No mourners there to sorrow or pray,
But soon a traveller passed that way:
He paused and leant against the low stone wall,
While sighs breathed forth from the pine-trees tall
That darkly look down on the silent crowd
Of graves, all wrapped in a snowy shroud.

Solemn and weird was the spectral scene—
The tombstones white, with low mounds between,
The awful stillness, eerie and dread,
Brooding above that home of the dead,
While Christmas fires lit up each hearth
And shed their glow upon scenes of mirth.

Silent the weary wayfarer stood—
The spot well suited his pensive mood,
And severed friendships, bright day-dreams flown,
Thronged on his thoughts in that moment lone.
“Yes, happiness-hope,” he murmured low,
“All buried alike beneath the snow.”

“O, for the right to lay down the load
I’ve borne so long on life’s dreary road,
Heavily weighing on heart and brain,
And as galling to both as a convict’s chain;—
No more its strain shall I tamely bear
But join the peaceful sleepers there.”

His head on the old wall drooped more low,
Whilst faster came down the sleet and snow,
Sharply chilling the blood in his veins,
Racking his frame with rheumatic pains;
“No matter,” he thought, “I’ll soon lie low,
Calm—quiet enough—beneath the snow.”

Ah! hapless one, thus thine arms to yield
When nearly won, perchance, is the field.
After long struggling to lose at last
The price of many a victory past,
Of many an hour of keen, sharp strife,
Mournfully spent in the war of Life.

But, hark! on high sound the Christmas bells,
Of hope to that mourner their chiming tells,
Of the sinless hours of childhood pure,
Of a God who came all griefs to cure;
And, leaving, he prayed: “O my Father and Friend,
Grant me strength to be faithful to the end!”

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Summer into Winter

June stars
January moon
The light dies too quickly
And the dark arrives too soon

April blossom
And august bliss
The frost in the winter
Seals your lips with a kiss

February snow
October trees
When summer dies
So do the leaves

November rain
March flowers
When winter comes
So do dark hours

July sun
September nights
When summer goes to bed
The birds all take flight

December is left
Till the very last
As we look back
At the months just past

poem by Nicola Burkett
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Skip Through the Year

For those of January
May they always have
Something fun to do
For in January
You start everything new

Those born in February
They shall have a wide range
Of things to differ
Of things to change

In March, you shall see
The fun will begin
With the sunlight along them
For then begins Spring

In April the tricks
And jokes have no end
Watch out for liars
For words twist and bend

May, the season
Where all is green
Where flowers bloom
Where all is seen

June
Now summer has begun
All should be happy
And smile in the sun

July, the middle
Of warmth is the season
Where things are done
For no real reason

August, pray
School is there
Where has vacation gone,
Tell me, where?

In September the leaves
Begin to fall
Some call this Autumn
Some call it Fall

October, get ready
For trick or treat
For all kids love
To recieve things sweet

November, believe it
The year's almost gone
Now winter begins
Too long the sun shone

December, now go
To your sled or snow cart
Sit down and get ready
A new year to start.

poem by Jenny Diamond
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On An Old Roundel

Death, from thy rigour a voice appealed,
And men still hear what the sweet cry saith,
Crying aloud in thine ears fast sealed,
Death.

As a voice in a vision that vanisheth,
Through the grave's gate barred and the portal steeled
The sound of the wail of it travelleth.

Wailing aloud from a heart unhealed,
It woke response of melodious breath
From lips now too by thy kiss congealed,
Death

II.

Ages ago, from the lips of a sad glad poet
Whose soul was a wild dove lost in the whirling snow,
The soft keen plaint of his pain took voice to show it
Ages ago.

So clear, so deep, the divine drear accents flow,
No soul that listens may choose but thrill to know it,
Pierced and wrung by the passionate music's throe.

For us there murmurs a nearer voice below it,
Known once of ears that never again shall know,
Now mute as the mouth which felt death's wave o'erflow it
Ages ago.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Quieta Ne Movete II

IF one should wake one's frozen faith
In sunlight of her radiant eyes,
Bid it forget its dream of death,
In this new dream of Paradise,
Bid it forget the long, slow pain,
The agony when, all in vain,
It fought for life, and how one swore,
Once cold, it should not waken more;

If hope one buried long ago
Should thrill beneath those smiles of hers,
Should in one's sere life stir and grow,
As in brown woods the young spring stirs;
If, breaking icy bonds of grief,
One's soul should start to bud and leaf,
It might forget in that springtide
How last year's leaves fell off and died.

If from warm faith and hope set high
A lovely living child was born,
With lips more pure than starlit sky,
And eyes as clear as summer morn,
Child-love might grow till one forgot
Old love, that was and now is not--
Forgot that far-off time of tears,
And all these desolated years.

And yet of faith, hope, love, one knows
So well what end the years will make,
If one should dig beneath Time's snows
And wake them now for her sweet sake.
New life may mean new joy; but then,
What lives again may die again,
And to that second death there may
Be no new resurrection-day.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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December Snow

Like December snow
That lays in the wood
You're gone too soon
I knew you should
With October skies
You brought your love
But November came
Taking all I have and
Time, take this sadness from me
Time, bring my heart back safely
Hold on to warm September
'Cause life can be like December snow
With your touch of love
in this Autumn world
The Sun was bright
The songs were heard
And maybe fools like me
Are under your spell
But with leaves that fall
I hear you callin'
Time, take this sadness from me
Time, bring my heart back safely
Hold on to warm September
'Cause life can be like December Snow
Time, take this sadness from me
Time, bring my heart back safely
Hold on to warm September
'Cause life can be like December Snow

song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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from Anderson's Piano: Cruachan: derailed train

A rare red rose bloomed for a week in June.
Perhaps it saved the lives of those
who came unharmed from the rock-tripped train
high above deep water in Argyll
where the long loch is death's wake deep
and the wild rose blooms in a canyon,
the rare red wild June rose.

Late light of June, lasting almost
all night, they file at evening's end
in a forced trudge to Cruachan,
tracks empty and safe as houses,
this desolate dedicated railroad
five miles or more from all houses

but how lucky, here's Cruachan,
power station under the mountain
of caves and a visitor centre,
bread and soup and a small first aid box,
a flare of yellow light in the dusk,
sweet tea for the shaken driver.

Causeway, from Anderson's Piano

poem by Sally Evans
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