Related quotes: A Ballad of Good Intentions...

The Four Children

A Ballad of Good Intentions

Four children played by an old oak tree,
Big John and James and little Benjie,
And, threading a chain of daisies fine,
On the leaf-brown sward knelt Geraldine.
Quoth John, 'I'll ride on the gipsies' road,
For narrow space and a small abode
Would break this vagrant heart in me,
And the world is wide and good to see.'
'I'll stay,' said James, 'for my father's sake
From his ageing hand his toil to take,
So he have at last his heart's desire
To sit at ease by the glowing fire.'
'I shall not work,' said little Benjie,
'Nor roam the world that is fair to see;
But here I'll stay in the green beech wood,
By my mother's side and I'll just be good.'

Linking her chain sweet Geraldine said,
'Big John or James I will surely wed;
I soon must choose which shall best please me,
I care not at all for little Benjie.'

The oak grows brown and the oak grows green
The owl and thrush on her branch have been;
For fifty winters a snood of snow
She wears all white till the spring winds blow.
For fifty autumns a robe of red
She wears till the wet west wind has fled,
But ne'er from dawn till the dusk of day
Hath she heard the sound of a child at play.
Big John grows old and all full of care,
He works till night in his oaken chair;
His feet have led him not long nor late,
No more than a league from his father's gate.
Where yew trees wave and their dark leaves shed
Young James lies cold in his four-foot bed,
O soft did his father lay him down,
And over him drew the earth so brown

In a far-off land on a lonely height
Geraldine weeps full many a night,
And prays all day 'neath a gallows tree
Where hangs the corpse of little Benjie.

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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Related quotes

Young Benjie

Of all the maids of fair Scotland,
The fairest was Marjorie;
And young Benjie was her ae true love,
And a dear true love was he.

And wow but they were lovers dear,
And lov'd full constantlie;
But aye the mair when they fell out,
The sairer was their plea.

And they ha'e quarrell'd on a day,
Till Marjorie's heart grew wae;
And she said she'd chuse another luve,
And let young Benjie gae.

And he was stout and proud-hearted,
And thought o't bitterlie;
And he's gane by the wan moonlight,
To meet his Marjorie.

'Oh, open, open, my true love,
Oh, open and let me in!'
'I darena open, young Benjie,
My three brothers are within.'

'Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonnie burd,
Sae loud's I hear ye lee;
As I came by the Louden banks,
They bade gude e'en to me.

'But fare ye weel, my ae fause love,
That I have lov'd sae lang!
It sets ye chuse another love,
And let young Benjie gang.'

Then Marjorie turn'd her round about,
The tear blinding her e'e;
'I darena, darena let thee in,
But I'll come down to thee.'

Then salt she smil'd, and said to him--
'Oh, what ill ha'e I done?'
He took her in his arms twa,
And threw her o'er the linn.

The stream was strong, the maid was stout,
And laith, laith to be dang;
But ere she wan the Louden banks,
Her fair colour was wan.

Then up bespake her eldest brother--
'Oh, see na ye what I see?'
And out then spake her second brother--
'It is our sister Marjorie!'

Out then spake her eldest brother--
'Oh, how shall we her ken?'
And out then spake her youngest brother--
'There's a honey mark on her chin.'

Then they've ta'en the comely corpse,
And laid it on the ground;
Saying--'Wha has kill'd our ae sister?
And how can he be found?

'The night it is her low lykewake,
The morn her burial day;
And we maun watch at mirk midnight,
And hear what she will say.'

With doors ajar, and candles light,
And torches burning clear,
The streekit corpse, till still midnight,
They waked, but naething hear.

About the middle of the night
The cocks began to craw;
And at the dead hour of the night,
The corpse began to thraw.

'Oh, wha has done thee wrang, sister,
Or dared the deadly sin?
Wha was sae stout, and fear'd nae dout,
As throw ye o'er the linn?'

'Young Benjie was the first ae man
I laid my love upon;
He was sae stout and proud-hearted,
He threw me o'er the linn.'

'Shall we young Benjie head, sister?
Shall we young Benjie hang?
Or shall we pike out his twa gray een,
And punish him ere he gang?'

'Ye maunna Benjie head, brothers,
Ye maunna Benjie hang;
But ye maun pike out his twa gray een.
And punish him ere he gang.

'Tie a green gravat round his neck,
And lead him out and in,
And the best ae servant about your house
To wait young Benjie on.

'And aye at every seven years' end,
Ye'll take him to the linn;
For that's the penance he maun dree,
To scug his deadly sin.'

poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Why, My Heart, Do We Love Her So?

Why, my heart, do we love her so?
(Geraldine, Geraldine!)
Why does the great sea ebb and flow? -
Why does the round world spin?
Geraldine, Geraldine,
Bid me my life renew:
What is it worth unless I win,
Love--love and you?

Why, my heart, when we speak her name
(Geraldine, Geraldine!)
Throbs the word like a flinging flame? -
Why does the Spring begin?
Geraldine, Geraldine,
Bid me indeed to be:
Open your heart, and take us in,
Love--love and me.

poem by William Ernest Henley
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On Promising Fruitfulness of a Tree

A comely sight indeed it is to see
A world of blossoms on an apple-tree:
Yet far more comely would this tree appear,
If all its dainty blooms young apples were.
But how much more might one upon it see,
If all would hang there till they ripe should be.
But most of all in beauty 'twould abound,
If then none worm-eaten should there be found.
But we, alas! do commonly behold
Blooms fall apace, if mornings be but cold.
They too, which hang till they young apples are,
By blasting winds and vermin take despair,
Store that do hang, while almost ripe, we see
By blust'ring winds are shaken from the tree,
So that of many, only some there be,
That grow till they come to maturity.

Comparison.

This tree a perfect emblem is of those
Which God doth plant, which in his garden grows,
Its blasted blooms are motions unto good,
Which chill affections do nip in the bud.
Those little apples which yet blasted are,
Show some good purposes, no good fruits bear.
Those spoiled by vermin are to let us see,
How good attempts by bad thoughts ruin'd be.
Those which the wind blows down, while they are green,
Show good works have by trials spoiled been.
Those that abide, while ripe upon the tree,
Show, in a good man, some ripe fruit will be.
Behold then how abortive some fruits are,
Which at the first most promising appear.
The frost, the wind, the worm, with time doth show,
There flows, from much appearance, works but few.

poem by John Bunyan
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The Guardian Angels

A Ballad

Father John in the green lane went
And he drew his robe full tight,
'I would,' quoth he, 'I were home again
For there's evil in the night.
'I would,' quoth he, 'the gold I bear
Were safe with the poor and old,
For strange the fear that follows me
That my eyes cannot behold.'
He looked him left and there he saw
A white rose climb and cling,
He looked him right and in the brake
A wild bird shook his wing.
He looked him back and far there stood
The old church tall and dim,
Yet on the lonely path there came
A terror strange to him.

Without the shadow of the trees
That bent above his way,
Where lost the moon her silver light,
He stood at last at bay.
And on his gown, from his pale brow
Fell great tears of his fright;
His shaking hands held close the gold
Wrapped in its cloth so white.
He knelt him down upon his knee
And prayed the Lord to hear,
'Christ, loosen Thou these laggard feet
That hold me slow in fear.
'Oh, strengthen Thou this childish heart
That trembles all afraid,
In pity for the calling sick
Who die without my aid.
'And let me bring all safely through
The shadows of the night,
The gold I bear for old and poor,
Still Thou this strange affright.'

And as he prayed from off his heart
Fear's clutching fingers fell,
A holy joy grew in his heart
He knew that all was well.
He turned him left and stayed to take
A white rose from her tree,
He turned him right and lilted low
A wild bird melody.
He looked him back and smiling saw
The tall church guarding him,
And then all fearless laughing sped
Through shadows strange and dim.

When but a year had passed away
There came before his gate,
A dying man who 'Succour,' cried
'Before it be too late.'
'Oh, shrive me, Father, ere I die,'
The moaning stranger said;
He took him to his own hearth side
And laid him on his bed.

'Oh, Father! Father! hear me now
And let me rest in peace.'
'Now speak, my son, and tell your sin
To give your soul release.'
'It was one night a year ago—
Sweet Mary, ease my pain—
I followed far your toiling feet
Within a lonely lane.
'The red gold for the old and poor
You had beneath your gown,
I hid within a darksome place
Where I could strike you down.'
Now Father John he smiled and leant
In pity by the bed,
'I did disarm you by my prayer,
I thank the Lord,' he said.
'I went in fear upon my path
I knew some danger lay,
And lone I knelt upon the road
A little while to pray.'

The dying man he raised his head
And laughed both long and loud,
'Oh, ne'er a prayer would hold my hand
Or keep you from your shroud.
'But by you went two mighty men
To guard you either side,
Else had my dagger reached your heart
And surely you had died.'
Then Father John upon his knees
Bent low his holy head,
'God's angels walked beside me there
Lest you my blood should shed
My guardian angels walked by me,
I thank Thee, Lord,' he said.

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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John Brown

(To be sung by a leader and chorus, the leader singing
the body of the poem, while the chorus interrupts with
the question.)

I’ve been to Palestine.
WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?
I saw the ark of Noah—
It was made of pitch and pine.
I saw old Father Noah
Asleep beneath his vine.
I saw Shem, Ham and Japhet
Standing in a line.
I saw the tower of Babel
In the gorgeous sunrise shine—
By a weeping willow tree
Beside the Dead Sea.

I’ve been to Palestine.
WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?
I saw abominations
And Gadarene swine.
I saw the sinful Canaanites
Upon the shewbread dine,
And spoil the temple vessels
And drink the temple wine.
I saw Lot’s wife, a pillar of salt
Standing in the brine—
By a weeping willow tree
Beside the Dead Sea.

I’ve been to Palestine.
WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?
Cedars on Mount Lebanon,
Gold in Ophir’s mine,
And a wicked generation
Seeking for a sign
And Baal’s howling worshippers
Their god with leaves entwine.
And . . .
I saw the war-horse ramping
And shake his forelock fine—
By a weeping willow tree
Beside the Dead Sea.

I’ve been to Palestine.
WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?
Old John Brown.
Old John Brown.
I saw his gracious wife
Dressed in a homespun gown.
I saw his seven sons
Before his feet bow down.
And he marched with his seven sons,
His wagons and goods and guns,
To his campfire by the sea,
By the waves of Galilee.

I’ve been to Palestine.
WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?
I saw the harp and psalt’ry
Played for Old John Brown.
I heard the ram’s horn blow,
Blow for Old John Brown.
I saw the Bulls of Bashan—
They cheered for Old John Brown.
I saw the big Behemoth—
He cheered for Old John Brown.
I saw the big Leviathan—
He cheered for Old John Brown.
I saw the Angel Gabriel
Great power to him assign.
I saw him fight the Canaanites
And set God’s Israel free.
I saw him when the war was done
In his rustic chair recline—
By his campfire by the sea,
By the waves of Galilee.

I’ve been to Palestine.
WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?
Old John Brown.
Old John Brown.
And there he sits
To judge the world.
His hunting-dogs
At his feet are curled.
His eyes half-closed,
But John Brown sees
The ends of the earth,
The Day of Doom.
And his shot-gun lies
Across his knees—
Old John Brown,
Old John Brown.

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Winter Fancies

Winter without
And warmth within;
The winds may shout
And the storm begin;
The snows may pack
At the window pane,
And the skies grow black,
And the sun remain
Hidden away
The livelong day--
But here--in here is the warmth of May!

Swoop your spitefullest
Up the flue,
Wild Winds--do!
What in the world do I care for you?
O delightfullest
Weather of all,
Howl and squall,
And shake the trees till the last leaves fall!

III

The joy one feels,
In an easy chair,
Cocking his heels
In the dancing air
That wreathes the rim of a roaring stove
Whose heat loves better than hearts can love,
Will not permit
The coldest day
To drive away
The fire in his blood, and the bliss of it!

Then blow, Winds, blow!
And rave and shriek,
And snarl and snow
Till your breath grows weak--
While here in my room
I'm as snugly shut
As a glad little worm
In the heart of a nut!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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May Colven

False Sir John a wooing came
To a maid of beauty fair;
May Colven was this lady's name,
Her father's only heir.

He wood her butt, he wood her ben,
He wood her in the ha,
Until he got this lady's consent
To mount and ride awa.

He went down to her father's bower,
Where all the steeds did stand,
And he's taken one of the best steeds
That was in her father's land.

He's got on and she's got on,
As fast as they could flee,
Until they came to a lonesome part,
A rock by the side of the sea.

'Loup off the steed,' says false Sir John,
'Your bridal bed you see;
For I have drowned seven young ladies,
The eighth one you shall be.

'Cast off, cast off, my May Colven,
All and your silken gown,
For it's oer good and oer costly
To rot in the salt sea foam.

'Cast off, cast off, my May Colven.
All and your embroiderd shoen,
For oer good and oer costly
To rot in the salt sea foam.'

'O turn you about, O false Sir John,
And look to the leaf of the tree,
For it never became a gentleman
A naked woman to see.'

He turned himself straight round about,
To look to the leaf of the tree,
So swift as May Colven was
To throw him in the sea.

'O help, O help, my May Colven,
O help, or else I'll drown;
I'll take you home to your father's bower,
And set you down safe and sound.'

'No help, no help, O false Sir John,
No help, nor pity thee;
Tho' seven kings' daughters you have drownd,
But the eighth shall not be me.'

So she went on her father's steed,
As swift as she could flee,
And she came home to her father's bower
Before it was break of day.

Up then and spoke the pretty parrot:
'May Colven, where have you been?
What has become of false Sir John,
That woo'd you so late the streen?

'He woo'd you butt, he woo'd you ben,
He woo'd you in the ha,
Until he got your own consent
For to mount and gang awa.'

'O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot,
Lay not the blame upon me;
Your cup shall be of the flowered gold,
Your cage of the root of the tree.'

Up then spake the king himself,
In the bed-chamber where he lay:
'What ails the pretty parrot,
That prattles so long or day?'

'There came a cat to my cage door,
It almost a worried me,
And I was calling on May Colven
To take the cat from me.'

poem by Andrew Lang
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Geraldine & John

See the bright red sports car, see the happy couple
See their clothes so white and their skin so pink
See them playing squash gotta keep their bodies supple
How they kiss goodnight but tomorrow theyll be thinking
All day long - all day long
Geraldine and john
See the happy couple - so inseperable
And the beat goes on
And for better or worse
They are married but of course
Not to each other
Geraldine and john gotta keep it under cover
See they scheme and sweat but its all worthwhile
Now he goes back home to a wife whos not a lover
Now her eyes are wet but tomorrow shell be smiling
All day long - all day long
Geraldine and john
See the happy couple - so inseperable
And the beat goes on
And for better or worse
They are married but of course
Not to each other
And the feelings getting stronger
That they cant go on much longer
Somewhere down the track
Something has to crack
Geraldine just packed all her things and went to mother
Johnny seems ok happy wife happy home
See the scar on his face from the day he met her brother
But nothing hurts no more, nothing more than being lonely
All day long - all day long
Geraldine and john
See the happy couple - so inseperable
And the beat goes on
And for better or worse
They are married but of course
Not to each other

song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Disobedience

James James
Morrison Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great
Care of his Mother,
Though he was only three.
James James Said to his Mother,
"Mother," he said, said he;
"You must never go down
to the end of the town,
if you don't go down with me."

James James
Morrison's Mother
Put on a golden gown.
James James Morrison's Mother
Drove to the end of the town.
James James Morrison's Mother
Said to herself, said she:
"I can get right down
to the end of the town
and be back in time for tea."

King John
Put up a notice,
"LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!
JAMES JAMES MORRISON'S MOTHER
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.
LAST SEEN
WANDERING VAGUELY:
QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD,
SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN
TO THE END OF THE TOWN -
FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!"

James James
Morrison Morrison
(Commonly known as Jim)
Told his
Other relations
Not to go blaming him.
James James
Said to his Mother,
"Mother," he said, said he:
"You must never go down to the end of the town
without consulting me."

James James
Morrison's mother
Hasn't been heard of since.
King John said he was sorry,
So did the Queen and Prince.
King John
(Somebody told me)
Said to a man he knew:
If people go down to the end of the town, well,
what can anyone do?"

(Now then, very softly)
J.J.
M.M.
W.G.Du P.
Took great
C/0 his M*****
Though he was only 3.
J.J. said to his M*****
"M*****," he said, said he:
"You-must-never-go-down-to-the-end-of -the-town-
if-you-don't-go-down-with-ME!"

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Father’s Day

A father loves his children,
More than words can say;
Dad’s the head of family –
This was so till today!

A father toils for children,
From morn, throughout day;
So that all can eat good food,
He gives his hard-earned pay!

A father teaches children
And tells what life is;
A good dad chides and canes you,
If studies, you do miss.

A father tells his children
About love of God;
He reads the Bible verses,
And warns about God’s rod.

A father trains his children
Moulds their character;
He helps them know, right from wrong,
And live a life better.

A father guides his children,
Walk on sinless roads;
To live a life of fortitude,
And righteousness, he goads!

Let children wish their father,
‘Happy Father’s Day! ’
Thank God for giving this nice man –
A blessing till this day!

poem by John Celes
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Jolly Good Ale and Old

Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I am nothing a-cold;
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nutbrown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead,
Much bread I not desire.
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I would,
I am so wrapt, and throughly lapt
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

And Tib my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek.
Then doth she troll to me the bowl,
Even as a maltworm should;
And saith,"Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old."
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

Now let them drink, till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to.
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls,
Or have them lustily troll'd,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

poem by William Stevenson
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Back and Side go Bare

Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

poem by William Stevenson
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Waiting At The Window

These are my two drops of rain
Waiting on the window-pane.

I am waiting here to see
Which the winning one will be.

Both of them have different names.
One is John and one is James.

All the best and all the worst
Comes from which of them is first.

James has just begun to ooze.
He's the one I want to lose.

John is waiting to begin.
He's the one I want to win.

James is going slowly on.
Something sort of sticks to John.

John is moving off at last.
James is going pretty fast.

John is rushing down the pane.
James is going slow again.

James has met a sort of smear.
John is getting very near.

Is he going fast enough?
(James has found a piece of fluff.)

John has quickly hurried by.
(James was talking to a fly.)

John is there, and John has won!
Look! I told you! Here's the sun!

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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The Sailor's Garden

There's a soft wind singing in the idle rigging,
High tide splashing, and a young pale moon,
Lights in a window and a fiddle jigging
Over and over there the same short tune.

Oh, was it the tide along the ship's side sighing,
Or was it the sighing wind that breaths and blows,
Came like a voice across the deep crying,
Set my heart a-thinking how my garden grows?

Five years ago it was I planted roses,
Five years ago (the bush is grown a tree):
Five years ago, and once I've seen my posies,
Five years ago - and once they bloomed for me!

I was home in Spring, bloom was in May then,
Birds all were building and buds were on the tree!
When the birds were flown, oh, I was far away then;
When the rose was open I was far at sea.

I was home in autumn; winds of cold November
Shaking the leaf that shivered on the tree;
Brown leaves that sighed of sorrow to remember
Flowers that had fallen and I far at sea.

Oh, many are the roads that lead you here and yonder,
Oh, many are the ways about the world that go;
But the longest way of all's the sailor's way to wander
To the good North Country and an Isle I know.

Oh, many are the winds about the seas a-singing,
Oh, many are the songs they sing both night and noon:
But whether it be good or ill that they come bringing
The best of all's the wind that blows us home in June.

Home, home in June - and soon to be a-going;
Home, home in June - we may not long remain;
Home, home in June, just to see the garden growing,
And then fare you well till you greet us home again.

poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Sonnet – Don’t Be

Don't be the fallen leaves, so young and green;
Don't be the buds that never can flower;
Don't be the twigs that always remain lean;
Don't be the flow'rs that dropp with each shower.

Don't be the branches growing very long;
Don't be the tree that never blooms at all;
Don’t be the nests that disallow Bird-song;
Don't be the fruits that hit the Earth by Fall.

Don't be the trunk hollowed by Birds, white-Ants;
Don't be the crown that can't get Sun or Rain;
Don't be the tree that grows not straight but slants;
Don't be the roots that prop the tree in vain.

Don't be the tree that grows on marshy-land;
Just be a tree secure in Maker's Hand.

poem by John Celes
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To Winter

Stay, season of calm love and soulful snows!
There is a subtle sweetness in the sun,
The ripples on the stream's breast gaily run,
The wind more boisterously by me blows,
And each succeeding day now longer grows.
The birds a gladder music have begun,
The squirrel, full of mischief and of fun,
From maples' topmost branch the brown twig throws.
I read these pregnant signs, know what they mean:
I know that thou art making ready to go.
Oh stay! I fled a land where fields are green
Always, and palms wave gently to and fro,
And winds are balmy, blue brooks ever sheen,
To ease my heart of its impassioned woe.

poem by Claude McKay
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Thèlus Wood

I came by night to Thèlus wood,
And though in dark and desperate places
Stubborned with wire and brown with blood
Undaunted April crept and sewed
Her violets in dead men's faces,
And in a soft and snowy shroud
Drew the scarred fields with gentle stitch;
Though in the valley where the ditch
Was hoarse with nettles, blind with mud,
She stroked the golden-headed bud,
And loosed the fern, she dared not here
To touch nor tend this murdered thing;
The wind went wide of it, the year
Upon this breast stopped short of Spring:
Beauty turned back from Thèlus Wood.

From broken brows the dim eyes stared,
Blistered and maimed the wide stumps grinned
From the black mouth of Thèlus bared
In laughter at some monstrous jest.
No creature moved there, weed nor wind.
Huge arms, half-torn from savage breast,
Hung wide, and tangled limbs and faces
Lay, as if giants blind and stark
With violent, with perverse embraces
Groped for each other in the dark.
A moaning rose — not of the wind,
— There was no wind, but hollowly
From its dim bed of mud each tree
Gave forth a sound, till trees and mud
Seemed but a single, sighing mouth,
A wound that spoke with lips uncouth,
And cried to me from Thèlus Wood.

I heard one tree say: 'This was I
Who drew great clouds across the sky
To weep against me.' This one said:
'I made a gloom where love might lie
All day and dream it night, a bed
Secret and soft, the birds' song had
A twilight sound the whole day there.'
One said: 'Last night I shook my hair
Before the mirror of the moon.'
'I saw a corpse to-day,' said one
'That was but buried yester-year.'
And one, the smallest, sweetest thing —
A fair child-tree made never stir,
Dead before God had tended her
In the green nurseries of Spring.
She lay, the loveliest, loneliest,
Among the old and ruined trees,
And at each small and broken wrist
The white flowers grew like bandages.

Then from the ruined churchyard where
Old vaults and graves lay turned and tossed
And earth from earth was shaken bare,
Came murmurings of a tongueless host
That to each ghastly brother said:
'Who raised us from our sleep? Is this
The resurrection of the dead?
Upon our bodies no flesh grows,
No bright blood through our temples springs,
No glory spreads, no trumpet blows,
The air is not white and blind with wings.
And yet dragged up before us lie
The woods of Thèlus at our feet,
And strange hills sentinel the sky,
And where the road went yawns a pit.
The world is finished: let us sleep.
God has forgotten: we shall keep
Here a sweet, safe Eternity.
There is no other end than this,
And this is death, and that is peace.'
But even as they ceased the stones
Were loosed, the earth shook where I stood,
And from far off the crouching guns
Swung slowly round on Thèlus Wood.

poem by Muriel Stuart
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Oh, FATHER! - FEEL MY Untold LOVE! (Part-1)

At schooltime, my father left me at house gringo!
Yet I Kept my tender heart at home of lingo!
When I quested, for fate “he is right as rain.”
Tender tears exploded like MISSILES yet in vein;
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

While I missed mother’s love and father’s stories
All the night I stood without sleep with many worries
I asked the god, why two legs and hands!
Why not two bodies and two souls for errands!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

Sugarcane Juice, peanuts and berries!
Our green fields, summer holidays and holy tours!
When thousand memories flashes in mind, now,
How much I miss mom's care! How much I miss dad’s love!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

The small buns you bought for me still smell good,
The grapes brought, coming from city is still my favorite food;
The fruits you brought me with roots; are they heaven sent?
Yet I didn’t pay any rent pay as you are my parent!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

Do you know who my MAHATMA is? Oh, my brother!
He is not Mandela, nor Gandhi but my father
Who taught me A to Z rather?
What to do and what not to do, I gather!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

When I think of all the things you gave to me:
Your sacrifices in food; love and affection are some to name,
............................................. ................................................. .....
*A big NOTICE BOARD: Oops! Sorry the poem is NOT completed. This is just break time! Now continue Your reading in part 2 the poem.

Oh, FATHER! - FEEL MY Untold LOVE! (Part-2) contin'd in part 2.. Read it.

poem by Harindhar Reddy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Old Wife and the New

He sat beneath the curling vines
That round the gay verandah twined,
His forehead seamed with sorrow’s lines,
An old man with a weary mind.

His young wife, with a rosy face
And brown arms ambered by the sun,
Went flitting all about the place—
Master and mistress both in one.

What caused that old man’s look of care?
Was she not blithe and fair to see?
What blacker than her raven hair,
What darker than her eyes might be?

The old man bent his weary head;
The sunlight on his gray hair shone;
His thoughts were with a woman dead
And buried, years and years agone:

The good old wife who took her stand
Beside him at the altar-side,
And walked with him, hand clasped in hand,
Through joy and sorrow till she died.

Ah, she was fair as heart’s desire,
And gay, and supple-limbed, in truth,
And in his veins there leapt like fire
The hot red blood of lusty youth.

She stood by him in shine and shade,
And, when hard-beaten at his best,
She took him like a child and laid
His aching head upon her breast.

She helped him make a little home
Where once were gum-trees gaunt and stark,
And bloodwoods waved green-feathered foam—
Working from dawn of day to dark,

Till that dark forest formed a frame
For vineyards that the gods might bless,
And what was savage once became
An Eden in the wilderness.

And how at their first vintage-time
She laughed and sang—you see such shapes
On vases of the Grecian prime—
And danced a reel upon the grapes!

And ever, as the years went on,
All things she kept with thrifty hand,
Till never shone the sun upon
A fairer homestead in the land.

Then children came—ah, me! ah, me!
Sad blessings that a mother craves!
That old man from his seat could see
The shadows playing o’er their graves.

And then she closed her eyes at last,
Her gentle, useful, peaceful life
Was over—garnered with the past;
God rest thee gently, Good Old Wife!

His young wife has a rosy face,
And laughs, with reddest lips apart,
But cannot fill the empty place
Within that old man’s lonely heart.
His young wife has a rosy face,
And brown arms ambered by the sun,
Goes flitting all about the place,
Master and mistress both in one;

But though she sings, or though she sighs,
He sees her not—he sees instead
A gray-haired Shade with gentle eyes—
The good old wife, long dead, long dead.

He sits beneath the curling vines,
Through which the merry sunrays dart,
His forehead seamed with sorrow’s lines—
An old man with a broken heart.

poem by Victor James Daley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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John Barleycorn

There were three men, came out of the west,
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John barleycorn must die!
Well, theyve ploughed, theyve sown, theve harrowed him in.
Threw clouds upon his head.
Till these three men were satisfied.
John barleycorn was dead.
Theyve let him lie for a long long time,
Till the rains from heaven did fall.
And little sir john sprang up his head
And so amazed them all.
They let him fly till the midsummers day,
Till he looked both pale and wan, oh,
Then little sir john has grown a long long beard
And so became a man.
They have hired men with the scythes so sharp.
To cut him off at the knee,
They rolled and they tied him around the waist,
Serving him most him barbarously.
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
To prick him to the heart.
And the loader he has served him worse than that,
For hes bound him to the cart.
Well, theyve wheeled him round and round the field,
Till they came onto a barn.
And there they made their solemn oath,
Concerning a barleycorn.
They hired men with the crab tree sticks
To split him skin from bone, yeah,
But the miller he has served him worst and bad
For he ground him between two stones.
Well theres beer all in the barrel
And brandy in the glass,
But little old sir john with his nut-brown bowl
Proved the strongest man at last.
John barleycorn, throw him up, throw him up!
Now the huntsman, he cant hunt the fox,
Nor loudly blow his horn
And the tinker he cant mend his pots
Without john barleycorn,
John barleycorn, john barleycorn,
Barleycorn, barleycorn
John barleycorn, john barleycorn.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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