Borrowed Poetry
Theia
Posts: 145
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden Daffodils;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-
A Poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden Daffodils;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-
A Poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
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How shall I hold on to my soul, so that
it does not touch yours? How shall I lift
it gently up over you on to other things?
I would so very much like to tuck it away
among long lost objects in the dark
in some quiet unknown place, somewhere
which remains motionless when your depths resound.
And yet everything which touches us, you and me,
takes us together like a single bow,
drawing out from two strings but one voice.
On which instrument are we strung?
And which violinist holds us in the hand?
O sweetest of songs.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times...
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it's age old pain,
It's ancient tale of being apart or together.
As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,
Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time.
You become an image of what is remembered forever.
You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
At the heart of time, love of one for another.
We have played along side millions of lovers,
Shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting,
the distressful tears of farewell,
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.
Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you
The love of all man's days both past and forever:
Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.
The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours -
And the songs of every poet past and forever.
by, Pablo Neruda
From Singapore on, there was a smell of opium.
The honest Englishman was well aware of it.
In Geneva he denounced
The undercover dealers,
But in the colonies each port
gave off a cloud of legal smoke,
numbered, juicily licensed, legalized.
The gentleman from London,
impeccably dressed like a nightingale
(striped pants, starched armor),
raged against sellers of dreams,
but here in the East
he took off his mask
and peddled lethargy on every corner.
I wanted to know. I went in. Every bench
Had its recumbent occupant.
Nobody spoke. Nobody laughed. I thought
they smoked in a total silence,
but pipes crackled beside me
when the needle met the flame,
and with that inhaled coolness,
an ecstatic joy came with the milky smoke,
some far door
opened on a luscious emptiness.
Opium was the flower of torpor,
paralyzed joy,
pure activity without movement.
everything moved like an oiled hinge
to become a sheer existence.
Nothing burned, nobody wept.
There was no room for anguish.
There was no fuel for anger.
I looked around. Poor victims,
slaves, coolies from the rickshaws and plantations,
run-down workhorses,
street dogs,
poor abused people.
Here, after their wounds,
after being not human beings but feet,
after being not men but beasts of burden,
sweating blood, having no soul,
there they were,
lonely,
stretched out,
lying down at last, the hard-footed people.
Each one had exchanged hunger
for an obscure right to pleasure,
and under the crown of lethargy,
dream or deception, luck or death, they were
at last at rest, what they looked for all their lives,
respected, at last, on a star of their own.
"Hear me, my chiefs!
I am tired; my heart is
sick and sad. From where
the sun stands I will fight
no more forever."
Chief Joseph - Nez Perce
With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning
so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible
I went out at night alone;
The young blood flowing beyond the sea
Seemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings
I bore my sorrow heavily.
But when I lifted up my head
From shadows shaken on the snow,
I saw Orion in the east
Burn steadily as long ago.
From windows in my father’s house,
Dreaming my dreams on winter nights,
I watched Orion as a girl
Above another city’s lights.
Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too,
The world’s heart breaks beneath its wars,
All things are changed, save in the east
The faithful beauty of the stars.
God made a beatous garden
With lovely flowers strown,
But one straight, narrow pathway
That was not overgrown.
And to this beauteous garden
He brought mankind to live,
And said: "To you, my children,
These lovely flowers I give.
Prune ye my vines and fig trees,
With care my flowerets tend,
But keep the pathway open
Your home is at the end."
Then came another master,
Who did not love mankind,
And planted on the pathway
Gold flowers for them to find.
And mankind saw the bright flowers,
That, glitt'ring in the sun,
Quite hid the thorns of av'rice
That poison blood and bone;
And far off many wandered,
And when life's night came on,
They still were seeking gold flowers,
Lost, helpless and alone.
O, cease to heed the glamour
That blinds your foolish eyes,
Look upward to the glitter
Of stars in God's clear skies.
Their ways are pure and harmless
And will not lead astray,
Bid aid your erring footsteps
To keep the narrow way.
And when the sun shines brightly
Tend flowers that God has given
And keep the pathway open
That leads you on to heaven.
It was a lover and his lass
With a hey and a ho, and a hey-nonino!
That o'er the green corn-field did pass
In the spring time, the only pretty sing time,
When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
Sweet lovers love the Spring.
Between the acres of the rye
These pretty country folks would lie:
This carol they began that hour,
How that life was a but a flower;
And therefore take the present time
With a hey and a ho and a hey-nonino!
For love is crowned with the prime
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do you sing hey ding a ding:
Sweet lovers love the Spring.
I was remembering today when Gene Wilder sang a few lines of this in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
by William Shakespeare
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow:
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie—
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find—it's your own affair—
But…you've given your heart for a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart for the dog to tear.
We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long—
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
To my Leo. He was smart and polite and unafraid. The coolest dog ever.........
very good, but true and sad
The youthful shapes that please my eyes
No longer plague my heart.
Mild age disarms and sanctifies
The youthful shapes that please my eyes.
Like strains of heavenly music rise
And harmlessly depart
The youthful shapes that please---my eyes
No longer plague my heart.
OSWALD COULDREY
from Triolets and Epigrams
in the newly morning grass
rain's coming down
but i know the clouds will pass
you bring me tea
say the babes are sleeping
lay down beside me
love ain't for keeping
blash ash from the foundry
hangs like a hood
but the air is perfumed
by the burning firewood
the seeds are bursting
the springs are seeping
lay down my darling
love ain't for keeping
lay down beside me
love ain't for keeping
(solo)
lay down beside me
love ain't for keeping
lay down my darling
love ain't for keeping
It's about the ball, the bat, and the mitt.
Ball hits bat, or it hits mitt.
Bat doesn't hit ball, bat meets it.
Ball bounces off bat, flies air, or thuds ground (dud) or it fits mitt.
Bat waits for ball to mate.
Ball hates to take bat's bait.
Ball flirts, bat's late, don't keep the date.
Ball goes in (thwack) to mitt, and goes out (thwack) back to mitt.
Ball fits mitt, but not all the time.
Sometimes ball gets hit (pow) when bat meets it,
and sails to a place where mitt has to quit in disgrace.
That's about the bases loaded, about 40,000 fans exploded.
It's about the ball, the bat, the mitt, the bases and the fans.
It's done on a diamond, and for fun.
It's about home,
and it's about run.
It's just that simple.
And why I love the game.