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Heather

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About Heather

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  1. Poetic Wanderings

    I saw Eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright; And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years, Driv’n by the spheres Like a vast shadow mov’d; in which the world And all her train were hurl’d. The doting lover in his quaintest strain Did there complain; Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, Wit’s sour delights, With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, Yet his dear treasure All scatter’d lay, while he his eyes did pour Upon a flow’r. From "The World" - Henry Vaughan
  2. Poetic Wanderings

    Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school boys and sour prentices, Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices, Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long; If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and tomorrow late, tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay. She's all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus. Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere. John Donne - The Sun Rises
  3. Poetic Wanderings

    Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. From 'The Hollow Men' - T.S. Eliot
  4. Poetic Wanderings

    It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day. The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowds and cries. Had I said, ‘Good folks, mere noise repels - But give me your sun from yonder skies!’ They had answered, ‘And afterward, what else?’ Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun, To give it my loving friends to keep! Nought man could do have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. There's nobody on the house-tops now - Just a palsied few at the windows set - For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles' Gate—or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. Thus I entered, and thus I go! In such triumphs, people have dropped down dead. ‘Paid by the World, what dost thou owe Me?’ - God might question; now instead, 'Tis God shall repay! I am safer so. The Patriot - Robert Browning
  5. Poetic Wanderings

    Oberon Now until the break of day,  Through this house each fairy stray.  To the best bride bed will we,  Which by us shall blessèd be.  And the issue there create  Ever shall be fortunate.  So shall all the couples three  Ever true in loving be.  And the blots of Nature’s hand  Shall not in their issue stand. Never mole, harelip, nor scar,  Nor mark prodigious, such as are  Despisèd in nativity,  Shall upon their children be.  With this field dew consecrate,  Every fairy take his gait.  And each several chamber bless  Through this palace with sweet peace.  And the owner of it blessed  Ever shall in safety rest.  Trip away. Make no stay.  Meet me all by break of day. Shakespeare - A Midsummer Night's Dream, V, i
  6. Poetic Wanderings

    All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise. From 'Fern Hill' - Dylan Thomas
  7. Poetic Wanderings

    He lost his money first of all And losing that is half the story - And later on he tried a fall With fate, in things less transitory. He lost his heart - and found it dead- (His one and only true discovery), And after that he lost his head, And lost his chances of recovery. He lost his honour bit by bit Until the thing was out of question. He worried so at losing it, He lost his sleep and his digestion. He lost his temper - and for good - The remnants of his reputation, His taste in wine, his choice of food, And then, in rapid culmination, His certitudes, his sense of truth, His memory, his self-control, The love that graced his early youth, And lastly his immortal soul. The Loser - Hilaire Belloc
  8. Poetic Wanderings

    It will have blood, they say. Blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak. Augurs and understood relations have By magot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth The secret’st man of blood.—What is the night? Shakespeare - Macbeth, III/iv
  9. Poetic Wanderings

    Stars, I have seen them fall, But when they drop and die No star is lost at all From all the star-sown sky. The toil of all that be Helps not the primal fault; It rains into the sea, And still the sea is salt. A.E. Housman
  10. Poetic Wanderings

    I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. From Ode to a Nightingale - John Keats
  11. Poetic Wanderings

    First Nymph. Thus, thus begin, the yearly rites Are due to Pan on these bright nights; His morn now riseth and invites To sports, to dances, and delights: All envious and profane, away! This is the shepherds’ holiday. Second Nymph. Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground With every flower, yet not confound; The primrose drop, the spring’s own spouse, Bright day’s-eyes, and the lips of cows, The garden-star, the queen of May, The rose, to crown the holiday. Third Nymph. Drop, drop you violets, change your hues Now red, now pale, as lovers use, And in your death go out as well, As when you lived unto the smell: That from your odour all may say, This is the shepherds’ holiday. The Shepherds' Holiday - Ben Jonson
  12. Poetic Wanderings

    I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath— It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows ‘twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I’ve a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. I Have a Rendezvous with Death - Alan Seeger
  13. Poetic Wanderings

    The lines above do occur in Othello, but they are a direct quote from an anonymous ballad 'The Old Cloak'. I found a sixpence, A little white sixpence. I took it in my hand To the market square. I was buying my rabbit I do like rabbits, And I looked for my rabbit 'Most everywhere. So I went to the stall where they sold fine saucepans ("Walk up, walk up, sixpence for a saucepan!"). "Could I have a rabbit, 'cos we've got two saucepans?" But they hadn't got a rabbit, not anywhere there. A.A. Milne - Market Square
  14. Poetic Wanderings

    A good sword and a trusty hand! A merry heart and true! King James's men shall understand What Cornish lads can do! And have they fixed the where and when? And shall Trelawny die? Here's twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why! Out spake their Captain brave and bold: A merry wight was he: Though London Tower were Michael's hold, We'll set Trelawny free! We'll cross the Tamar, land to land: The Severn is no stay: With "one and all," and hand in hand; And who shall bid us nay? And when we come to London Wall, A pleasant sight to view, Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all: Here's men as good as you. Trelawny he's in keep and hold; Trelawny he may die: Here's twenty thousand Cornish bold Will know the reason why
  15. Poetic Wanderings

    Hence loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy; Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come thou goddess fair and free, In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two sister Graces more To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying, There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. From L'Allegro - John Milton
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