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Heather

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About Heather

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  1. Poetic Wanderings

    “Summer is coming, summer is coming. I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again.” Yes, my wild little Poet. Sing the new year in under the blue. Last year you sang it as gladly. “New, new, new, new!” Is it then so new That you should carol so madly? “Love again, song again, nest again, young again,” Never a prophet so crazy! And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy. “Here again, here, here, here, happy year!” Oh, warble unchidden, unbidden! Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, And all the winters are hidden. Alfred, Lord Tennyson - 'The Throstle'
  2. Poetic Wanderings

    O, the month of May, the merry month of May, So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green! O, and then did I unto my true love say, Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen. Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale, The sweetest singer in all the forest quire, Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love's tale: Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier. But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the cuckoo; See where she sitteth; come away, my joy: Come away, I prithee, I do not like the cuckoo Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy. O, the month of May, the merry month of May, So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green; And then did I unto my true love say, Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen. Thomas Dekker - 'The Merry Month of May'
  3. Poetic Wanderings

    Now the bright morning star, Day’s harbinger, Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing; Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. John Milton - Ode Composed on a May Morning
  4. Poetic Wanderings

    The rumbling rivers now do warm, For little boys to paddle; The sturdy steed now goes to grass, And up they hang the saddle; The heavy hart, the bellowing buck, The rascal, and the pricket, Are now among the yeoman’s pease, And leave the fearful thicket; And be like them, oh, you, I say, Of this same noble town, And lift aloft your velvet heads, And slipping off your gown, With bells on legs, and napkins clean Unto your shoulders tied, With scarfs and garters as you please, And “Hey for our town!” cried, March out and show your willing minds, By twenty and by twenty, To Hogsdon, or to Newington, Where ale and cakes are plenty; And let it ne’er be said for shame, That we the youths of London Lay thrumming of our caps at home, And left our custom undone. Up then, I say, both young and old, Both man and maid a-maying, With drums and guns that bounce aloud, And merry tabour playing! Which to prolong, God save our king, And send his country peace, And root out treason from the land! And so, my friends, I cease. Frances Beaumont - from 'The Knight of the Burning Pestle'
  5. Poetic Wanderings

    The Whore & Gambler by the State Licencd build that Nations Fate The Harlots cry from Street to Street Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet The Winners Shout the Losers Curse Dance before dead Englands Hearse Every Night & every Morn Some to Misery are Born Every Morn and every Night Some are Born to sweet delight Some are Born to sweet delight Some are Born to Endless Night We are led to Believe a Lie When we see not Thro the Eye Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light God Appears & God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in Night But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of day William Blake - from 'Augeries of Innocence'
  6. Poetic Wanderings

    That summer bird its oft repeated note Chirps from the dotterel ash and in the hole The green woodpecker made in years remote It makes its nest--where peeping idlers strole In anxious plundering moods--and bye and bye The wrynecks curious eggs as white as snow While squinting in the hollow tree they spy The sitting bird looks up with jetty eye And waves her head in terror too and fro Speckled and veined in various shades of brown And then a hissing noise assails the clown And quick with hasty terror in his breast From the trees knotty trunk he sluthers down And thinks the strange bird guards a serpents nest. John Clare - The Wrynecks Nest
  7. Poetic Wanderings

    I HAVE seen old ships sail like swans asleep Beyond the village which men still call Tyre, With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep For Famagusta and the hidden sun That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire; And all those ships were certainly so old— Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun, Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges, The pirate Genoese Hell-raked them till they rolled Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold. But now through friendly seas they softly run, Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green, Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold. But I have seen, Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay, A drowsy ship of some yet older day; And, wonder's breath indrawn, Thought I—who knows—who knows—but in that same (Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new —Stern painted brighter blue—) That talkative, bald-headed seaman came (Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar) From Troy's doom-crimson shore, And with great lies about his wooden horse Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course. It was so old a ship—who knows, who knows? —And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain To see the mast burst open with a rose, And the whole deck put on its leaves again. James Elroy Flecker - 'The Old Ships'
  8. Poetic Wanderings

    When kindness had his wants supplied, And the old man was gratified, Began to rise his minstrel pride: And he began to talk anon, Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone, And of Earl Walter, rest him, God! A braver ne'er to battle rode; And how full many a tale he knew, Of the old warriors of Buccleuch: And, would the noble Duchess deign To listen to an old man's strain, Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak, He thought even yet, the sooth to speak, That, if she loved the harp to hear, He could make music to her ear. The humble boon was soon obtain'd; The Aged Minstrel audience gain'd. But, when he reach'd the room of state, Where she, with all her ladies, sate, Perchance he wished his boon denied: For, when to tune his harp he tried, His trembling hand had lost the ease, Which marks security to please; And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, Came wildering o'er his aged brain-- He tried to tune his harp in vain! The pitying Duchess praised its chime, And gave him heart, and gave him time, Till every string's according glee Was blended into harmony. And then, he said, he would full fain He could recall an ancient strain, He never thought to sing again. It was not framed for village churls, But for high dames and mighty earls; He had play'd it to King Charles the Good, When he kept court in Holyrood, And much he wish'd yet fear'd to try The long-forgotten melody. Amid the strings his fingers stray'd, And an uncertain warbling made, And oft he shook his hoary head. But when he caught the measure wild, The old man raised his face, and smiled; And lighten'd up his faded eye, With all a poet's ecstasy! In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along: The present scene, the future lot, His toils, his wants, were all forgot: Cold diffidence, and age's frost, In the full tide of song were lost; Each blank in faithless memory void, The poet's glowing thought supplied; And while his harp responsive rung, 'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung. Sir Walter Scott - from 'The Lay of the Last Minstrel',
  9. Poetic Wanderings

    It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din.' He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. S.T. Coleridge - from 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner'
  10. Poetic Wanderings

    O waly, waly, up the bank, And waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side, Where I and my Love wont to gae! I lean'd my back unto an aik, I thocht it was a trustie tree; But first it bow'd and syne it brak— Sae my true love did lichtlie me. O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie A little time while it is new! But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld, And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my heid, Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, And says he'll never lo'e me mair. Now Arthur's Seat sall be my bed, The sheets sall ne'er be fyl'd by me; Saint Anton's well sall be my drink; Since my true Love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearìe. 'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie, 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry; But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we cam in by Glasgow toun, We were a comely sicht to see; My Love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel in cramasie. But had I wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win, I had lock'd my heart in a case o' gowd, And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. And oh! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee; And I mysel were dead and gane, For a maid again I'll never be. Traditional - 'O Waly Waly'
  11. what is everyone doing?

    I don't know about Canada, but here it's illegal to interfere with almost any bird when it's nesting, no matter how much of a nuisance it is. Whatever the law is there, I agree it would be very rash to interfere with a nesting goose.
  12. Poetic Wanderings

    The Saturday Afternoon Blues can kill you can fade your life away friends are all out shopping ain’t nobody home suicide hotline is busy and here i am on my own with a pill and a bottle for company and heart full of been done wrong i’m a candidate for the coroner, a lyric for a song saturday afternoons are killers when the air is brisk and warm ol’ sun he steady whispers soon the life you know will be done suicide line i can’t get you best friend out of town alone with a pill and a bottle i drink my troubles down the man i love is a killer the man i love is thief the man i love is a junky the man i love is grief some call saturday the sabbath it’s the bottom of the line some say whether last or first, my heart’s gonna burst and there ain’t no help my way here with a pill and a bottle and a life full of been done wrong i’m a candidate for the coroner, a lyric for a song Wanda Coleman The title has to go first here, to make sense of the poem.
  13. Poetic Wanderings

    Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold. Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth; And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves John Milton - from 'Lycidas'
  14. Poetic Wanderings

    Shouldn't that be 'bewitched'? With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. Laurence Binyon - from 'For the Fallen'
  15. Poetic Wanderings

    Ash on an old man's sleeve Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended. Dust inbreathed was a house - The walls, the wainscot and the mouse, The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air. There are flood and drouth Over the eyes and in the mouth, Dead water and dead sand Contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil Gapes at the vanity of toil, Laughs without mirth. This is the death of earth. Water and fire succeed The town, the pasture and the weed. Water and fire deride The sacrifice that we denied. Water and fire shall rot The marred foundations we forgot, Of sanctuary and choir. This is the death of water and fire. T.S. Eliot - from 'Little Gidding'
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