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Even during the worst of times
When I feel the years go slipping by
Life seems rife with possibilities
When the New Year arrives.

Buoyed by hope at the New Year coming
I feel renewed and want to start living.
This year I'll travel and see the sights,
I'll be bold, I'll be courageous.

I'll reach out and go beyond.
I might even try being flirtatious!
I'll be a new fish in a brand new pond.
This new year I'll be brave and I'll be strong.

Even though time does fly,
I won't let this year be wasted.
I'll look forward to new adventures
And be open to opportunities I am graced with.

I'll learn and laugh and have good times.
I won't dwell on years gone by.
I'll start each new morning a brand new way.
I'll pretend it is New Year's Day!


This New Year

© Aleena More By Aleena

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/this-new-year

Edited by lunababymoonchild
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Here we bring new water from the well so clear,
For to worship God with this happy New Year.

  Sing levy-dew, sing levy-dew, the water and the wine,
  The seven bright gold wires and the bugles that do shine.

Sing reign of Fair Maid, with gold upon her toe;
Open you the West Door and turn the Old Year go.

Sing reign of Fair Maid, with gold upon her chin;
Open you the East Door and let the New Year in.


' A New Year Carol' (Traditional Welsh: this version published by Walter de la Mare)

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In Scarlet town, where I was born, 

   There was a fair maid dwellin’, 

Made every youth cry Well-a-way! 

   Her name was Barbara Allen. 


All in the merry month of May, 

   When green buds they were swellin’, 

Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, 

   For love of Barbara Allen. 


He sent his man in to her then, 

   To the town where she was dwellin’; 

“O haste and come to my master dear, 

   If your name be Barbara Allen.” 


So slowly, slowly rase she up, 

   And slowly she came nigh him, 

And when she drew the curtain by— 

   “Young man, I think you’re dyin’.” 


“O it’s I am sick and very very sick, 

   And it’s all for Barbara Allen.”— 

O the better for me ye’se never be, 

   Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’! 


“O dinna ye mind, young man,” says she, 

   “When the red wine ye were fillin’, 

That ye made the healths go round and round, 

   And slighted Barbara Allen?” 


He turned his face unto the wall, 

   And death was with him dealin’: 

“Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, 

   And be kind to Barbara Allen!” 


As she was walking o’er the fields, 

   She heard the dead-bell knellin’; 

And every jow the dead-bell gave 

   Cried “Woe to Barbara Allen.” 


“O mother, mother, make my bed, 

   O make it saft and narrow: 

My love has died for me today, 

   I’ll die for him tomorrow.” 


“Farewell,” she said, “ye virgins all, 

   And shun the fault I fell in: 

Henceforth take warning by the fall 

   Of cruel Barbara Allen.” 

Barbara Allen


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There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow which none may buy,
Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry.
Thomas Campion - 'There is a garden in her face'
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The Farmer quit what he was at,
The bee-hive he was smokin':
He tilted back his old straw hat--
Says he, 'Young man, you're jokin'!
O Lordy! (Lord, forgive the swar,)
Ain't ye a cheeky sinner?
Come, if I give my gal thar,
Where would _you_ find her dinner?

'Now look at _me_; I settl'd down
When I was one and twenty,
Me, and my axe and Mrs. Brown,
And stony land a plenty.
Look up thar! ain't that homestead fine,
And look at them thar cattle:
I tell ye since that early time
I've fit a tidy battle.

'It kinder wrestles down a man
To fight the stuns and mire:
But I sort of clutch'd to thet thar plan
Of David and Goliar.
Want was the mean old Philistine
That strutted round the clearin',
Of pebbles I'd a hansum line,
And flung 'em nothin' fearin'.

'They hit him square, right whar they ought,
Them times I _had_ an arm!
I lick'd the giant and I bought
A hundred acre farm.
My gal was born about them days,
I was mowin' in the medder;
When some one comes along and says--
'The wife's gone thro' the shadder!'

'Times thought it was God's will she went--
Times thought she work'd too slavin'--
And for the young one that was sent,
I took to steady savin'.
Jest cast your eye on that thar hill
The sugar bush just tetches,
And round by Miller Jackson's mill,
All round the farm stretches.

''Ain't got a mind to give that land
To any snip-snap feller
That don't know loam from mud or sand,
Or if corn's blue or yaller.
I've got a mind to keep her yet--
Last Fall her cheese and butter
Took prizes; sakes! I can't forget
Her pretty pride and flutter.

'Why, you be off! her little face
For me's the only summer;
Her gone, 'twould be a queer, old place,
The Lord smile down upon her!
All goes with her, the house and lot--
You'd like to get 'em, very!
I'll give 'em when this maple bears
A bouncin' ripe-red cherry!'

The Farmer fixed his hat and specks
And pursed his lips together,
The maple wav'd above his head,
Each gold and scarlet feather:
The Teacher's Honest heart sank down:
How could his soul be merry?
He knew--though teaching in a town,
No maple bears a cherry.

Soft blew the wind; the great old tree,
Like Saul to David's singing,
Nodded its jewelled crown, as he
Swayed to the harp-strings' ringing;
A something rosy--not a leaf
Stirs up amid the branches;
A miracle _may_ send relief
To lovers fond and anxious!

O rosy is the velvet cheek
Of one 'mid red leaves sitting!
The sunbeams played at hide-and-seek
With the needles in her knitting.
'O Pa!' The Farmer prick'd his ears,
Whence came that voice so merry?
(The Teacher's thoughtful visage clears)
'The maple bears a cherry!'

The Farmer tilted back his hat:
'Well, gal--as I'm a human,
I'll always hold as doctrine that
Thar's nothin' beats a woman!
When crown'd that maple is with snow,
And Christmas bells are merry,
I'll let you have her, Jack--that's so!
Be sure you're good to Cherry!' 

The Farmer's Daughter Cherry, Isabella Valancy Crawford


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When I was one-and-twenty
       I heard a wise man say,
“Give crowns and pounds and guineas
       But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
       But keep your fancy free.”
But I was one-and-twenty,
       No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twenty
       I heard him say again,
“The heart out of the bosom
       Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
       And sold for endless rue.”
And I am two-and-twenty,
       And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.
A.E. Housman - 'When I was one-and-twenty'
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I would in that sweet bosom be 
(O sweet it is and fair it is!) 
Where no rude wind might visit me. 
Because of sad austerities 
I would in that sweet bosom be. 

I would be ever in that heart 
(O soft I knock and soft entreat her!) 
Where only peace might be my part. 
Austerities were all the sweeter 
So I were ever in that heart

James Joyce, I Would In That Sweet Bosom Be


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The jester walked in the garden:
The garden had fallen still;
He bade his soul rise upward
And stand on her window-sill.
It rose in a straight blue garment,
When owls began to call:
It had grown wise-tongued by thinking
Of a quiet and light footfall;
But the young queen would not listen;
She rose in her pale night-gown;
She drew in the heavy casement
And pushed the latches down.
He bade his heart go to her,
When the owls called out no more;
In a red and quivering garment
It sang to her through the door.
It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming
Of a flutter of flower-like hair;
But she took up her fan from the table
And waved it off on the air.
'I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,
'I will send them to her and die’;
And when the morning whitened
He left them where she went by.
She laid them upon her bosom,
Under a cloud of her hair,
And her red lips sang them a love-song
Till stars grew out of the air.
She opened her door and her window,
And the heart and the soul came through,
To her right hand came the red one,
To her left hand came the blue.
They set up a noise like crickets,
A chattering wise and sweet,
And her hair was a folded flower
And the quiet of love in her feet.
W.B. Yeats - 'The Cap and Bells'
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  • 2 weeks later...


Laughter's healthy, contagious, and brightens your day.

It's pun that's a groaner or joke that's risque.

It's a belly laugh, horse laugh, or laugh like a loon

At a comic strip, slapstick or clown or cartoon.

Laughter's chuckles and chortles, a snicker or snort.

It's a humorist's quip or a jester at court.

It's amusement that's droll or the last laugh that's best

Or a rib-tickler, knee-slapper, jape, or a jest.


Laughter's mirth and hilarity, wisecracks or wags.

It's a yuk or a cackle and zingers and gags.

You can giggle, guffaw, or can laugh up your sleeve,

Bust a gut, or with levity tension relieve.


Laughter's wit that's impromptu or monologue planned.

Its a sitcom with punchlines and laughter that's canned.

It's a pie in the face or a pratfall or prank

And comedian's laugh all the way to the bank.


Laughter, Richard Thomas.

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I love that one!


We have done with dogma and divinity,
Easter and Whitsun past,
The long, long Sundays after Trinity,
Are with us at last;
The passionless Sundays after Trinity,
Neither feast-day nor fast.

Christmas comes with plenty,
Lent spreads out its pall,
But these are five and twenty,
The longest Sundays of all;
The placid Sundays after Trinity,
Wheat-harvest, fruit-harvest, Fall.

Spring with its burst is over,
Summer has had its day,
The scented grasses and clover
Are cut, and dried into hay;
The singing-birds are silent,
And the swallows flown away.

Post pugnam pausa fiet;
Lord, we have made our choice;
In the stillness of autumn quiet,
We have heard the still, small voice.
We have sung Oh where shall Wisdom?
Thick paper, folio, Boyce.


Let it not all be sadness,
Not omnia vanitas,
Stir up a little gladness
To lighten the Tibi cras;
Send us that little summer,
That comes with Martinmas.

When still the cloudlet dapples
The windless cobalt blue,
And the scent of gathered apples
Fills all the store-rooms through,
The gossamer silvers the bramble,
The lawns are gemmed with dew.

An end of tombstone Latinity,
Stir up sober mirth,
Twenty-fifth after Trinity,
Kneel with the listening earth,
Behind the Advent trumpets
They are singing Emmanuel's birth.

John Meade Falkner - 'After Trinity'


Completely the wrong season, but that's not an easy poem to link to.

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READING in Omar till the thoughts that burned
Upon his pages seemed to be inurned
Within me in a silent fire, my pen
By instinct to his flowing metre turned.
Vine-crowned free-thinker of thy Persian clime –
Brave bard whose daring thought and mystic rhyme
Through English filter trickles down to us
Out of the lost springs of an olden time –
Baffled by life’s enigmas, like the crowd
Who strove before and since to see the cloud
Lift from the mountain pinnacles of faith –
We honor still the doubts thou hast avowed,
And fain would round the hail-truth of thy dream;
And fain let in – if so we might – a beam
Of purer light through windows of the soul,
Dividing things that are from things that seem.
True, true, brave poet, in thy cloud involved,
The riddle of the world stood all unsolved;
And we who boast our broader views still grope
Too oft like thee, though centuries have revolved.
Yet this we know. Thy symbol of the jar
Suits not our western manhood, left to mar
Or make, in part, the clay ‘t is moulded of:
And the soul’s freedom is its fateful star.
Not like thy ball thrown from the player’s hand
Inert and passive on a yielding strand;
Or if a ball, the rock whence it rebounds
Proves that e’en this some license may command.
But though thy mind, which measured Jove and Mars,
Lay fettered from the Unseen by bolts and bars
Of circumstance, one truth thy spirit saw,
The mystery spanning life and earth and stars.
Dervish and threatening dogma were thy foes.
The question though unanswered still arose;
And through the revel and the wine-cups still
The honest thought,
“Who knows, but One – who knows?”
And as I read again each fervent line
That smiles through sighs, and drips with fragrant wine;
And Vedder’s thoughtful muse has graced the verse
With added jewels from the artist’s mine –
I read a larger meaning in the sage,
A modern comment on a far-off age;
And take the truth, and leave the error out
That casts its light stain on the Asian page.


Omar Khayyam, Christopher Pearse Cranch

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At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills,
Where at her open door the housewife darns,
Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate
To watch the threshers in the mossy barns.
Children, who early range these slopes and late
For cresses from the rills,
Have known thee eyeing, all an April-day,
The springing pasture and the feeding kine;
And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine,
Through the long dewy grass move slow away.
In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood—
Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way
Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see
With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey,
Above the forest-ground called Thessaly—
The blackbird, picking food,
Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;
So often has he known thee past him stray,
Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray,
And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.
And once, in winter, on the causeway chill
Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge,
Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,
Thy face tow'rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge?
And thou has climb'd the hill,
And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range;
Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,
The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall—
Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.
But what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown
Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe
That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls
To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe;
And thou from earth art gone
Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—
Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave
Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave,
Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade.
Matthew Arnold - from 'The Scholar-Gypsy'
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Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 

In his steep course? So long he seems to pause 

On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC, 

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! 

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 

How silently! Around thee and above 

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 

An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, 

As with a wedge! But when I look again, 

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 

Thy habitation from eternity! 

O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, 

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 

I worshipped the Invisible alone. 


Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, 

Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy: 

Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, 

Into the mighty vision passing—there 

As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven


Awake, my soul! not only passive praise 

Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 

Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, 

Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! 

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. 


Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale! 

O struggling with the darkness all the night, 

And visited all night by troops of stars, 

Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: 

Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 

Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 

Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! 

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? 

Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 

Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 


And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! 

Who called you forth from night and utter death, 

From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagg


Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouni


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'Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain
When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,
And mute's the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,
And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.

I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,
The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;
And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking
That she and I should surely die and never live again.

Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;
But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.
'Tis true there's better boose than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;
And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.

The King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;
Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air.
And he that stands will die for nought, and home there's no returning.
The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.


A.E. Housman - 'The Oracles'

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O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
         O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
         O sweet and bitter in a breath,
What whispers from thy lying lip?
"The stars," she whispers, "blindly run;
         A web is wov'n across the sky;
         From out waste places comes a cry,
And murmurs from the dying sun:
"And all the phantom, Nature, stands—
         With all the music in her tone,
         A hollow echo of my own,—
A hollow form with empty hands."
And shall I take a thing so blind,
         Embrace her as my natural good;
         Or crush her, like a vice of blood,
Upon the threshold of the mind?


By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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Shine out, fair Sun, with all your heat,
Show all your thousand-coloured light!
Black Winter freezes to his seat;
The grey wolf howls, he does so bite;
Crookt Age on three knees creeps the street;
The boneless fish close quaking lies
And eats for cold his aching feet;
The stars in icicles arise:
Shine out, and make this winter night
Our beauty's Spring, our Prince of Light!


George Chapman - 'Shine out, fair Sun, with all your heat'

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I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to me
The Century’s corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited.
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware.


The Darkling Thrush, Thomas Hardy

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The snow is gone from cottage tops
The thatch moss glows in brighter green
And eves in quick succession drops
Where grinning ides once hath been
Pit patting wi’ a pleasant noise
In tubs set by the cottage door
And ducks and geese wi’ happy joys
Douse in the yard pond brimming o’er


The sun peeps thro the window pane
Which childern mark wi’ laughing eye
And in the wet street steal again
To tell each other spring is nigh
And as young hope the past recalls
In playing groups will often draw
Building beside the sunny walls
Their spring play-huts of sticks or straw


And oft in pleasures dreams they hie
Round homesteads by the village side
Scratting the hedgerow mosses bye
Where painted pooty shells abide
Mistaking oft the ivy spray
For leaves that come wi’ budding spring
And wondering in their search for play
Why birds delay to build and sing


The milkmaid singing leaves her bed
As glad as happy thoughts can be
While magpies chatter o’er her head
As jocund in the change as she
Her cows around the closes stray
Nor lingering wait the foddering boy
Tossing the molehills in their play
And staring round in frolic joy


Ploughmen go whistling to their toils
And yoke again the rested plough
And mingling o’er the mellow soils
Boys’ shouts and whips are noising now

The shepherd now is often seen
By warm banks o’er his work to bend
Or o’er a gate or stile to lean
Chattering to a passing friend


Odd hive bees fancying winter o’er
And dreaming in their combs of spring
Creeps on the slab beside their door
And strokes its legs upon its wing
While wild ones half asleep are humming
Round snowdrop bells a feeble note
And pigions coo of summer coming
Picking their feathers on the cote


Thus nature of the spring will dream
While south winds thaw but soon again
Frost breaths upon the stiffening stream
And numbs it into ice—the plain

Soon wears its merry garb of white
And icicles that fret at noon
Will eke their icy tails at night
Beneath the chilly stars and moon


Nature soon sickens of her joys
And all is sad and dumb again
Save merry shouts of sliding boys
About the frozen furrowd plain
The foddering boy forgets his song
And silent goes wi’ folded arms
And croodling shepherds bend along
Crouching to the whizzing storms.


John Clare - 'February'

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Under a daisied bank 
There stands a rich red ruminating cow, 
   And hard against her flank 
A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow. 

   The flowery river-ooze 
Upheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail; 
   Few pilgrims but would choose 
The peace of such a life in such a vale. 

   The maid breathes words--to vent, 
It seems, her sense of Nature's scenery, 
   Of whose life, sentiment, 
And essence, very part itself is she. 

   She bends a glance of pain, 
And, at a moment, lets escape a tear; 
   Is it that passing train, 
Whose alien whirr offends her country ear? - 

   Nay! Phyllis does not dwell 
On visual and familiar things like these; 
   What moves her is the spell 
Of inner themes and inner poetries: 

   Could but by Sunday morn 
Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun, 
   Trains shriek till ears were torn, 
If Fred would not prefer that Other One. 

The Milkmaid Poem, Thomas Hardy

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"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?" —
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.
— "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!" —
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.
— "At home in the barton you said thee' and thou,'
And thik oon,' and theäs oon,' and t'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!" —
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.
— "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!" —
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.
— "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!" —
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.
— "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" —
"My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.
Thomas Hardy - 'The Ruined Maid'
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Hit me on the head with a barton
May be it will wake me up from this unending nightmare 
or send me on a one way ticket to eternity
Either of the two I will be at peace at last
I know my dream is my cross but sometimes it feels like my curse
I look at it and it looks like the most precious treasure in the world sometimes
But other times I feel like it is making a fool of me
How is it possible that the world isn't seeing what I'm seeing
Or perhaps I'm the one not seeing what they're seeing
My heart is as heavy as a rock
My head is running round and round in circles
I thought I had it figured out 
Guess life isn't ready to give in
but days like this aren't new to man or life
It's just one of those days I feel betrayed by my dream
Tomorrow will come and it will bring a new hope
So keep your barton 
Cos I already got up.

olajide ojedokun Aug 2015

thanks but no thanks

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8 hours ago, megustaleer said:

Ok - can anyone tell me what 'barton' means in the last poem?

I know the meaning of 'barton' in The Ruined Maid, but I hardly think anyone could be hit on the head with a farmyard!



v. (commonly bartoned) an action through which a person or persons is rejected, humiliated, punished, or degraded. Also, having something taken away that is usually and rightfully ones own


Originating in WIlson NC, Barton College is a craphole, from which came Matt Boykin. The term was derived from the college by the Appalachian baseball team initially to describe a time when Coach Boykin would make a player do something the player would rather not do. Since Boykin was a coach, there was not much a player could do. Mostly, it was used to describe the person on whom Boykin abused his power, and was therefore widely considered a dick.  Bartoned would later come to use in everyday life around Boone, NC when something funny would happen to another person. Boykin is a bitch.


Urban Dictionary Definition of Barton

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