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Groan! I am finding this SO addictive, I'm not getting anything done!



The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one:

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.


First verse of 'The night has a Thousand eyes' by Francis William Bourdillon

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Had I the Heavens' embroidered cloths

Enrought with golden and silver light

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven WB Yeats


Can you tell I'm a Yeats fan?!?! ;)

This is one of my favourite poems, I think it's beautiful.

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Can you tell I'm a Yeats fan?!?! ;)

This is one of my favourite poems, I think it's beautiful.

Lovely :)



This is the Night Mail crossing the border,

Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,

The shop at the corner and the girl next door.


<A HREF="http://www.newearth.demon.co.uk/poems/lyric206.htm">Night Mail - W H Auden</A>

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He ran a good shop , and he died

Serving even the death dealers

Who found him busy as usual

Behind the counter, organised

With holly wreaths for Christmas,

Fir trees on the pavement outside.


From Michael Longley's poem 'Wreaths'


It's about the ridiculous situation in Ireland (and I'm Irish so I can say that!)

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Great thread Claire! :)


Warning by Jenny Joseph


When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandles, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit.


"And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves" This bit reminds me of my fab grandmother.

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Today we have naming of parts. YEsterday,

We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,

We shall have what to do after firing. But today,

Today we have naming of parts. Japonica

Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens

And today we have naming of parts


From Naming of Parts, Henry Reed

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I always remember the last line of that poem - 'And all that mighty heart is lying still'.


Here's the first half of John Masefield's 'Beauty' -


I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills

Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain:

I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils,

Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.

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And what of her who took

All till my youth was gone

With scarce a pitying look?

How could I praise that one?

When day begins to break

I count my good and bad

Being wakeful for her sake,

Remembering what she had,

What eagle look still shows,

While up from my heart's root

So great a sweetness flows

I shake from head to foot.


From "Friends" by W.B.Yeats

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All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This: were we led all that way for

Birth or Death? There was a birth, certainly,

We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different; this Birth was

Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,

But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.

I should be glad of another death.



The last verse of 'The Journey of The Magi' by T.S. Eliot

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Ah, death! Always a good bet for a poem or a song, so rather spoiled for choice on this one. Here's the first verse of Roger McGough's 'Let Me Die A Youngman's Death'



Let me die a youngman's death

not a clean and inbetween

the sheets holywater death

not a famous-last-words

peaceful out of breath death

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Continuing on the morbid theme...


For the first twenty years, since yesterday,

I scarce believed, thou couldst be gone away,

For forty more, I fed on favours past,

And forty on hopes, that thou wouldst, they might last,

Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two,

A thousand, I did neither think, nor do,

Or not divide, all being one thought of you;

Or in a thousand more, forgot that too.

Yet call not this long life; but think that I

Am, by being dead, immortal; can ghosts die?


The Computation, John Donne

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Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.


In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside

And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.


So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour

With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.


D.H. Lawrence, Piano

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One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way,



From that wonderfully melodramatic poem by Alfred Noyes, 'The Highwayman'

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I am the mower Damon, known

Through all the meadows I have mown.

On me the morn her dew distils

Before her darling daffodils;

And, if at noon my toils me heat,

The sun himself licks off my sweat;

While, going home, the evening sweet

In cowslip-water bathes my feet.


From Andrew Marvell, "Damon the Mower".


I hope you don't mind the slight alteration of tense, but I couldn't resist the lovely Mr Marvell!

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Someone was before me at my water-trough,

And I, like a second comer, waiting.


He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,

And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,

And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,

And stooped and drank a little more,

Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth

On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.


From 'Snake' by D.H. Lawrence



I'm not keen on Lawrence's novels, but enjoy his poetry. When I read this poem I can almost feel the heat, and lethargy of that Sicilian July day!

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