Lady, poetry, Thoughts, writing

An Englishman’s Prayer


Today I am sharing with you one of my most favourite poems:

Lord, when I die, please let it be in Spring, 🌷

Let me see the swallows and hear a robin sing; 🐦

Help me to my window to see a butterfly 🦋

And watch the dreamy spiral of a lark up in the sky. 🦅

Let me hear the bleating of a new born baby lamb, 🐑

The gurgling of the water as it overflows the dam; 💦

The busy, busy buzzing of the ever active bees 🐝

And gentle sound of breezes whispering in the trees. 🌲

Let me enjoy the scent of spring when it comes to my last day

For that will give me pleasure as I gently slip away.

And may the last thing that I see be a little baby’s smile: 👶

For all these things have made my stay on this old earth worthwhile.

An Englishman’s Prayer 🙏

CREDIT: – Roy Hobbs –

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poetry, Thoughts

Ode—Autumn Thomas Hood (1799–1845)


I

I SAW old Autumn in the misty morn

Stand shadowless, like silence, listening

To silence, for no lonely bird would sing

Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,

Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;—

        5

Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright

With tangled gossamer that fell by night,

Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

II

Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,

Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,

        10

Till shade and silence waken up as one,

And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.

Where are the merry birds?—Away, away,

On panting wings through the inclement skies,

Lest owls should prey

        15

Undazzled at noon-day,

And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

III

Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west,

Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,

When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest

        20

Like tearful Prosperpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs

To a most gloomy breast.

Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,—

The many, many leaves all twinkling?—Three

On the moss’d elm; three on the naked lime

        25

Trembling,—and one upon the old oak tree!

Where is the Dryad’s immortality?—

Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,

Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through

In the smooth holly’s green eternity.

        30

IV

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish’d hoard,

The ants have brimm’d their garners with ripe grain,

And honey bees have stor’d

The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;

The swallows all have wing’d across the main;

        35

But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,

And sighs her tearful spells

Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain,

Alone, alone,

Upon a mossy stone,

        

40

She sits and reckons up the dead and gone

With the last leaves for a love-rosary,

Whilst all the wither’d world looks drearily,

Like a dim picture of the drowned past

In the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away,

        45

Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last

Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

V

O go and sit with her, and be o’ershaded

Under the languid downfall of her hair:

She wears a coronal of flowers faded

        50

Upon her forehead, and a face of care;—

There is enough of winter’d everywhere

To make her bower,—and enough of gloom;

There is enough of sadness to invite,

If only for the rose that died,—whose doom

        55

Is Beauty’s,—she that with living bloom

Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light;—

There is enough of sorrowing, and quite

Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear

Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;

        60

Enough of fear and shadowy despair,

To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

BOOKS, History, Lady, poetry, TRAVEL, writing

Oh, to be in England!


This title is the first Chapter of “The Way to St. Werburgh’s”, and oh! Is it just the perfect title.

“It was 1819, perhaps a year of destiny. George III’s long reign was drawing to a close; his granddaughter Victoria was born, later to be one of the greatest rulers of the British empire; and soon the self-indulgent, sentimental reign of his son George IV would lower the past prestige of the royal family, despite the fact that he had served as Regent for some years.”

“The Northern spring was fast approaching, to gladden the hearts of all Englishmen Grand old oaks and spreading yew trees, majestic chestnuts and elegant birches vied with shy wood violets and bursting daffodils to greet the new season.

Blackbirds and sky larks, sparrows and finches, swallows and thrush, wrens and nightingales plied the air with ceaseless song, and the whole English landscape breathed new life with the melting snow” Continue reading “Oh, to be in England!”

Lady, poetry, writing

A Collection of my favourite poems


SPRING POETRY

Upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Autumn-patterns

To Autumn by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too –
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

42746_original spring

Lines Written in Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
SPRING FLWERS
Spring – William Blake

Sound the flute!
Now it’s mute.
Birds delight
Day and night;
Nightingale
In the dale,
Lark in sky,
Merrily,
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.

Little boy,
Full of joy;
Little girl,
Sweet and small;
Cock does crow,
So do you;
Merry voice,
Infant noise,
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.

Little lamb,
Here I am;
Come and lick
My white neck;
Let me pull
Your soft wool;
Let me kiss
Your soft face;
Merrily, merrily, we welcome in the year.

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poetry, writing

A “Sunday” Poem


sunny_daffodils-2

To Daffodils

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain’d his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having pray’d together, we
Will go with you along.
how-to-fertilize-daffodil
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.
ALL CREDIT GOES TO ROBERT HERRICK
1280px-Cornwall_Daffodils
Lady, poetry, Thoughts

Blush of Spring poem


Blush of Spring by Dawn Crabb (my grandmother)

blush of spring     img-thing

Faint light of day creeps over the hill

Pale moon hides and all is still

Bending blackboys bristle there

Green spears flung to the scented air

Sea of daisies sweeping high

Rainbow riot from the sky

Frogs are silent, birds on the wing

Bushland is calling, the echoes ring

Clumsy fledglings urgently fed

Sunrise a warmth in yellow and red

Towering trees just stand and stare

Lilt of laughter loiters there

Dappled light is dancing through

Neon wear of sparkling dew

Webs dip crazily in stirring breeze

Strung like diamonds, twixt the trees

Scintillating gossamer, silken thread

Adorning the morning for night has fled

 

©DawnCrabb