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!

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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

BOOKS, Lady, self help, Thoughts

“Old English” poems


Most old english pieces of literature and manuscript origins, authorship and early history are quite unknown. I particularly liked and picked up an “old English poetry” book from Scarborough library that I am absolutely loving. Sometimes I feel like it is a bit more eloquent than I could ever be! But my interest in English Literature is widening, and I especially like poems that have a biblical sense to it.

This book is made up of different ‘books’, for example, there is the Vercelli book, and the Exeter book, which has meaning behind the words.

It is a broad view of Anthology of British Literature, and there is a complete range of lyrics that I decided to pick ones I like and share them with you.

Continue reading ““Old English” poems”