tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21802869233738894232024-03-19T04:47:26.576-04:00 Penny's Poetry Blog.
<center><b><i>The story of Penny's good red hat, and other poems.</i></b></center>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.comBlogger2229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-48854999889351954842024-03-17T06:54:00.009-04:002024-03-17T07:42:53.820-04:00St. Patrick's Day / Jean Blewett<br /><b>
St. Patrick's Day<br /></b>
<br />
There’s an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,<br />
<span> </span>Here’s to the Saint that blessed it!<br />
And here’s to the billows wild and free<br />
<span> </span>That for centuries have caressed it!<br />
<br />
Here’s to the day when the men that roam<br />
<span> </span>Send longing eyes o’er the water!<br />
Here’s to the land that still spells home<br />
<span> </span>To each loyal son and daughter!<br />
<br />
Here’s to old Ireland — fair, I ween,<br />
<span> </span>With the blue skies stretched above her!<br />
Here’s to her shamrock warm and green,<br />
<span> </span>And here’s to the hearts that love her!<br />
<br />~~<br /><i>Jean Blewett (1872-1954)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>The Cornflower, and other poems</b><i>, 1906</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="http://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Jean_Blewett" target="_blank">Jean Blewett biography</a></b><div><b><br /></b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJQRG5dpixaMN7tpz5So5NpgK8A7kAUfJtxzKNCw7OmtUEjv7lGksN2vHpreeJPrOWg61V-HbekkHXx3nB_Io_HsK0zXVu6MkB1cAGfnIQYaY9ejiYlPUhA4PqIMEvEe6p1rawqclR3Wrrtqrn8EU2_LVc1Rwm8IGpFOV0Vp4tmh6CTipqszrI69iRh4u/s1199/St._Patrick's_Day_in_the_Morning._.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1199" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJQRG5dpixaMN7tpz5So5NpgK8A7kAUfJtxzKNCw7OmtUEjv7lGksN2vHpreeJPrOWg61V-HbekkHXx3nB_Io_HsK0zXVu6MkB1cAGfnIQYaY9ejiYlPUhA4PqIMEvEe6p1rawqclR3Wrrtqrn8EU2_LVc1Rwm8IGpFOV0Vp4tmh6CTipqszrI69iRh4u/s320/St._Patrick's_Day_in_the_Morning._.jpg" width="420" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"St. Patrick's Day in the Morning" greeting card, 1906. Public domain, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:%22St._Patrick%27s_Day_in_the_Morning.%22.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</i></div></span></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-88107705146662134492024-03-16T05:52:00.009-04:002024-03-16T21:54:34.781-04:00March / Edwin Arnold<div><br /></div><i>from</i> <b>The Twelve Months</b><div><br /><b>
March</b><br />
<br />
Welcome, North-wind! from the Norland; <br />
Strike upon our foremost foreland,<br />
Sweep away across the moorland,<br />
<span> </span><span> </span>Do thy lusty kind! <br />
Thou and we were born together<br />
In the black Norwegian weather; <br />
Birds we be of one brave feather,<br />
<span> </span><span> </span>Welcome, bully wind!<br />
<br />
Buss us! set our girls' cheeks glowing;<br /> Southern blood asks sun for flowing, <br />
North blood warms when winds are blowing,<br />
<span> </span><span> </span>Most of all winds, thou;<br />
There's a sea-smack in thy kisses<br />
Better than all breezy blisses, <br />
So we know, our kinsman this is:<br />
<span> </span><span> </span>Buss us! cheek and brow.<br />
<br />
Rollick out thy wild sea-catches, <br />
Roar thy stormy mad sea-snatches, <br />
What bare masts and battened hatches<br />
<span> </span><span> </span>Thou hast left behind; <br />
Ring it, till our ears shall ring, too,<br />
How thou mad'st the Frenchman bring-to: <br />
That's the music Northmen sing to,<br />
<span> </span><span> </span>Burly brother wind!<br />
<br />Go! with train of spray and sea-bird, <br />
Fling the milky waves to leeward, <br />
Drive the ragged rain-clouds seaward,<br />
<span> </span><span> </span>Chase the scudding ships; <br />
To the South-wind take our greeting,<br />
Bid him bring the Spring — his Sweeting —<br />
Say what glad hearts wait her meeting,<br />
<span> </span><span> </span>What bright eyes and lips.<br />
<br />
<div><div><div>~~</div><div><i>Edwin Arnold (1832-1904)</i></div><div><i>from </i><b>Poems: National and non-oriental</b><i>, 1906</i><br /><br /></div><div>[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]</div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Edwin_Arnold" target="_blank">Edwin Arnold biography</a></b></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiUhAeS0zt74hogkFIDhhGp4XQiJee1A-igrIhwqrRb-lbcuVHjfu-45Kfod6wCDYIQlcQSwgB0sUxPucBnGpPZJcaegquFI67KagKbGbWEZYskZbq9Dyn0WbV0eUQlVng2v7cUFVl9A_xzJQPDYTJymzEv2rHNzX1sjEZ2_b5R6_e8jpP-jR9Hr6h4d2v/s806/March-wind-%20Henri,%201902.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="806" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiUhAeS0zt74hogkFIDhhGp4XQiJee1A-igrIhwqrRb-lbcuVHjfu-45Kfod6wCDYIQlcQSwgB0sUxPucBnGpPZJcaegquFI67KagKbGbWEZYskZbq9Dyn0WbV0eUQlVng2v7cUFVl9A_xzJQPDYTJymzEv2rHNzX1sjEZ2_b5R6_e8jpP-jR9Hr6h4d2v/s320/March-wind-%20Henri,%201902.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Robert Henri (1865-1929), The March Wind, ~1902. Public domain, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Henri_-_the-march-wind-1902.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></i></div></i></div></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-87158900281795987732024-03-10T07:50:00.015-04:002024-03-10T10:09:16.110-04:00March: An ode / A.C. Swinburne<br /><b>
March: An Ode<br />
<br />
<span> </span>I</b><br />
<br />
Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and fell, and the splendour of <div><span> </span>winter had passed out of sight,<br />
The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger than dreams that </div><div><span> </span>fulfil us in sleep with delight;</div><div>
The breath of the mouths of the winds had hardened on tree-tops and </div><div><span> </span>branches that glittered and swayed<br />
Such wonders and glories of blossomlike snow or of frost that outlightens </div><div><span> </span>all flowers till it fade<br />
That the sea was not lovelier than here was the land, nor the night than </div><div><span> </span>the<span> </span>day, nor the day than the night,</div><div>
Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring: such mirth had the </div><div><span> </span>madness and might in thee made,<br />
March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that </div><div><span> </span>enkindle the season they smite.<br /><br /><b>
<span> </span>II</b><br />
<br />
And now that the rage of thy rapture is satiate with revel and ravin and </div><div><span> </span>spoil of the snow,<br />
And the branches it brightened are broken, and shattered the tree-tops </div><div><span> </span>that only thy wrath could lay low,<br />
How should not thy lovers rejoice in thee, leader and lord of the year that </div><div><span> </span>exults to be born<br />
So strong in thy strength and so glad of thy gladness whose laughter puts </div><div><span> </span>winter and sorrow to scorn?<br />
Thou hast shaken the snows from thy wings, and the frost on thy forehead </div><div><span> </span>is molten: thy lips are aglow<br />
As a lover's that kindle with kissing, and earth, with her raiment and </div><div><span> </span>tresses yet wasted and torn,<br />
Takes breath as she smiles in the grasp of thy passion to feel through her </div><div><span> </span>spirit the sense of thee flow.<br /><br /><b><span> </span>III</b><br />
<br />
Fain, fain would we see but again for an hour what the wind and the sun </div><div><span> </span>have dispelled and consumed,<br />
Those full deep swan-soft feathers of snow with whose luminous burden </div><div><span> </span>the branches implumed<br />
Hung heavily, curved as a half-bent bow, and fledged not as birds are, but </div><div><span> </span>petalled as flowers,<br />
Each tree-top and branchlet a pinnacle jewelled and carved, or a fountain </div><div><span> </span>that shines as it showers,<br />
But fixed as a fountain is fixed not, and wrought not to last till by time or </div><div><span> </span>by tempest entombed,<br />
As a pinnacle carven and gilded of men: for the date of its doom is no </div><div><span> </span>more than an hour's,</div><div>
One hour of the sun's when the warm wind wakes him to wither the snow-</div><div><span> </span>flowers that froze as they bloomed.<br /><br /><b>
<span> </span>IV</b><br />
<br />
As the sunshine quenches the snowshine; as April subdues thee, and </div><div><span> </span>yields up his kingdom to May;</div><div>
So time overcomes the regret that is born of delight as it passes in passion </div><div><span> </span>away,<br />
And leaves but a dream for desire to rejoice in or mourn for with tears or </div><div><span> </span>thanksgivings; but thou,<br />
Bright god that art gone from us, maddest and gladdest of months, to </div><div><span> </span>what goal hast thou gone from us now?</div><div>
For somewhere surely the storm of thy laughter that lightens, the beat of </div><div><span> </span>thy wings that play,<br />
Must flame as a fire through the world, and the heavens that we know not </div><div><span> </span>rejoice in thee: surely thy brow<br />
Hath lost not its radiance of empire, thy spirit the joy that impelled it on </div><div><span> </span>quest as for prey.<br /><br />
<span> </span><b>V</b><br />
<br />
Are thy feet on the ways of the limitless waters, thy wings on the winds of </div><div><span> </span>the waste north sea?<br />
Are the fires of the false north dawn over heavens where summer is </div><div><span> </span>stormful and strong like thee<br />
Now bright in the sight of thine eyes? are the bastions of icebergs assailed </div><div><span> </span>by the blast of thy breath?<br />
Is it March with the wild north world when April is waning? the word that </div><div><span> </span>the changed year saith,<br />
Is it echoed to northward with rapture of passion reiterate from spirits </div><div><span> </span>triumphant as we<br />
Whose hearts were uplift at the blast of thy clarions as men's rearisen </div><div><span> </span>from a sleep that was death</div><div>
And kindled to life that was one with the world's and with thine? hast thou </div><div><span> </span>set not the whole world free?<br /><br />
<span> </span><b>VI</b><br />
<br />
For the breath of thy lips is freedom, and freedom's the sense of thy spirit, </div><div><span> </span>the sound of thy song,<br />
Glad god of the north-east wind, whose heart is as high as the hands of thy </div><div><span> </span>kingdom are strong,<br />
Thy kingdom whose empire is terror and joy, twin-featured and fruitful of </div><div><span> </span>births divine,<br />
Days lit with the flame of the lamps of the flowers, and nights that are </div><div><span> </span>drunken with dew for wine,<br />
And sleep not for joy of the stars that deepen and quicken, a denser and </div><div><span> </span>fierier throng,<br />
And the world that thy breath bade whiten and tremble rejoices at heart as </div><div><span> </span>they strengthen and shine,<br />
And earth gives thanks for the glory bequeathed her, and knows of thy </div><div><span> </span>reign that it wrought not wrong.<br /><br />
<span> </span><b>VII</b><br />
<br />
Thy spirit is quenched not, albeit we behold not thy face in the crown of </div><div><span> </span>the steep sky's arch,<br />
And the bold first buds of the whin wax golden, and witness arise of the </div><div><span> </span>thorn and the larch:<br />
Wild April, enkindled to laughter and storm by the kiss of the wildest of </div><div><span> </span>winds that blow,<br />
Calls loud on his brother for witness; his hands that were laden with </div><div><span> </span>blossom are sprinkled with snow,<br />
And his lips breathe winter, and laugh, and relent; and the live woods feel </div><div><span> </span>not the frost's flame parch;<br />
For the flame of the spring that consumes not but quickens is felt at the </div><div><span> </span>heart of the forest aglow,<br />
And the sparks that enkindled and fed it were strewn from the hands of </div><div><span> </span>the gods of the winds of March.</div><div>
<br />~~<br /><i>A.C. Swinburne (1837-1909)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>Poems and Ballads, Third series</b>,<i> 1889</i><br /><i><br /></i>[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Algernon_Charles_Swinburne" target="_blank">A.C. Swinburne biography</a></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="350" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yDEx74dMMY8" width="420" youtube-src-id="yDEx74dMMY8"></iframe></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>"March: An Ode" read by Richard Mitchley. Courtesy <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yDEx74dMMY8" target="_blank">The Orchard Enterprises</a>.</i></span></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-88054389673746369422024-03-09T11:02:00.005-05:002024-03-09T18:03:03.990-05:00March Sunset / Hilda Conkling<br /><b>
March Sunset</b><br />
<br />
Pines cut dark on a bronze sky . . .<br />
A juniper tree laughing to the harp of the wind . . .<br />
Last year's oak leaves rustling . . .<br />
And oh, the sky like a heart of fire<br />
Burned down to those coals that have the color of fruit . . .<br />
Cherries . . . light red grapes . . .<br />
<br />~~<br /><i>Hilda Conkling (1910-1986)<br />from</i> <b>Shoes of the Wind</b>, <i>1922</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain in the United States</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Hilda_Conkling" target="_blank">Hilda Conkling biography</a></b><div><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ER15zzEx6LmpE5yXJfmah58z63twc_GroUPcotnrMxPzzj26GsWHZXW6BKTSLZiLyJWE4upFEDY9VO_elNzZ7vYCGPDTCzumrKIy3JZr8hHcNbrDZyQZhsxmRHnq0YXt12ZCHN2oBIIV7wGkzbnosYpwy85rA3ZmtHU7Aks6I8MHBDYf9mTbiXY0MxZy/s761/Sunset_over_Trafford,_March_2020_(05).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="761" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ER15zzEx6LmpE5yXJfmah58z63twc_GroUPcotnrMxPzzj26GsWHZXW6BKTSLZiLyJWE4upFEDY9VO_elNzZ7vYCGPDTCzumrKIy3JZr8hHcNbrDZyQZhsxmRHnq0YXt12ZCHN2oBIIV7wGkzbnosYpwy85rA3ZmtHU7Aks6I8MHBDYf9mTbiXY0MxZy/s320/Sunset_over_Trafford,_March_2020_(05).jpg" width="432" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ardfern, Sunset over Trafford, UK, March 2020. <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en" target="_blank">CC BY-SA 4.0</a>, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sunset_over_Trafford,_March_2020_(05).jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></i></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-18827516541713113972024-03-03T10:20:00.006-05:002024-03-03T11:01:47.634-05:00Woods in Winter / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<div><br /></div><div><i>from</i> <b>Earlier Poems</b></div><div><br /></div><b>Woods in Winter</b><br />
<br />
When winter winds are piercing chill,<br />
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,<br />
With solemn feet I tread the hill,<br />
That overbrows the lonely vale. <br />
<br />
O'er the bare upland, and away<br />
Through the long reach of desert woods,<br />
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,<br />
And gladden these deep solitudes. <br />
<br />
Where, twisted round the barren oak,<br />
The summer vine in beauty clung,<br />
And summer winds the stillness broke,<br />
The crystal icicle is hung. <br />
<br />
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs<br />
Pour out the river's gradual tide,<br />
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,<br />
And voices fill the woodland side.<br />
<br />
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,<br />
When birds sang out their mellow lay,<br />
And winds were soft, and woods were green,<br />
And the song ceased not with the day!<br />
<br />
But still wild music is abroad,<br />
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;<br />
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,<br />
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.<br />
<br />
Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear<br />
Has grown familiar with your song;<br />
I hear it in the opening year,<br />
I listen, and it cheers me long.<br />
<br />~~<br /><i>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>Voices of the Night</b>,<i> 1839</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="http://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow" target="_blank">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography</a></b><br />
<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="350" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/265yr2XCp2w" width="420" youtube-src-id="265yr2XCp2w"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Woods in Winter" <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=265yr2XCp2w" target="_blank">read by Ghizela Rowe</a>.</span></i></div></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-12726836497503698152024-03-02T12:15:00.010-05:002024-03-05T14:53:26.312-05:00Winter Streams / Bliss Carman<br /><b>
Winter Streams</b><br />
<br />
Now the little rivers go<br />
Muffled safely under snow,<br /><br />
And the winding meadow streams<br />
Murmur in their wintry dreams,<br /><br />
While a tinkling music wells<br />
Faintly from there icy bells,<br /><br />
Telling how their hearts are bold<br />
Though the very sun be cold.<br /><br />
Ah, but wait until the rain<br />
Comes a-sighing once again,<br /><br />
Sweeping softly from the Sound<br />
Over ridge and meadow ground!<br /><br />
Then the little streams will hear<br />
April calling far and near,—<br /><br />
Slip their snowy bands and run<br />
Sparkling in the welcome sun.<br /><br />~~<br /><i>Bliss Carman (1861-1929)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>Later Poems</b><i>, 1926</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Bliss_Carman" target="_blank">Bliss Carman biography</a></b>
<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZzSTpmzXr6zf3Q_UwQt2CfKp6esYmM1e3IrE3WuEFSMbfKwX3WbC3xA5nF5DTxlHbZsPxkSzPK7UrlYQweeV3Or00Bi9Tj5kXgJyEgSxNeBiSGaw_-C2wQhbCMeYNb0bFghUcn9CxcuOvw7zQ5ieCrAqzn6zV8ANLsbKHllP3f_qOB3ztagwRkgFUeb9/s600/Winter_stream_marjaniemi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="600" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZzSTpmzXr6zf3Q_UwQt2CfKp6esYmM1e3IrE3WuEFSMbfKwX3WbC3xA5nF5DTxlHbZsPxkSzPK7UrlYQweeV3Or00Bi9Tj5kXgJyEgSxNeBiSGaw_-C2wQhbCMeYNb0bFghUcn9CxcuOvw7zQ5ieCrAqzn6zV8ANLsbKHllP3f_qOB3ztagwRkgFUeb9/s320/Winter_stream_marjaniemi.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Apollyon, Winter Stream in Marjaniemi, Helsinki, Finland, 2006. <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Winter_stream_marjaniemi.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><i>See also: </i>"<b><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2013/08/summer-streams-carman.html">Summer Streams</a></b>"<i> by Bliss Carman</i></span></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-65814236328333987892024-03-01T17:54:00.017-05:002024-03-02T15:24:34.096-05:00March's featured poem<p> </p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;">T</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: orange;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #ffe599;">e</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: yellow;">P</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #93c47d;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: lime;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: cyan;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: blue;">y</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">B<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: purple;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #d5a6bd;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: magenta;">g</span>'s featured poem for March 2024:</p><div><div><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2012/03/innisfree-yeats.html" target="_blank">The Lake Isle of Innisfree</a>, by W.B. Yeats</div><div><br /></div><div>I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,</div><div>And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:</div><div>Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,</div><div>And live alone in the bee-loud glade.</div><div>[...]</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(music by Brian Dunning and Jeff Johnson) </i></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2012/03/innisfree-yeats.html">https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2012/03/innisfree-yeats.html</a></div></div><div><br /></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-27591898148754450952024-03-01T15:58:00.008-05:002024-03-01T18:53:04.962-05:00Penny's Top 20 / February 2024<p> </p><p><b style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", sans-serif;">Penny's Top 20</b></p><p><span face="">The most-visited poems on <span class="Apple-style-span" face=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;">T</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: orange;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #ffe599;">e</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: yellow;">P</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #93c47d;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: lime;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: cyan;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: blue;">y</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">B<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: purple;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #d5a6bd;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: magenta;">g</span> in February 2024:</span></p><div><span face=""><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 1. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2022/02/in-february-john-addington-symonds.html">In February</a>, John Addington Symonds</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 2. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/02/february-george-j-dance.html">February</a>, George J. Dance</span></div><div><div><span face=""> 3. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/02/my-soul-is-enchanted-boat-pb-shelley.html">My soul is an enchanted boat</a>, Percy Bysshe Shelley</span></div><span face=""> 4. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/02/for-my-darling-archibald-lampman.html">For My Darling</a>, Archibald Lampman</span></div><div><div><span face=""> </span><span face="">5. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/02/love-is-more-thicker-than-forget-ee.html">love is more thicker than forget</a>, E.E. Cummings</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 6. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2020/01/winter-song-elizabeth-tollet.html">Winter Song</a>, Elizabeth Tollett</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 7. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/02/february-first-on-prairies-wilson.html">February the First on the Prairies</a>, Wilson MacDonald</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 8. </span><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2014/02/skating-william-wordsworth.html">Skating</a>, William Wordsworth<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 9. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/02/the-manor-farm-edward-thomas.html">The Manor Farm</a>, Edward Thomas</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">10. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/02/late-february-william-morris.html">Late February</a>, William Morris</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">11. </span><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2023/02/winer-ghost-taking-time-out-will-dockery.html">Winter Ghost</a>, Will Dockery<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">12. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2011/01/winter-love-george-dance.html">Winter Love</a>, George J. Dance</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">13. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/search/label/coubertin">Ode to Sport</a>, Pierre de Coubertin</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">14. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/search/label/AugustES">August</a>, Edmund Spenser</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">15. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2013/11/card-game-frank-prewitt.html">Card Game</a>, Frank Prewitt</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">16. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/02/there-blooms-no-bud-in-may-walter-de-la.html">There Blooms No Bud in May</a>, Walter de la Mare</span></div><div><span face="">17. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2010/04/meadow-in-spring-tom-bishop.html">A Meadow in Spring</a>, Tom Bishop</span></div><div><span face="">18. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2019/05/st-augustine-blues-6-will-dockery.html">Saint Augustine Blues #6</a>, Will Dockery</span><br /><span face="">19. </span><span face=""> <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/02/february-edwin-arnold.html">February</a>, Edwin Arnold</span></div><div><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">20. </span><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2010_10_01_archive.html">Esthetique du Mal</a>, Wallace Stevens</div><div><span face=""><br /></span></div></div><p>Source: Blogger, "Stats" </p>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-68758478344128244052024-02-25T17:00:00.007-05:002024-02-29T18:38:12.491-05:00Late February / William Morris<br /><i>
from</i> <b>The Earthly Paradise</b>: <br />
<br />
Late February days; and now, at last,<br />
Might you have thought that winter's woe was past;<br />
So fair the sky was, and so soft the air.<br />
The happy birds were hurrying here and there,<br />
As something soon would happen. Reddened now<br />
The hedges, and in gardens many a bough<br />
Was overbold of buds. Sweet days, indeed,<br />
Although past road and bridge, through wood and mead, <div>Swift ran the brown stream, swirling by the grass,<br />
And in the hillside hollows snow yet was.<br />
<br />~~<br /><i>William Morris (1834-1896)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>Through the Year with the Poets: February</b>,<i> 1886</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]<br /><br /><a href="http://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/William_Morris" target="_blank"><b>William Morris biography</b></a><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqSo6-tR7aY_nDOcYx7FtzCNWfbyTqUy01NRtT_1yKEnu_hhKaSjQ7kLSLdt7flR-ZgHwYGK3RAZyvg4090xwGF1clBmP4U1FSBUBneHFxs-7F8SEje6xbaa-kuw5BfC2N1jsidWUEgcC9mKQRzyrYlN37YsKHK38jEoN7QVcWwbNfFr-eXePyX5slU1A/s602/Horsford_Woods_in_late_February_-_geograph.org.uk_-_2287530.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="602" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqSo6-tR7aY_nDOcYx7FtzCNWfbyTqUy01NRtT_1yKEnu_hhKaSjQ7kLSLdt7flR-ZgHwYGK3RAZyvg4090xwGF1clBmP4U1FSBUBneHFxs-7F8SEje6xbaa-kuw5BfC2N1jsidWUEgcC9mKQRzyrYlN37YsKHK38jEoN7QVcWwbNfFr-eXePyX5slU1A/s320/Horsford_Woods_in_late_February_-_geograph.org.uk_-_2287530.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Evelyn Simak, Horsford Woods in Late February, 20ll. <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en" target="_blank">CC BY-SA 2,0</a>, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Horsford_Woods_in_late_February_-_geograph.org.uk_-_2287530.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></i></div></i></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-6855630561619708122024-02-24T11:31:00.007-05:002024-02-29T18:37:40.210-05:00The Manor Farm / Edward Thomas<br /><b>
The Manor Farm<br /></b>
<br />
The rock-like mud unfroze a little and rills<br />
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road<br />
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.<br />
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;<br />
Nor did I value that thin gilding beam<br />
More than a pretty February thing<br />
Till I came down to the old Manor Farm,<br />
And church and yew-tree opposite, in age<br />
Its equals and in size. The church and yew<br />
And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.<br />
The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,<br />
With tiles duskily glowing, entertained<br />
The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof<br />
White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.<br />
Three cart-horses were looking over a gate<br />
Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails<br />
Against a fly, a solitary fly.<div><br />
The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained<br />
Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught<br />
And smiled quietly. But 'twas not Winter —<br />
Rather a season of bliss unchangeable<br />
Awakened from farm and church where it had lain<br />
Safe under tile and thatch for ages since<br />
This England, Old already, was called Merry.<br />
<div><br />~~<br /><i>Edward Thomas (1878-1917)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>Poems</b><i>, 1917.</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]<br /><br /><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Edward_Thomas" target="_blank"><b>Edward Thomas biography</b></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="350" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ezHZlw8YwN4" width="420" youtube-src-id="ezHZlw8YwN4"></iframe></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"The Manor Farm" read by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ezHZlw8YwN4" target="_blank">Audiobook Passion</a>.</i></div></span>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-88018808563308919852024-02-18T10:01:00.010-05:002024-02-18T12:31:59.937-05:00February / George J. Dance<br /><b>
February<br /></b>
<br />
Unnoticed beauty:<br />
ocean waves in winter,<br />
the curve of your cheek. <br />
<br />
~~<br /><i>
George J. Dance, 2023</i><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjU1IHP5EsSzfDkgY0Ma70alvMa259NzTPylmdMRmQG3xXsl71UIGeRQCTBA93iZlubAm7GDubC9ZzCyE6IiyOHzyGsFSxXVCWbOI8YdaWZGmzk-w1VLUepWnxhux6G6IPEVwz_8dusu1RcD0AUuvutJz869SfouswEAxhPPJJqPtXBVpP8dSOf2cGp9Ui/s586/Ocean%20waves%20in%20winter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="586" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjU1IHP5EsSzfDkgY0Ma70alvMa259NzTPylmdMRmQG3xXsl71UIGeRQCTBA93iZlubAm7GDubC9ZzCyE6IiyOHzyGsFSxXVCWbOI8YdaWZGmzk-w1VLUepWnxhux6G6IPEVwz_8dusu1RcD0AUuvutJz869SfouswEAxhPPJJqPtXBVpP8dSOf2cGp9Ui/s320/Ocean%20waves%20in%20winter.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Ronnie Robertson, Gutness Voe on a winter day, 2014. <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en" target="_blank">CC BY-SA 2.0</a>, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Broch_Head_%26_Laaward_IMG_4352_(12015582246).jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><div style="font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><div><i><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/" rel="license"><img alt="Creative Commons License" src="https://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-sa/3.0/88x31.png" style="border-width: 0px;" /></a></i></div></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><div><span property="dc:title" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/">[<i>"February" </i></span><i>by </i><span property="cc:attributionName" style="font-style: italic;" xmlns:cc="https://creativecommons.org/ns#">George J. Dance </span><i>is licensed under a </i><a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/legalcode"><i>Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike (CC BY-SA) 4.0 International</i></a> <i>license.</i>]<br /><br /></div></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-weight: 700;"><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/George_J._Dance" target="_blank">George J. Dance biography</a></span></span></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-85139449717418776882024-02-17T06:00:00.030-05:002024-02-17T11:18:09.188-05:00For My Darling / Archibald Lampman<br /><i>
from</i> <b>The Growth of Love</b><div><div><b>
<br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; float: right; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlT40g-IP6QpCbHmD4vG-i_VCsSqzApm0P1Chyphenhyphentk8uITo2lBq8yWS11qmaoD_kAS2zIgdG3hia1A8EWfDftbw5_VFo3mkn2KuLSboVSYAYQTZVHdFUVw0CGhZgIQK8Lwa6t86h3vcrm7-lSL9gLg0iXK1tEtso36aK6TmgCzu2vWZisrefLQRJoQl4ZYsm/s900/Makart%E2%80%93Lady_in_a_white_dress.jpg" style="margin-left: 0em; margin-right: 0em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="662" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlT40g-IP6QpCbHmD4vG-i_VCsSqzApm0P1Chyphenhyphentk8uITo2lBq8yWS11qmaoD_kAS2zIgdG3hia1A8EWfDftbw5_VFo3mkn2KuLSboVSYAYQTZVHdFUVw0CGhZgIQK8Lwa6t86h3vcrm7-lSL9gLg0iXK1tEtso36aK6TmgCzu2vWZisrefLQRJoQl4ZYsm/s320/Makart%E2%80%93Lady_in_a_white_dress.jpg" width="139" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Hans Makart (1840-1885),</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; float: right; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> Lady in a White Dress.<br /><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Makart%E2%80%93Lady_in_a_white_dress.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</i></span></div><b><span> </span>II – For My Darling</b></div><div><br /></div><div>My lady is not learned in many books,<br />
<span> </span>Nor hath much love for grave discourses strung<br />
<span> </span>With gaudy similes, for she is young,<br />
And full of merry pranks and laughing looks.<br />
But yet her heart hath many tender nooks<br />
<span> </span>Of fervour and sweet charity; her tongue,<br />
<span> </span>For all its laughter, yet is often wrung<br />
With soft compassion for life's painful crooks.<br />
<br />
I love my lady for her lovely face,<br />
<span> </span>And for her mouth, and for her eyes, and hair;<br />
More still I love her for her laughing grace, <br />
<span> </span>And for her wayward ways, and changeful air;<br />
But most of all love gaineth ground apace,<br />
<span> </span>Because my lady's heart is pure and fair.<br />
<br />~~<br /><i>Archibald Lampman (1861-1899), 1885</i><br /><i>from </i><b>At the Long Sault, and other new poems</b><i>, 1943</i><br /><i><br /></i>[<i>Poem is in the public domain in Canada</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Archibald_Lampman" target="_blank">Archibald Lampman biography</a></b><br /></div></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-77440191847516763222024-02-14T04:18:00.011-05:002024-02-17T12:08:14.523-05:00My soul is an enchanted boat / Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><i>
from </i><b>Prometheus Unbound</b>: <br />
<br /><b>
Asia: </b><br />
<span> </span>My soul is an enchanted boat,<br />
<span> </span>Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float<br />
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;<br />
<span> </span>And thine doth like an angel sit<br />
<span> </span>Beside a helm conducting it,<br />
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.<br />
<span> </span>It seems to float ever, forever,<span> </span><br />
<span> </span>Upon that many-winding river,<br />
<span> </span>Between mountains, woods, abysses, <br />
<span> </span>A paradise of wildernesses!<br />
Till, like one in slumber bound,<br />
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around,<br />
Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound.<br />
<br />
<span> </span>Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions<br />
<span> </span>In music's most serene dominions;<br />
Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven.<br />
<span> </span>And we sail on, away, afar,<br />
<span> </span>Without a course, without a star,<br />
But, by the instinct of sweet music driven;<br />
<span> </span>Till through Elysian garden islets<br />
<span> </span>By thee most beautiful of pilots,<br />
<span> </span>Where never mortal pinnace glided,<br />
<span> </span>The boat of my desire is guided;<br />
Realms where the air we breathe is love,<br />
Which in the winds on the waves doth move,<br />
Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above.<br />
<br />
<span> </span>We have passed Age's icy caves,<br />
<span> </span>And Manhood's dark and tossing waves,<br />
And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betray; <br />
<span> </span>Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee<br />
<span> </span>Of shadow-peopled Infancy,<br />
Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day;<br />
<span> </span>A paradise of vaulted bowers<br />
<span> </span>Lit by downward-gazing flowers,<br />
<span> </span>And watery paths that wind between<br />
<span> </span>Wildernesses calm and green,<br />
Peopled by shapes too bright to see,<br />
And rest, having beheld; somewhat like thee;<br />
Which walk upon the sea, and chant melodiously! <br />
<br />~~<br /><i>Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>Prometheus Unbound, with other poems</b><i>, 1820</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="http://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Percy_Bysshe_Shelley" target="_blank">Percy Bysshe Shelley biography</a></b><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="350" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7Rc1VHmCQiU" width="420" youtube-src-id="7Rc1VHmCQiU"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">"My soul is an enchanted boat" read by Vincent Price. Courtesy <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Rc1VHmCQiU" target="_blank">Vincent Price - Topic</a>. </span></i></div></i>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-47054044552965213602024-02-11T09:18:00.014-05:002024-02-17T12:06:03.123-05:00love is more thicker than forget / E.E. Cummings
<br />
love is more thicker than forget<br />
more thinner than recall<br />
more seldom than a wave is wet<br />
more frequent than to fail<br />
<br />
it is most mad and moonly<br />
and less it shall unbe<br />
than all the sea which only<br />
is deeper than the sea<br />
<br />
love is less always than to win<br />
less never than alive<br />
less bigger than the least begin<br />
less littler than forgive<br />
<br />
it is most sane and sunly<br />
and more it cannot die<br />
than all the sky which only<br />
is higher than the sky<br /><br />~~<br /><i>E.E. Cummings (1894-1962)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>Poetry</b><i>, January 1939</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain in Canada</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/E.E._Cummings" target="_blank">E.E. Cummings biography</a></b><div><b><br /></b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="350" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iLowjl20ATw" width="420" youtube-src-id="iLowjl20ATw"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> "love is more thicker than forget" read by E.E. Cummings. Courtesy <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLowjl20ATw" target="_blank">Poets Speak</a>.
</span></i></div></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-40038861615820870522024-02-10T08:47:00.008-05:002024-02-10T11:43:39.935-05:00February / Edwin Arnold<br /><i>
from</i><b> The Twelve Months</b><div>
<br /><b>February</b><br />
<br />
Fair Grecian legend, that, in Spring, <br />
Seeking sweet tale for sunnier hours,<br />
Fabled how Enna's queen did bring<br />
Back from the underworld her flowers!<br />
<br />
Whence come ye else, goblets of gold,<br />
Which men the yellow crocus call ?<br />
You snow-drops, maiden-meek and cold, <br />
What other fingers let you fall?<br />
<br />
What hand but hers, who, wont to rove<br />
The asphodel in Himera, <br />
Torn thence by an ungentle love,<br />
Flung not her favourites away?<br />
<br />
King of dark death! on thoughts that roam <br />
Thy passion and thy power were spent:<br />
When blossom-time is clue at home,<br />
Homeward the soul's strong wings are bent.<br />
<br />
So comes she. with her pleasant wont, <br />
When Spring-time chases Winter cold,<br />
Couching against his frozen front <br />
Her tiny spears of green and gold.<br />
<br /></div><div><div>~~</div><div><i>Edwin Arnold (1832-1904)</i></div><div><i>from </i><b>Poems: National and non-oriental</b><i>, 1906</i><br /><br /></div><div>[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]</div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Edwin_Arnold" target="_blank">Edwin Arnold biography</a></b></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8GOjlHAL4mkRAxBiMveaEOBjqsxV63XklHir5qCUGMAmpuE8O-mG0xJSROInxJFAWDASVWVaP7vTWqk8MeAN89j10AIWV6_ZpJWFFJok8qFINLcQQw7FMgia45Uw6SNAQuGT0hDJjPQ3EAPMc-isrkhyRnXJJVDtkiyi3UjJkn14XnFjfMDyEBqqcJcO/s597/Crocus%20in%20snow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="597" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8GOjlHAL4mkRAxBiMveaEOBjqsxV63XklHir5qCUGMAmpuE8O-mG0xJSROInxJFAWDASVWVaP7vTWqk8MeAN89j10AIWV6_ZpJWFFJok8qFINLcQQw7FMgia45Uw6SNAQuGT0hDJjPQ3EAPMc-isrkhyRnXJJVDtkiyi3UjJkn14XnFjfMDyEBqqcJcO/s320/Crocus%20in%20snow.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ziegler175, Burgfelden Krokus, 1983. <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en" target="_blank">CC BY 3.0</a>, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:BurgfeldenKrokus.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></i></div></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-20084266998051833742024-02-04T11:42:00.007-05:002024-02-04T13:25:36.306-05:00There Blooms No Bud in May / Walter de la Mare <br /><b>
There Blooms No Bud in May</b><div>
<br />There blooms no bud in May<br />
Can for its white compare<br />
With snow at break of day,<br />
On fields forlorn and bare.<br />
<br />
For shadow it hath rose,<br />
Azure, and amethyst;<br />
And every air that blows<br />
Dies out in beauteous mist.<br />
<br />
It hangs the frozen bough<br />
With flowers on which the night<br />
Wheeling her darkness through<br />
Scatters a starry light.<br />
<br />
Fearful of its pale glare<br />
In flocks the starlings rise;<br />
Slide through the frosty air,<br />
And perch with plaintive cries.<br />
<br />
Only the inky rook,<br />
Hunched cold in ruffled wings,<br />
Its snowy nest forsook,<br />
Caws of unnumbered Springs.<br />
<br />~~<br /><i>Walter de la Mare</i><br /><i>From </i><b>The Listeners, and other poems</b><i>, 1912</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Walter_de_la_Mare" target="_blank">Walter de la Mare biography</a></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQPYaoFIV8O6cxX6lrTzEt4pmwCjUvZ4lKoJMWpmiG9C-mtTglyPHgcQD6vLdWOUSctNWRx8VAKg4hoa_1JEuHYmv6WJd9fhAOsWZcUXQoyWbhgL4hz-QDnifzJzM533ca5mep4Kv8ExY4EjeF9W5hKtl6XoLYv2OXPX2tjg6J_MLxRa-pUizFhuilDM8M/s1196/Snow_at_Morning_Hill,_Peebles_-_geograph.org.uk_-_5655426.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="1196" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQPYaoFIV8O6cxX6lrTzEt4pmwCjUvZ4lKoJMWpmiG9C-mtTglyPHgcQD6vLdWOUSctNWRx8VAKg4hoa_1JEuHYmv6WJd9fhAOsWZcUXQoyWbhgL4hz-QDnifzJzM533ca5mep4Kv8ExY4EjeF9W5hKtl6XoLYv2OXPX2tjg6J_MLxRa-pUizFhuilDM8M/s320/Snow_at_Morning_Hill,_Peebles_-_geograph.org.uk_-_5655426.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Jon Barton, Snow at Morning Hill, Peebles, UK, 2018. CC BY-SA 2.0, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Snow_at_Morning_Hill,_Peebles_-_geograph.org.uk_-_5655426.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></i></div></i></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-2023244239735037992024-02-03T06:55:00.009-05:002024-02-04T12:59:35.097-05:00February the First on the Prairies / Wilson MacDonald<br /><b>February the First on the Prairies</b><div>
<br />
The page is snowy white, the pen is dipped,<br />
And yet unwritten is this manuscript —<br />
Save for a scattered letter leagues apart.<br />
<br />
But through this frail beginning I can peer<br />
On days when all this wilderness shall hear<br />
The rhythmic throbbings of the human heart.<br />
<br />
The heavens are bare; no clouds are on her face<br />
To make the laggard sun increase his pace<br />
Above the rusted hillocks bare and red.<br />
<br />
The yellow straw-pipes, spearing through the ice,<br />
Are lovely from an ancient sacrifice;<br />
They gave and hear the nations breaking bread.<br />
<br />
The prairie lands are spread to-day for me<br />
Like frozen billows on a pulseless sea<br />
That waits the golden wheat’s releasing tide.<br />
<br />
Here, in his largest mood, the artist tries<br />
To catch the amber glory with his dyes,<br />
And sees, with aching soul, his task defied.<br />
<br />
Bolder, the poet, with a stronger hand<br />
Anoints with song this little-laurelled land,<br />
Weaving the west winds wildly in his rune.<br />
<br />
He sees the cattle stand with moveless tails,<br />
And heads together, to outwit the gales<br />
That blow the bronze of summer from the moon.<br />
<br />
He sees, beside a ridge where poplars grow,<br />
A bronco coldly nosing in the snow,<br />
And gains the prairie vastness from his form.<br />
<br />
He sees the patient straw-stack, brown with rain,<br />
A giant, ripened mushroom of the plain<br />
Whose stem is worn by rubbing flank and storm.</div><div><br />
Here, while the blizzard aches its heart in sound,<br />
The cattle move like driftwood, ’round and ’round,<br />
Yea, ’round and ’round as in a whirlpool’s reach.<br /><br /></div><div>
And, in a nook that lulls the wilder whine,<br />
A shaggy bush claims kinship with the pine<br />
And meets the gale with boldness in its speech;<br />
<br />
Or, with a thought for some far woodland, dense,<br />
Her branches wail against an old offense —<br />
Complaining of the hoof that brought them here.<br />
<br />
No lordly tree this land shall ever dare;<br />
And yet, unfearful of their valiant fare,<br />
Soon, in this vast, shall frailest flowers appear.<br />
<br />
Where Might doth falter, Beauty enters in;<br />
Where Pride shall fail, Humility shall win.<br />
And this will be until the heavens are old.<br />
<br />
And here, to prove the adage, I shall pass<br />
When April kindles beauty in the grass<br />
And warms these frozen fields with red and gold.<br />
</div><div><br />~~<br /><i>Wilson MacDonald (1880-1967)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>Out of the Wilderness</b>,<i> 1926</i><br /><i><br /></i>[<i>Poem is in the public domain in Canada</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="http://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Wilson_MacDonald" target="_blank">Wilson MacDonald biography</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX509Y0hy19n1GOuyR2w1WTR-ZQuNHv2sdc_qTEGuI8QCkKXJl8u-KL6wemZ1iHii_eZlb0vfiBWJbNoYVJAEwB4L3jV6sIUzwueYf5RX0k9u6eaelDMYlU3gLnXDUImDiU6lRMRcvI3VSyO-72kpfPN_TX2xTeE17dmLwzqyByNifN1gO5JuavtrBmm79/s713/Prairie_of_Alberta.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="713" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX509Y0hy19n1GOuyR2w1WTR-ZQuNHv2sdc_qTEGuI8QCkKXJl8u-KL6wemZ1iHii_eZlb0vfiBWJbNoYVJAEwB4L3jV6sIUzwueYf5RX0k9u6eaelDMYlU3gLnXDUImDiU6lRMRcvI3VSyO-72kpfPN_TX2xTeE17dmLwzqyByNifN1gO5JuavtrBmm79/s320/Prairie_of_Alberta.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Jakub Fryš, Prairie of Alberta, February 2019. <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/" target="_blank">CC BY-SA 4.0</a>, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Prairie_of_Alberta.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></i></div></i>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-21586177075506707792024-02-02T13:23:00.016-05:002024-02-02T15:30:01.222-05:00February's featured poem<p> </p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;">T</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: orange;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #ffe599;">e</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: yellow;">P</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #93c47d;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: lime;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: cyan;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: blue;">y</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">B<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: purple;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #d5a6bd;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: magenta;">g</span>'s featured poem for February 2024:</p><div><div><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2011/01/winter-lakes-william-wilfred-campbell.html">The Winter Lakes</a>, by William Wilfred Campbell</div><div> </div><div>Out in a world of death far to the northward lying,</div><div>Under the sun and the moon, under the dusk and the day;</div><div>Under the glimmer of stars and the purple of sunsets dying,</div><div>Wan and waste and white, stretch the great lakes away.</div><div>[...]</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2011/01/winter-lakes-william-wilfred-campbell.html">https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2011/01/winter-lakes-william-wilfred-campbell.html</a></div></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-1819380437729547332024-02-01T02:07:00.003-05:002024-02-01T02:25:31.086-05:00Penny's Top 20 / January 2024<p> </p><p><b style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", sans-serif;">Penny's Top 20</b></p><span face="">The most-visited poems on <span class="Apple-style-span" face=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: red;">T</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: orange;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #ffe599;">e</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: yellow;">P</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #93c47d;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: lime;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: cyan;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: blue;">y</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">B<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: purple;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: #d5a6bd;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="" style="background-color: magenta;">g</span> in January 2024:</span><div><span face=""><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 1. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/01/auld-lang-syne-robert-burns.html">Auld Lang Syne</a>, Robert Burns</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 2. </span><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2014/02/skating-william-wordsworth.html">Skating</a>, William Wordsworth</div><div><div><span face=""> 3. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2011/01/velvet-shoes-elinor-wylie_19.html">Velvet Shoes</a>, Elinor Wylie</span></div><span face=""> 4. </span><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2010_10_01_archive.html">Esthetique du Mal</a>, Wallace Stevens</div><div><div><span face=""> </span><span face="">5. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/01/the-old-year-out-and-new-year-in.html">The Old Year out and the New Year in</a>, Augusta Webster</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 6. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/01/to-thrush-singing-in-january-john-keble.html">To a Thrush Singing in January</a>, John Keble</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 7. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/01/january-james-russell-lowell.html">January</a>, James Russell Lowell</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 8. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/01/manitoba-childe-roland-carl-sandburg.html">Manitoba Childe Roland</a>, Carl Sandburg</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""> 9. </span><a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2010/11/a-scroll-george-j-dance.html">A Scroll</a>, George J. Dance</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">10. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/01/night-rain-christopher-mercon.html">Night Rain</a>, Christopher Mercon</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face=""><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">11. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/01/we-like-winter-and-its-snows-james.html">We Like the Winter and Its Snows</a>, James Berry Bensel</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">12. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/01/january-edwin-arnold.html">January</a>, Edwin Arnold</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">13. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2024/01/a-song-of-winter-emily-pfeiffer.html">A Song of Winter</a>, Emily Pfeiffer</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">14. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2023/04/spring-rains-zod.html">Spring Rains</a>, George Sulzbach</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">15. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2014/02/hockey-war-david-pekrul.html">Hockey War</a>, David Pekrul</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">16. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2011/03/talking-in-their-sleep-edith-m-thomas.html">Talking in their Sleep</a>, Edith M. Thomas</span></div><div><span face="">17. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2020/01/january-rebecca-hey.html">January</a>, Rebecca Hey</span></div><div><span face="">18. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2021/01/january-ruby-archer.html">January</a>, Ruby Archer</span><br /><span face="">19. </span><span face=""> <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2023/12/good-riddance-but-now-what-ogden-nash.html">Good Riddance, but Now What?</a>, Ogden Nash</span></div><div><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" face="">20. <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2018/02/the-brook-in-february-charles-gd-roberts.html">The Brook in February</a>, Charles G.D. Roberts</span></div><div><span face=""><br /></span></div></div><p>Source: Blogger, "Stats" </p>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-57790243026160783672024-01-28T12:29:00.004-05:002024-01-28T12:49:09.862-05:00A Song of Winter / Emily Pfeiffer<br /><b>
A Song of Winter<br /></b>
<br />
Barbed blossom of the guarded gorse,<br />
<span> </span>I love thee where I see thee shine:<br />
Thou sweetener of our common-ways,<br />
<span> </span>And brightener of our wintry days.<br />
<br />
Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,<br />
<span> </span>Thou art undying, O be mine!<br />Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest<br />
<span> </span>Close on a heart that asks not rest.<br />
<br />
I pluck thee and thy stigma set<br />
<span> </span>Upon my breast and on my brow,<br />
Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreath<br />
<span> </span>That none may know the wounds beneath.<br />
<br />
O thorny crown of burning gold,<br />
<span> </span>No festal coronal art thou;<br />
Thy honeyed blossoms are but hives<br />
<span> </span>That guard the growth of wingëd lives.<br />
<br />
I saw thee in the time of flowers<br />
<span> </span>As sunshine spilled upon the land,<br />
Or burning bushes all ablaze<br />
<span> </span>With sacred fire; but went my ways;<br />
<br />
I went my ways, and as I went<br />
<span> </span>Plucked kindlier blooms on either hand;<br />
Now of those blooms so passing sweet<br />
<span> </span>None lives to stay my passing feet.<br />
<br />
And yet thy lamp upon the hill<br />
<span> </span>Feeds on the autumn's dying sigh,<br />
And from thy midst comes murmuring<br />
A music sweeter than in spring.<br />
<br />
Barbed blossom of the guarded gorse,<br />
<span> </span>Be mine to wear until I die,<br />
And mine the wounds of love which still<br />
<span> </span>Bear witness to his human will.<br />
<br />~~<br /><i>Emily Pfeiffer (1827-1890)<br />from</i> <b>Sonnets and Songs</b>, <i>1880</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Emily_Pfeiffer" target="_blank">Emily Pfeiffer biography</a></b><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9tWUHEjAnJqVwb6zT5gCjbaDYz48OF2ybhatvaEFgabvh402pgiw87djb1AJr_mnybg0IES7sT0P2gYyBG57nu4VA26baQqIHynWyypmsUGPxusKOfMPyH_8O2JwUXcwZsYgP_0Us5NU1K49ojAWpQ6ZBFLspAoWLvhbHlbgvdvbTWs34sA7Gh2ua5zq-/s637/Whin_or_Gorse_on_Fife_Coastal_Trail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="637" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9tWUHEjAnJqVwb6zT5gCjbaDYz48OF2ybhatvaEFgabvh402pgiw87djb1AJr_mnybg0IES7sT0P2gYyBG57nu4VA26baQqIHynWyypmsUGPxusKOfMPyH_8O2JwUXcwZsYgP_0Us5NU1K49ojAWpQ6ZBFLspAoWLvhbHlbgvdvbTWs34sA7Gh2ua5zq-/s320/Whin_or_Gorse_on_Fife_Coastal_Trail.jpg" width="420" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">J.J. Hake, Whin or gorse near St. Andrews, Scotland. <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en" target="_blank">CC BY-SA 3.0</a>, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Whin_or_Gorse_on_Fife_Coastal_Trail.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></i></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-49088298022852216212024-01-27T08:17:00.010-05:002024-01-27T11:44:40.076-05:00Manitoba Childe Roland / Carl Sandburg<br /><b>
Manitoba Childe Roland<br /></b>
<br />
Last night a January wind was ripping at the shingles<br />
<span> </span>over our house and whistling a wolf song under the<br />
<span> </span>eaves.<br /><br />
I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl<br />
<span> </span>the Browning poem, Childe Roland to the Dark<br />
<span> </span>Tower Came.<br /><br />
And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was<br />
<span> </span>beautiful to her and she could not understand.<br /><br />
A man is crossing a big prairie, says the poem, and<br />
<span> </span>nothing happens — and he goes on and on — and it's<br />
<span> </span>all lonesome and empty and nobody home.<br /><br />
And he goes on and on — and nothing happens — and he<br />
<span> </span>comes on a horse's skull, dry bones of a dead horse — <br />
<span> </span>and you know more than ever it's all lonesome and<br />
<span> </span>empty and nobody home.<br /><br />
And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows — he<br />
<span> </span>fixes a proud neck and forehead toward the empty<br />
<span> </span>sky and the empty land--and blows one last wonder-<br />
<span> </span>cry.<br /><br />
And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks<br />
<span> </span>off its results willy-nilly and inevitable as the snick<br />
<span> </span>of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimetre<br />
<span> </span>projectile,<br /><br />
I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts<br />
<span> </span>of Manitoba and Minnesota — in the sled derby run<br />
<span> </span>from Winnipeg to Minneapolis.<br /><br />
He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg — <br />
<span> </span>the lead dog is eaten by four team mates — and the<br />
<span> </span>man goes on and on — running while the other racers<br />
<span> </span>ride, running while the other racers sleep — <br /><br />
Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle<br />
<span> </span>of travel hour after hour — fighting the dogs who<br />
<span> </span>dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep — <br />
<span> </span>pushing on — running and walking five hundred<br />
<span> </span>miles to the end of the race — almost a winner — one<br />
<span> </span>toe frozen, feet blistered and frost-bitten.<br /><br />
And I know why a thousand young men of the North-<br />
<span> </span>west meet him in the finishing miles and yell cheers<br />
<span> </span>— I know why judges of the race call him a winner<br />
<span> </span>and give him a special prize even though he is a<br />
<span> </span>loser.<br /><br />
I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding<br />
<span> </span>heart amid the blizzards of five hundred miles that<br />
<span> </span>one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland — and I told<br />
<span> </span>the six year old girl about it.<br /><br />
And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles<br />
<span> </span>and whistling a wolf song under the eaves, her eyes<br />
<span> </span>had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful<br />
<span> </span>to her and she could not understand.<div><br />~~<br /><i>Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>Corhhuskers</b>,<i> 1918</i><br /><i><br /></i>[<i>Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Carl_Sandburg" target="_blank">Carl Sandburg biography</a></b><br />
<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Ord-13AsarQVCXKCg_Et7boYrxDVVjJBnHZubmUNaWlVa_zXe4-4fUxUUvvs9_GaxhDtZCpg5YEbUNqHcv2MjtaKoUqMkddX_LwGugUJkWughlj2aJ2Ll8VKwh2In4NP5VWDq5Bj5D6aV_gL8LpT5iUiJ2oGVUtJlLqAH8Lp2MJ2ivTsSxrSUx8lzoRm/s758/dogsled%20team%201910.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="296" data-original-width="758" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Ord-13AsarQVCXKCg_Et7boYrxDVVjJBnHZubmUNaWlVa_zXe4-4fUxUUvvs9_GaxhDtZCpg5YEbUNqHcv2MjtaKoUqMkddX_LwGugUJkWughlj2aJ2Ll8VKwh2In4NP5VWDq5Bj5D6aV_gL8LpT5iUiJ2oGVUtJlLqAH8Lp2MJ2ivTsSxrSUx8lzoRm/s320/dogsled%20team%201910.jpg" width="420" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lomen Bros., Dogsled team, Nome, Alaska, 1910. Public domain, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Fox_Ramsay%27s_dogsled_team_on_the_trail_during_3rd_All-Alaska_Sweepstakes,_1910_(AL%2BCA_6210).jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></i></div></i></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-65171894305791767172024-01-21T11:58:00.006-05:002024-02-10T09:20:14.566-05:00January / Edwin Arnold<div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>from</i> <b>The Twelve Months</b></div><b><br />
January</b><br />
<br />
Rain — hail — sleet — snow! — Yet, in my East, <br />
This is the time when palm-trees quicken<br />
With flowers, wherefrom the Arabs' feast <br />
Of amber dates will thenceforth thicken.<br />
<br />
Palms, — he and she, — in sight they grow;<br />
And o'er the desert-sands is wafted, <br />
On light airs of the After-glow,<br />
That golden dust whence fruit is grafted.<br />
<br />
Ah, happy trees! who feel no frost<br />
Of winter-time, to chill your gladness;<br />
And grow not close enough for cost<br />
Of bliss fulfilled, which heightens sadness;<br />
<br />
No gray reality's alloy<br />
Your green ideal can diminish!<br />
You have love's kiss, in all its joy<br />,
Without love's lips, which let it finish!<div><br /></div><div>~~</div><div><i>Edwin Arnold (1832-1904)</i></div><div><i>from </i><b>Poems: National and non-oriental</b><i>, 1906</i><br />
<br />
</div><div>[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]</div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Edwin_Arnold" target="_blank">Edwin Arnold biography</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDSy0cVRoz6ZF68LY_CS6vSkvNOjFHOCKH2m7QYjeNL2VcRZeWXfF5xMpDPg80her8jmUPtHEaBrkca2Jqv0htOhmaAjsH0Dd3rW0enECTeMM0MMHjan0U2Hnu4G4TM5JXie8Z71pvNp41hV2yukBQSlebtcXAkhBakfd0kZt-us8iRxMRXPOHTZrc7yD/s828/Palm_trees_in_saudi_arabia_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="828" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDSy0cVRoz6ZF68LY_CS6vSkvNOjFHOCKH2m7QYjeNL2VcRZeWXfF5xMpDPg80her8jmUPtHEaBrkca2Jqv0htOhmaAjsH0Dd3rW0enECTeMM0MMHjan0U2Hnu4G4TM5JXie8Z71pvNp41hV2yukBQSlebtcXAkhBakfd0kZt-us8iRxMRXPOHTZrc7yD/s320/Palm_trees_in_saudi_arabia_3.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ahmad Elq, Paul Trees in Saudi Arabia, 2012. <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en" target="_blank">CC BY-SA 4.0</a>, <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Palm_trees_in_saudi_arabia_3.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></i></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-53202926379018082322024-01-20T12:18:00.006-05:002024-01-20T13:31:12.662-05:00Night Rain / Christopher Mercon<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLLmCtEqE0AmKZ5pKAiFe6xiP6stuihdwElkACslW8SAdLLmLPQ3-4ivTO4CqzqB8wojyEg9K9uzYb6-Xfz9ZZIHD7KqCKyq7yWl_hu2WVcI-gZhLIJ4x1n6NYbUW6kPo-rNFIudAdupZsYewuxzvQC-Iv7Umz7oLNKQ09j4sdPIq-yOTsWDL928hYBwoD/s1536/Night%20Rain%20Christopher%20Mercon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1069" height="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLLmCtEqE0AmKZ5pKAiFe6xiP6stuihdwElkACslW8SAdLLmLPQ3-4ivTO4CqzqB8wojyEg9K9uzYb6-Xfz9ZZIHD7KqCKyq7yWl_hu2WVcI-gZhLIJ4x1n6NYbUW6kPo-rNFIudAdupZsYewuxzvQC-Iv7Umz7oLNKQ09j4sdPIq-yOTsWDL928hYBwoD/s320/Night%20Rain%20Christopher%20Mercon.jpg" width="401.5" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Christopher Mercon, 2022. All rights reserved - used with permission.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/541506316847667/posts/998841214447506/" target="_blank">Christopher Mercon</a>, 2023. Art by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/541506316847667" target="_blank">Thee Poetry Posters</a>.</span></i></div><p></p>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-65383293241855871962024-01-14T11:15:00.008-05:002024-01-14T13:31:19.906-05:00January / James Russell Lowell<i>from</i> <b>Part Second:<br />
<br />
<span> </span>I</b><br />
<br />
There was never a leaf on bush or tree,<br />
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly;<br />
The river was dumb and could not speak,<br />
<span> </span>For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun;<br />
A single crow on the tree-top bleak<br />
<span> </span>From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun;<br />
Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold,<br />
As if her veins were sapless and old,<br />
And she rose up decrepitly<br />
For a last dim look at earth and sea.<br /><br />~~<br /><i>James Russell Lowell (1819-1891)</i><br /><i>from</i> <b>The Vision of Sir Launfal</b><i>, 1848</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="http://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/James_Russell_Lowell" target="_blank">James Russell Lowell biography</a></b> <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="350" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/22qWEiVzoIg" width="420" youtube-src-id="22qWEiVzoIg"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Vision of Sir Launfal, and other poems, read by Phil Champ. </span></i></div></i><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Courtesy LibriVox and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22qWEiVzoIg" target="_blank">A Good Channel</a>. (Quoted text begins at <b>42.17</b>) </span></i></div>
</div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2180286923373889423.post-43214987183595036272024-01-13T10:04:00.008-05:002024-01-13T14:04:18.226-05:00To a Thrush Singing in January / John Keble<br /><b>To a Thrush Singing in the Middle of a Village, Jan. 1883.
</b><br /><br /><div>
Sweet bird! up earliest in the morn,<br /><span> </span>Up earliest in the year,<br />
For in the quiet mist are borne<br /><span> </span>Thy matins soft and clear.<br />
<br />
As linnet soft, and clear as lark,<br />
<span> </span>Well hast thou ta'en thy part, <br />
Where many an ear thy notes may reach,<br />
<span> </span>And here and there a heart.<br />
<br />
The first snow-wreaths are scarcely gone,<br />
<span> </span>(They stayed but half a day) <br />
The berries bright hang lingering on;<br />
<span> </span>Yet thou hast learned thy lay.<br />
<br />
One gleam, one gale of western air<br />
<span> </span>Has hardly brushed thy wing; <br />
Yet thou hast given thy welcome fair,<br />
<span> </span>Good-morrow to the spring!<br />
<br />
Perhaps within thy carol's sound<br />
<span> </span>Some wakeful mourner lies, <br />
Dim roaming days and years around,<br />
<span> </span>That ne'er again may rise.<br />
<br />
He thanks thee with a tearful eye,<br />
<span> </span>For thou hast wing'd his spright <br />
Back to some hour when hopes were nigh<br />
<span> </span>And dearest friends in sight;<br />
<br />
That simple, fearless note of thine<br />
<span> </span>Has pierced the cloud of care, <br />
And lit awhile the gleam divine<br />
<span> </span>That bless'd his infant prayer;<br />
<br />
Ere he had known, his faith to blight,<br />
<span> </span>The scomer's withering smile; <br />
While hearts, he deem'd, beat true and right,<br />
<span> </span>Here in our Christian Isle.<br />
<br />
That sunny, morning glimpse is gone, <br />
<span> </span>That morning note is still;<br />
The dun dark day comes lowering on, <br />
<span> </span>The spoilers roam at will;<br />
<br />
Yet calmly rise, and boldly strive;<br />
<span> </span>The sweet bird's early song, <br />
Ere evening fall shall oft revive,<br />
<span> </span>And cheer thee all day long.<br />
<br />
Are we not sworn to serve our King?<br />
<span> </span>He sworn with us to be? <br />
The birds that chant before the spring<br />
<span> </span>Are truer far than we.<br /><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><br />~~<br /><i>John Keble (1792-1866)</i><br /><i>from </i><b>Miscellaneous Poems</b>,<i> 1870</i><br /><br />[<i>Poem is in the public domain worldwide</i>]<br /><br /><b><a href="http://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/John_Keble" target="_blank">John Keble biography</a></b></div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><br /></div>from Miscellaneous Poems, 1870 </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvWTyvYDgVO1lU1b_gprt8WE5GuQDQfWuOqD9clU8sQKpoEkjEUl-WUG-hJ2zVqoLMS3EjrvMaVHOZguXUqS7B8ldcu6dRdFsN2aG6M9pNK0GwldF756yiQoXvFxsSrnZV3YWbPS-jECysl9J-v_6dFUQ8cU3JFK5bt51M5p9BDJKXRqab0VhTpN_RcHcY/s1112/Hermit_Thrush_in_winter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1112" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvWTyvYDgVO1lU1b_gprt8WE5GuQDQfWuOqD9clU8sQKpoEkjEUl-WUG-hJ2zVqoLMS3EjrvMaVHOZguXUqS7B8ldcu6dRdFsN2aG6M9pNK0GwldF756yiQoXvFxsSrnZV3YWbPS-jECysl9J-v_6dFUQ8cU3JFK5bt51M5p9BDJKXRqab0VhTpN_RcHcY/s320/Hermit_Thrush_in_winter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>D. Gordon E. Robertson, Hermit Thrush in Winter, Ottawa, 2011. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en" target="_blank">CC BY-SA 3.0</a>, courtesy <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hermit_Thrush_in_winter.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">See also: <a href="https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2010/12/darkling-thrush-thomas-hardy.html">The Darkling Thrush / Thomas Hardy</a></div>George J. Dancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17802922538748186834noreply@blogger.com1