Penny's Poetry Blog: June 2021

Sunday, June 27, 2021

June is Coming / John Burroughs

June is Coming

Now have come the shining days
When field and wood are robed anew,
And o'er the world a silver haze
Mingles the emerald with the blue.

Summer now doth clothe the land
In garments free from spot or stain —
The lustrous leaves, the hills untanned,
The vivid meads, the glaucous grain.

The day looks new, a coin unworn,
Freshly stamped in heavenly mint;
The sky keeps on its look of morn;
Of age and death there is no hint.

How soft the landscape near and far!
A shining veil the trees infold;
The day remembers moon and star;
A silver lining hath its gold.

Again I see the clover bloom,
And wade in grasses lush and sweet;
Again has vanished all my gloom
With daisies smiling at my feet.

Again from out the garden hives
The exodus of frenzied bees;
The humming cyclone onward drives,
Or finds repose amid the trees.

At dawn the river seems a shade —
A liquid shadow deep as space;
But when the sun the mist has laid,
A diamond shower smites its face.

The season's tide now nears its height,
And gives to earth an aspect new;
Now every shoal is hid from sight,
With current fresh as morning dew.

~~
John Burroughs (1837-1921)
from Bird and Bough, 1906

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

John Burroughs biography

Saturday, June 26, 2021

Francis Turner / Edgar Lee Masters

Francis Turner

I could not run or play
In boyhood.
In manhood I could only sip the cup,
Not drink –
For scarlet-fever left my heart diseased.
Yet I lie here
Soothed by a secret none but Mary knows:
There is a garden of acacia,
Catalpa trees, and arbors sweet with vines
– There on that afternoon in June
By Mary’s side –
Kissing her with my soul upon my lips
It suddenly took flight.

~~
Edgar Lee Masters (1868-1950)
from Spoon River Anthology, 1915

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Edgar Lee Masters biography

Sunday, June 20, 2021

If — / Rudyard Kipling

If —

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

from Rewards and Fairies, 1910

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Rudyard Kipling biography

Saturday, June 19, 2021

June: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

June: A pastoral poem

The dog-rose, of light-blushing hue,
Or painted in crimson-like vest,
Profuse in her bloom to the view,
The hedge-rows in splendour has drest.
The season of pleasure my lay
Extends in the country so bright;
The sweets of the new-tedded hay,
Each object of sound and of sight.

The trees we beheld in full dress,
Profusion of flowers around
The beauties of Nature confess,
In vivid sublimity crown'd,
On the banks of the river so clear,
Emerg'd from its wave are the flocks;
They mark the gay time of the year,
Depriv'd of their white fleecy locks.

When past is the soft copious shower,
The sweets of Arabia we find;
From the beds of the clover to flower
, And the bee-loving suckle resign'd.
More delicious the odours that rise
On the gales from the blue-bosom'd bean;
All Sweetness herself can comprize
Is pour'd in extend through the scene.

Whilst Summer, bright child of the Sun,
With mildness rekindles his fire;
And June, by his courtesy won,
Apparels in golden attire.
To her Prince Freedom offers the lay,
Whose sons the choice tribute support;
In duty rejoice at the day,
By far the most splendid at court.

Admit humble zeal to prevail,
From a Muse through unpolish'd to spring;
Bear hence, each Favonian gale,
The strain she devotes to her King.
No Laureat — what merit have I?
Pretension to fabricate praise?
Though humble and weak, yet too high
To flatter in time-serving lays.

My heart, by sincerity led,
The day of his birth shall revere,
That Peace may, her olive-branch spread,
Extend through each following year.
From my bosom warm wishes emane,
Ye Powers this blessing to send:
In the hearts of his subjects to reign
Till Time's latest period shall end.

Behold in what splendour appears,
In majesty boundless and wide,
The Sun through the dawn's pearly tears
Pouring down his ineffable tide.
Now beams in illustrious array,
And warms the aetherial gale,
Which nurtures the pride of the day,
From the hill to the green-herbag'd dale.

The bleatings of sheep from the hills,
The silence and peace of the grove,
The murmurs that rise from the rills,
And the reed from the shady alcove;
The zephyrs that pinion the hours,
The fragrance they widely diffuse,
The pasture, thick chequer'd with flowers,
Are themes that embellish my Muse.

How smooth and how tranquil the stream
Meanders the vallies along,
Its crystal improv'd by the beam
That wakens Aurora's first song!
The leaf by the gale unoppress'd,
The landscapes of Beauty and Grace,
Soft pleasures convey to the breast,
The smiles of the heart to the face.

Yet whither, my Muse, would you stray,
Evading this season of sweets?
Why turn from the purple-ey'd day,
From Pleasure's umbrageous retreats?
From the beech, ever vivid of shade,
The lime that elongates the lawn,
The oak, in dark foliage array'd,
Ah, why are thy visits withdrawn?

From the parks and the sports of the field,
Where plenty and happiness reign,
Where the smile of Benevolence yield
What blessings from Summer we gain;
Ah why, near yon sorrowful yew,
Of dark and disconsolate shade,
Must Elegy ever renew
Afflictions which never can fade?

Shall HONESTO, my father and friend,
Around whose respectable tomb
The Virtues all sorrowful bend,
In plaint recent dirges assume;
While Memory, Genius, and Worth
The red eye of Sorrow dilate;
Must pensively bow to the earth,
And weep his immutable fate?

Can he be forgot whom I lov'd,
Whose breast was so gentle and kind;
Of principles noble approv'd,
The Christian in precept and mind?
Can Time soothe the sigh of my breast?
The thunder that rolls on the hill
Shall sooner he sooth'd into rest,
Its lightnings no terrors instill.

Receive then my measure of woe,
Thou dearest and much-honour'd Shade:
If Virtue departed may know
Affection by relatives paid.
And yearly in Summer, bedeck'd
With splendour and wealth shall return;
My feelings fresh wreaths shall collect,
HONESTO, to garnish thy urn.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Gentlemen's Magazine, August 1787

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Perfect biography

Sunday, June 13, 2021

A June Night / Emma Lazarus

A June Night

Ten o’clock: the broken moon
Hangs not yet a half hour high,
Yellow as a shield of brass,
In the dewy air of June,
Poised between the vaulted sky
And the ocean’s liquid glass.

Earth lies in the shadow still;
Low black bushes, trees and lawn
Night’s ambrosial dews absorb;
Through the foliage creeps a thrill,
Whispering of yon spectral dawn
And the hidden climbing orb.

Higher, higher, gathering light,
Veiling with a golden gauze
All the trembling atmosphere,
See, the rayless disk grows white!
Hark, the glittering billows pause!
Faint, far sounds possess the ear.

Elves on such a night as this
Spin their rings upon the grass;
On the beech the water-fay
Greets her lover with a kiss;
Through the air swift spirits pass,
Laugh, caress, and float away.

Shut thy lids and thou shalt see
Angel faces wreathed with light,
Mystic forms long vanished hence.
Ah, too fine, too rare, they be
For the grosser mortal sight,
And they foil our waking sense.

Yet we feel them floating near,
Know that we are not alone,
Though our open eyes behold
Nothing save the moon’s bright sphere,
In the vacant heavens shown,
And the ocean’s path of gold.

~~
Emma Lazarus (1849-1887)
from Poems, 1888

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Emma Lazarus biography

Saturday, June 12, 2021

June Night / Sara Teasdale

June Night

Oh Earth, you are too dear to-night,
How can I sleep while all around
Floats rainy fragrance and the far
Deep voice of the ocean that talks to the ground?

Oh Earth, you gave me all I have,
I love you, I love you,— oh what have I
That I can give you in return —
Except my body after I die?

~~
Sara Teasdale

from Flame and Shadow, 1920

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Sara Teasdale biography

Miguel Angel Villar, Sunset Beach, 2015. CC BY 3.0, Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, June 6, 2021

Spring Wind in London / Katherine Mansfield

Spring Wind in London

I blow across the stagnant world,
I blow across the sea,
For me, the sailor's flag unfurled,
For me, the uprooted tree.
My challenge to the world is hurled;
The world must bow to me.

I drive the clouds across the sky,
I huddle them like sheep;
Merciless shepherd-dog am I
And shepherd-watch I keep.
If in the quiet vales they lie
I blow them up the steep.

Lo! In the tree-tops do I hide,
In every living thing;
On the moon's yellow wings I glide,
On the wild rose I swing;
On the sea-horse's back I ride,
And what then do I bring?

And when a little child is ill
I pause, and with my hand
I wave the window curtain's frill
That he may understand
Outside the wind is blowing still;
. . . It is a pleasant land.

O stranger in a foreign place,
See what I bring to you.
This rain — is tears upon your face;
I tell you — tell you true
I came from that forgotten place
Where once the wattle grew.

All the wild sweetness of the flower
Tangled against the wall.
It was that magic, silent hour. . . .
The branches grew so tall
They twined themselves into a bower.
The sun shone . . . and the fall

Of yellow blossom on the grass!
You feel that golden rain?
Both of you could not hold, alas,
(Both of you tried — in vain)
A memory, stranger. So I pass. . . .
It will not come again.

~~

Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923)
from Poems, 1924

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Katherine Mansfield biography

Saturday, June 5, 2021

The Tent of Noon / Bliss Carman

The Tent of Noon

Behold, now, where the pageant of high June
Halts in the glowing noon!
The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill;
The bannered hosts are still,
While over forest crown and mountain head
The azure tent is spread.

The song is hushed in every woodland throat;
Moveless the lilies float;
Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea
Sighs only fitfully;
The cattle drowse in the field-corner's shade;
Peace on the world is laid.

It is the hour when Nature's caravan,
That bears the pilgrim Man
Across the desert of uncharted time
To his far hope sublime,
Rests in the green oasis of the year,
As if the end drew near.

Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise
For these fleet halcyon days?—
No courage to uplift thee from despair
Born with the breath of prayer?
Then turn thee to the lilied field once more!
God stands in his tent door.

~~
Bliss Carman (1861-1929)
from Later Poems, 1926

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]

Bliss Carman biography