Last, for December, houses on the plain, Ground-floors to live in, logs heaped mountain-high, And carpets stretched, and newest games to try,
And torches lit, and gifts from man to man
(Your host, a drunkard and a Catalan); And whole dead pigs, and cunning cooks to ply Each throat with tit-bits that shall satisfy;
And wine-butts of Saint Galganus' brave span.
And be your coats well-lined and tightly bound, And wrap yourselves in cloaks of strength and weight, With gallant hoods to put your faces through.
And make your game of abject vagabond Abandoned miserable reprobate Misers; don't let them have a chance with you.
~~ Folgore da San Geminiano (?1270-1332?) translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) from The Early Italian Poets, 1861
Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.
The star was so beautiful, large and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.
Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.
And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of the night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.
“Of the child that is born,” said Baltasar,
“Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews.”
And the people answered, “You ask in vain;
We know of no King but Herod the Great!”
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, who cannot wait.
And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king.”
So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the grey of morn;
Yes, it stopped—it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The city of David, where Christ was born.
And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.
And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human, but divine.
His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.
They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body’s burying.
And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone,
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David’s throne.
Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.
~~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) from Keramos, and other poems, 1878
Observe, my child, this pretty scene,
And note the air of pleasure keen
With which the widow's orphan boy
Toots his tin horn, his only toy.
What need of costly gifts has he?
The widow has nowhere to flee,
And ample noise his horn emits
To drive the widow into fits.
Moral:
The philosophic mind can see
The uses of adversity.
~~ Ellis Parker Butler (1869-1937) fromLeslie's Monthly, December 1902
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
And now behold this sulking boy,
His costly presents bring no joy;
Harsh tears of anger fill his eye
Tho' he has all that wealth can buy.
What profits it that he employs
His many gifts to make a noise?
His playroom is so placed that he
Can cause his folks no agony.
Moral:
Mere worldly wealth does not possess
The power of giving happiness.
~~ Ellis Parker Butler (1869-1937) fromLeslie's Monthly, December 1902
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
Christmas has come, let's eat and drink —
This is no time to sit and think;
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
Let all men now get rid of care,
And what one has let others share;
Then 'tis the same, no matter which
Of us is poor, or which is rich.
Let each man have enough this day,
Since those that can are glad to pay;
There's nothing now too rich or good
For poor men, not the King's own food.
Now like a singing bird my feet
Touch earth, and I must drink and eat.
Welcome to all men: I'll not care
What any of my fellows wear;
We'll not let cloth divide our souls,
They'll swim stark naked in the bowls.
Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see
That hand of yours dislodge a flea,—
While you sit at my side and beg,
Or right foot scratching your left leg.
Farewell restraint: we will not now
Measure the ale our brains allow,
But drink as much as we can hold.
We'll count no change when we spend gold;
This is no time to save, but spend,
To give for nothing, not to lend.
Let foes make friends: let them forget
The mischief-making dead that fret
The living with complaint like this —
"He wronged us once, hate him and his."
Christmas has come; let every man
Eat, drink, be merry all he can.
Ale's my best mark, but if port wine
Or whisky's yours — let it be mine;
No matter what lies in the bowls,
We'll make it rich with our own souls.
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
~~ W.H. Davies (1871-1940) from Foliage: Various poems, 1913
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
December finds himself again a child
Even as he undergoes his age.
Cold and early darkness now descend,
Embracing sanctuaries of delight.
More and more he stares into the night,
Becoming less and less concerned with ends,
Emblem of the innocent as sage
Restored to wonder by what he must yield.
Chill the night wind moans and sighs,
On the sward the stubble dies;
Slow across the meadows rank
Float the cloud-rifts grim and dank;
On the hill-side, bare and brown,
Twilight shadows gather down, — 'Tis December.
Stark and gaunt the naked trees
Wrestle with the wrestling breeze,
While beneath, at every breath,
Dead leaves hold a dance of death;
But the pine-trees' sighing grace Greenly decks the barren place, In December.
Chirp of bird nor hum of bee
Breaks across the barren lea;
Only silence, cold and drear,
Nestles closely far and near,
While in cloak of russet gray,
Nature hides her bloom away With December.
Yet we know that, sleeping sound,
Life is waiting underground;
Till beneath his April skies
God shall bid it once more rise,
Warmth and light and beauty rest Hushed and calm, upon the breast Of December.
So, though sometimes winter skies
Hide the summer from our eyes,
Taking from its old time place Some dear form of love and grace,
We can wait, content to bear
Barren fields and frosted air, Through December —
We can wait, till some sweet dawn
Finds the shadows backward drawn,
And beneath its rosy light
Maytime flushes, warm and bright,
Bring again the bloom that fled
When the earth lay cold and dead In December.
The summer's wreath is withered on the plain, And autumn's graver garb of dusky gold
Lies strewn in sombre glen and silent lane, And winter, like a palmer sable-stoled,
Watches with cold, unsympathetic eyes
The dying year's faint, final agonies.
Ay, summer is no more; afar I hear A heavy sigh and sound among the leaves
As of the feet of those who bear a bier With wailing voices; 'tis the wind that grieves,
Seeking through lone dim vales and woodlands dun,
The bright, departed children of the sun.
And I, too, seek in places well-remembered, Some lingering token of the vanished hours;
But round me lie, all desolate and dismembered, The green, mid-forest glades and vine-roofed bowers,
Where peace, like a sweet presence, held her sway;
Nothing remains but ruin and decay.
I loiter by the ivy-mantled wall Where cling the shattered nests upon the bough,
To hear one faint and farewell echo fall Of all the music that is silent now;
In vain! the sere grass shivers on the hill,
The rushes moan beside the frozen rill.
I feel like one in lonely age returning To seek repose in haunts of happier years,
Who stands and gazes round him, vainly yearning For one dear landmark that his memory bears,
Till from his revery by some rude hand shaken, He starts and wakes and finds himself forsaken.
~~ Charles Lotin Hildreth (1853-1896) from Through the Year with the Poets: December, 1885
Alone, unseen, at this mild sober hour,
When fading Autumn with his season pale
Has ting'd the woods, I seek the ruin'd tow'r,
And mould'ring heaps, that spread the thorny dale.
Here sad reflection to the eye recalls
The spires commanding far the cheerful deeps,
The fretted pinnacles, and window'd walls,
Where now the melancholy ivy creeps.
The pond'ring stranger views with silent dread,
As to the stony cell he bends his way,
The broken roof suspended o'er his head,
Where mingling shafts and sculptur'd arms decay.
No hallow'd hymn now sounds, where wildly strown
With fragments rude the desert choir appears;
But echoing loud amid the cloysters lone
The daw's hoarse clamour meets my startled ears.
Void is the nich, where erst in holy state
Perhaps some Abbot's gorgeous image lay;
The slumb'ring brothers share their ruler's fate,
And not a stone records their useless day.
Alas! whate'er their virtues or their crimes,
'Tis all in blank oblivion buried deep;
Nor did they ween, how little future times
Would share their bliss, or for their sorrows weep.
For ev'n where droning Indolence repos'd,
Some finer souls might ache with keen distress;
And haply many a wretch full willing clos'd
His eyes, and shunn'd a life he could not bless.
Perchance some vot'ry sad of feeling heart,
As o'er the fading lawn he mus'd at eve,
Anxious might see the passing sail depart,
And call to mind a world he wept to leave.
Ev'n then some tender maid he lov'd too well,
And gave in thought th' endearing name of wife,
Might make his bleeding heart with sorrow swell,
And deeply rue his cold unsocial life;
Sad might he heave a deep-drawn sigh unseen,
And down his cheek a venial tear might fall,
To think how calm, how blest his days had been
With her, his bosom's joy, his life, his all.
The bell slow-beating thro' the gloom of night,
Might wake his soul to other thoughts than pray'r,
And, while his voice perform'd each solemn rite,
His wand'ring heart might own a tend'rer care.
So from his native woodlands torn away,
The little songster, conscious of his pain,
Sits dull and drooping all the livelong day,
And sings no more, or sings a sadder strain;
While from his joyless prison he surveys,
Flutt'ring with eager heart from side to side,
Earth's flow'ry mantle, and the budding sprays,
And hears in fancy still his long-lost bride.
~~ Edward Hamley (1764-1834)
from Poems of Various Kinds, 1795
Let baths and wine-butts be November's due, With thirty mule-loads of broad gold-pieces; And canopy with silk the streets that freeze;
And keep your drink-horns steadily in view.
Let every trader have his gain of you: Clareta shall your lamps and torches send, — Caeta, citron-candies without end;
And each shall drink, and help his neighbour to.
And let the cold be great, and the fire grand: And still for fowls, and pastries sweetly wrought, For hares and kids, for roast and boil'd, be sure You always have your appetites at hand; And then let night howl and heaven fall, so nought Be miss'd that makes a man's bed-furniture.
~~ Folgore da San Geminiano (?1270-1332?) translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) from The Early Italian Poets, 1861
The winds are out with loud increasing shout, Where late before them walked the biting frost,
Whirling the leaves in their wild sport about, And twig and limb athwart our path are tost.
But still the sun looks kindly on the year, And days of summer warmth will linger yet;
And still the birds amid the fields we hear, For the ripe grain and scattered seeds they get.
The shortening days grow slowly less and less, And winter comes with many a warning on;
And still some day with kindly smile will bless, Till the last hope's deceit is fledged and gone,
Before the deepening snows block up the way, And the sweet fields are made of howling blasts the prey.
1
I love the fitfull gusts that shakes
The casement all the day
And from the mossy elm tree takes
The faded leaf away
Twirling it by the window-pane
With thousand others down the lane
2
I love to see the shaking twig
Dance till the shut of eve
The sparrow on the cottage rig
Whose chirp would make believe
That spring was just now flirting by
In summers lap with flowers to lie
3
I love to see the cottage smoke
Curl upwards through the naked trees
The pigeons nestled round the coat
On dull November days like these
The cock upon the dung-hill crowing
The mill sails on the heath agoing
4
The feather from the ravens breast
Falls on the stubble lea
The acorns near the old crows nest
Fall pattering down the tree
The grunting pigs that wait for all
Scramble and hurry where they fall
Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.
I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, And going to the office in the train.
~~
Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)
from War Poems, 1919
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
All day it has rained, and we on the edge of the moors
Have sprawled in our bell-tents, moody and dull as boors,
Groundsheets and blankets spread on the muddy ground
And from the first grey wakening we have found
No refuge from the skirmishing fine rain
And the wind that made the canvas heave and flap
And the taut wet guy-ropes ravel out and snap.
All day the rain has glided, wave and mist and dream,
Drenching the gorse and heather, a gossamer stream
Too light to stir the acorns that suddenly
Snatched from their cups by the wild south-westerly
Pattered against the tent and our upturned dreaming faces.
And we stretched out, unbuttoning our braces,
Smoking a Woodbine, darning dirty socks,
Reading the Sunday papers – I saw a fox
And mentioned it in the note I scribbled home; –
And we talked of girls and dropping bombs on Rome,
And thought of the quiet dead and the loud celebrities
Exhorting us to slaughter, and the herded refugees:
Yet thought softly, morosely of them, and as indifferently
As of ourselves or those whom we
For years have loved, and will again
Tomorrow maybe love; but now it is the rain
Possesses us entirely, the twilight and the rain.
And I can remember nothing dearer or more to my heart
Than the children I watched in the woods on Saturday
Shaking down burning chestnuts for the schoolyard’s merry play,
Or the shaggy patient dog who followed me
By Sheet and Steep and up the wooded scree
To the Shoulder o’ Mutton where Edward Thomas brooded long
On death and beauty – till a bullet stopped his song.
~~
Alun Lewis (1915-1944)
from Raiders' Dawn, and other poems, 1941
[Poetry is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]
There's nothing like the sun as the year dies,
Kind as it can be, this world being made so,
To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies,
To all things that it touches except snow,
Whether on mountain side or street of town.
The south wall warms me: November has begun,
Yet never shone the sun as fair as now
While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough
With spangles of the morning's storm drop down
Because the starling shakes it, whistling what
Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot
That there is nothing, too, like March's sun,
Like April's, or July's, or June's, or May's,
Or January's, or February's, great days:
And August, September, October, and December
Have equal days, all different from November.
No day of any month but I have said –
Or, if I could live long enough, should say –
'There's nothing like the sun that shines today.'
There's nothing like the sun till we are dead.
I speak your name in alien ways, while yet
November smiles from under lashes wet.
In the November light I see you stand
Who love the fading woods and withered land
[...]
"Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?"
Silence, followed by a click and hum.
Slamming down, her lower arm goes numb.
She has to get outside; she needs some air.
The leaden sky leaks. Trees are gaunt and bare.
She walks – then runs – but every street has some
Eyes fondling her legs, her breasts, her bum,
And running filthy glances through her hair.
She's reached her block now – finally she nears
Her home, runs up the walk – inside once more,
Panting, trying to calm her breath and fears.
She's sure that bedroom door was closed before,
And weren't the lights on? What's that noise she hears?
How could she forget to lock the door?
Next, for October, to some shelter'd coign Flouting the winds I'll hope to find you slunk: Though in bird-shooting (lest all sport be sunk),
Your foot still press the turf, the horse your groin.
At night with sweethearts in the dance you'll join, And drink the blessed must, and get quite drunk. There's no such life for any human trunk;
And that's a truth that rings like golden coin!
Then, out of bed again when morning's come, Let your hands drench your face refreshingly, And take your physic roast, with flask and knife.
Sounder and snugger you shall feel at home Than lake-fish, river-fish, or fish at sea, Inheriting the cream of Christian life.
~~ Folgore da San Geminiano (?1270-1332?) translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) from The Early Italian Poets, 1861
I have worn so many coats
Always changing through the years
Some fit very well and warm
Giving comfort for a time
Other ones, threadbare and cold
Woven with such brittle fibers
From the mills of want and angst,
Pockets torn
With holes and tattered
Where fortunes and good will
Must have surely fallen through
I outgrew some, along the way,
Left them lying there
Pockets full of naive trust,
For those with childlike faith
Who wore each one with beauty,
In traditions of their creeds
I wore a coat of innocence,
In a place so long ago,
Where angels held their guard
Where ice cold rain fell hard
Into gentle summer nights
I wear a coat these days
A perfect fit and trim
A patchwork stitched
Of faded cloth, stained and ripped
From passing years
The pockets filled
With golden Hope, sweet
Memories and tears
When I was a little fellow, long ago, The season of all seasons seemed to me The Summer's afterglow and fantasy —
The red October of Ontario:
To ramble unrestrain'd where maples grow Thick-set with butternut and hickory, And be the while companion'd airily
By elfin things a child alone may know!
And how with mugs of cider, sweet and mellow, And block and hammer for the gather'd store Of toothsome nuts, we'd lie around before
The fire at nights, and hear the old folks tell o' Red Indians and bears, and the Yankee war —
Long ago, when I was a little fellow!
~~
Tom MacInnes (1867-1951)
from In Amber Lands, 1910
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
Spring whistled a happy tune ... summer sang. Autumn's song being sung and winter's song Yet to come ... a cold hard song ... far too long, Winter's known song ... a frosty frigid ... pang!
The end of summer comes in disbelief: Autumnal apples fall far from the trees; Sweet honey stolen from the honeybees; Luscious fruit with sweetness lends some relief.
The gifts of spring and summer ... love bestowed. Gratitude for the fruits of the season – Gratitude for plentiful pleasing reason. From the summer season much bounty flowed.
Seen on display, the farmer's market showed The fresh fruits of love's organic labor. A just picked garden carrot ... to savor! To buy artisanal produce much is owed.
Spring whistled a happy tune ... summer sang. Autumn's song being sung and winter's song Yet to come ... a cold hard song ... far too long, Winter's known song ... a frosty frigid ... pang!
Cold hard fact: As fleeting pleasures fade in disbelief ... Suspension of disbelief assuages grief.
The long, pure light, that brings To earth her perfect crown of bliss,
Wanes slow, — the thoughtful drooping of the grain,
And the faint breath of the earth-loving things Say this.
Oft when the dews at night Clasp the cool shadows, all in vain,
I look along the meadows, level, dark,
To see the firefly lift her tender light Again.
From the thick-woven shade, Where, on the red-cupped moss, to-day,
A crimson ray alit, the bluebird sends
One melancholy note up the brown glade, This way.
Last night, I saw an eft Crawl to the worm's forsaken bier,
To die there, as I think, — beetle nor bee,
Nor the ephemera's ethereal weft Sport here.
Yet great has been life's zest. Almost how the grass grows, I know,
And the ant sleeps; the busy summer long,
I have kept the secret of the ground-bird's nest Below.
But sweeter my employ In some still hours. I seem to live
Too near the beating of earth's mighty heart,
Not to have learned in part how she can joy And grieve!
'Twas on a night last June, Into the clear, bold sky,
The little stars stole each with separate thrill,
And the mossed fir-top woke its mystic rune Close by.
Upon yon westering slope, Two glorious human shapes there stood, Rosy with twilight, listening to my song:
I knew I sang to them of love and hope, Life's good.
The little stars' soft rays Again thrill through their realm of peace;
One shadow haunts the slope; — a song I sing
To match the broken music of her days, Then cease.
On September 21, 2025, Penny's Poetry Blog received its millionth page view: a goal we had been hoping and working for since our founding more than 15 years ago. For years it seemed that we would never reach the magic 1,000,000. To put that figure into perspective: six years ago – nine years after our beginning – we still had less than 350,000 views in total. In contrast, we received almost that many views (318,000) in the last 12 months alone.
What changed? The short answer is that PPB poetry is increasingly showing up on google searches. But that did not happen by itself or overnight. It took years, and thousands of page views, to reach that point; years of finding, blogging, and promoting poems until we became big enough to be noticed. While we are grateful for the resulting flood of new readers, most of all we appreciate those readers who have supported us since the beginning. We hope that all of our readers, both old and new, stay with us as we pursue our next 1,000,000 views.
And in September, O what keen delight! Falcons and astors, merlins, sparrowhawks: Decoy-birds that shall lure your game in flocks;
And hounds with bells; and gauntlets stout and tight;
Wide pouches; crossbows shooting out of sight; Arblasts and javelins; balls and ball-cases; All birds the best to fly at; moulting these,
Those rear'd by hand; with finches mean and slight;
And for their chase, all birds the best to fly; And each to each of you be lavish still In gifts; and robbery find no gainsa}ang;
And if you meet with travellers going by. Their purses from your purse's flow shall fill; And avarice be the only outcast thing.
~~ Folgore da San Geminiano (?1270-1332?) translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) from The Early Italian Poets, 1861
The bubbled blue of morning-glory spires, Balloon-blown foam of moonflowers, and sweet snows Of clematis, through which September goes,
Song-hearted, rich in realized desires,
Are flanked by hotter hues: by tawny fires Of acrid marigolds,--that light long rows Of lamps,--and salvias, red as day's red close,--
That torches seem,--by which the Month attires
Barbaric beauty; like some Asian queen, Towering imperial in her two-fold crown Of harvest and of vintage; all her form
Majestic gold and purple: in her mien The might of motherhood; her baby brown, Abundance, high on one exultant arm.
~~
Madison Cawein (1865-1914) from Weeds by the Wall, 1901
,%20Edvard%20Munch.jpg)
_-_panoramio_(5).jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
%20(1).jpg)
