Morning of My Life / Will Dockery

Morning of My Life

Walking down my street
she shakes her head
in the summer heat.
We met back at
Richards Junior High,
talking to the Grass-man
all about the Taxman.
I never wanted to
have to say goodbye.
        She walked right in
        into the morning of my life.

All around the curfew
barefoot in the wet dew,
we chased a dream
we could never realize.
Talking about Black Betty,
I felt like J. Paul Getty;
I never knew a kiss
could get me this high.
        She walked right past
        through the morning of my life.

When she sang that song to me,
her secret longing to be free,
on the corner
in soft summer rain.
Bought America in a jar,
filled with samples from afar.
I felt her vibe shake me
like a steam train.
        She walked right through
        deep in the morning of my life.

She shook me,
she really woke me up,
perfect sky
and her big blue eyes.
She smiled my blues away.
Pretty baby, I wish
you could have stayed.

Then she kind of moved away;
life called
and we could not stay.
Sweet little lady
I think you've seen that movie too.
Saying goodbye to a friend
you never think it is the end.
I never thought
you were gone to stay.
        She walked right out
        out of the morning of my life.

~~
Will Dockery, 2016
from Selected Poems, 1976-2019, 2019 

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

Will Dockery biography

"In the Morning of My Life" (c) 2025 by Will Dockery and Brian Mallard. All rights reserved.

On Mulberry Drive / Will Dockery

On Mulberry Drive 

On Mulberry Drive
walking in the Spring rain.
Except for signs of a driveway
nothing else remains.
They took it all away
the house and the hill.
That spot we shared in '78
all the love and thrills.

Oblivion is coming
it's written in the stone.
It really starts out
on the day that you're born.
Live every second
dance what you've captured.
Shadowville Mythos...
is on the last chapter.

On Mulberry Drive
on another mystery play.
Almost fifty years ago
still seems like yesterday.
That long driveway
now goes into space.
We thought we'd live forever
not dead and disgraced.

Darkness is falling
archived in a book.
It really gets smaller
the closer you look.
Breathe deeply my darling
smoke them if you have to.
Shadowville Mythos...
is on the last chapter.

On Mulberry Drive
now the hail's coming down.
Taps on the umbrella
as I'm walking around.
I remember that fireplace
I remember her smile.
I remember Edgewood Park
where we'd laugh for a while.

In the living room
I heard a ghost moan,
As I talked with the Cavalier
on a land line telephone.
Relive every second
these memories you've captured.
Shadowville Mythos...
is on the last chapter.

~~
Will Dockery, 2023
from Shadowville Mythos, March 2023

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

Will Dockery biography

"On Mulberry Drive" performed by Will Dockery & Brian Mallard, 2025.

Lines to My Father / Countee Cullen

Lines to My Father

The many sow, but only the chosen reap;
Happy the wretched host if Day be brief,
That with the cool oblivion of sleep
A dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief.

If from the soil our sweat enriches sprout
One meagre blossom for our hands to cull,
Accustomed indigence provokes a shout
Of praise that life becomes so bountiful.

Now ushered regally into your own,
Look where you will, as far as eye can see,
Your little seeds are to a fullness grown,
And golden fruit is ripe on every tree.

Yours is no fairy gift, no heritage
Without travail, to which weak wills aspire;
This is a merited and grief-earned wage
From One Who holds His servants worth their hire.

So has the shyest of your dreams come true,
Built not of sand, but of the solid rock,
Impregnable to all that may accrue
Of elemental rage: storm, stress, and shock.

~~
Countee Cullen (1903-1946)
from Copper Sun, 1927

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

Countee Cullen biography

"Lines to My Father" performed by the American Poetry to Music AI Experiment Band.

Lament of the Irish Emigrant / Helen Selina Dufferin

 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant

I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary,
    Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May mornin’ long ago,
    When first you were my bride:
The corn was springin’ fresh and green,
    And the lark sang loud and high —
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
    And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
    The day is bright as then,
The lark’s loud song is in my ear,
    And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
    And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list’nin’ for the words
    You never more may speak.

’Tis but a step down yonder lane,
    And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
    I see the spire from here;
But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
    And my step might break your rest —
For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep
    With your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary,
    For the poor make no new friends,
    But, oh! they love the better still,
    The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
    My blessin’ and my pride;
There’s nothin’ left to care for now,
    Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
    That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
    And my arms’ young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
    And the kind look on your brow —
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
    Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
    When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin’ there,
    And you hid it, for my sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word,
    When your heart was sad and sore —
Oh! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary,
    Where grief can’t reach you more!

I’m biddin’ you a long farewell,
    My Mary — kind and true!
But I’ll not forget you, darling!
    In the land I’m goin’ to;—
They say there’s bread and work for all,
    And the sun shines always there,—
But I’ll not forget old Ireland,
    Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
    I’ll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
    To the place where Mary lies,—
And I’ll think I see the little stile
    Where we sat side by side,
And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn,
    When first you were my bride!

~~
Helen Selina Dufferin (1807-1867)
from The Keepsake, 1840

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Helen Selina Dufferin biography

"Lament of the Irish Emigrant" sung by Tom Blackwood.

Auld Lang Syne / Robert Burns

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And auld lang syne!

Chorus:   For auld lang syne, my dear,
                For auld lang syne,
                We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
                For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!
    And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
    For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
    And pu’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit
    Sin’ auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl’t i' the burn,
    From morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
    Sin’ auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fere,
    And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught
    For auld lang syne.

~~
Robert Burns (1759-1796), 1788

from Selections from the Poems, 1898

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Robert Burns biography

"Auld Lang Syne" sung by Dougie MacLean. Courtesy  butterstonestudios.

The Second Coming / W.B. Yeats

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

~~

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

from Michael Robartes and the Dancer, 1914

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

William Butler Yeats biography

"Slouching towards Bethlehem" sung by Joni Mitchell. Courtesy Joni Mitchell.

The Hunter / William Carlos Williams

The Hunter

In the flashes and black shadows
of July
the days, locked in each other’s arms,
seem still
so that squirrels and colored birds
go about at ease over
the branches and through the air.

Where will a shoulder split or
a forehead open and victory be?

Nowhere.
Both sides grow older.

And you may be sure
not one leaf will lift itself
from the ground
and become fast to a twig again.

~~
William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
from Sour Grapes, 1921

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

William Carlos Williams biography

"The Hunter" sung for GFTM Studios.

March / Nora Chesson

March

Blossom on the plum,
Wild wind and merry;
Leaves upon the cherry,
And one swallow come.

Red windy dawn,
Swift rain and sunny;
Wild bees seeking honey,
Crocus on the lawn;
Blossom on the plum.

Grass begins to grow,
Dandelions come;
Snowdrops haste to go
After last month's snow;
Rough winds beat and blow,
Blossom on the plum.

~~
Nora Chesson (1871-1906)
from The Open Road: A little book for wayfarers, 1899

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Nora Chesson biography

"Blossom on the Plum" set to music by Max Exner, sung by Dany Rosevear

My Father / Ann Taylor

Sanket Mehta, Father and Son, 2014. CC BY 3.0, Wikimedia Commons.

My Father

Who took me from my mother's arms,
And, smiling at her soft alarms,
Show'd me the world and nature's charms?
                                        My Father.

Who made me feel and understand
The wonders of the sea and land,
And mark, through all, the Maker's hand?
                                         My Father.

Who climb'd with me, the mountain's height,
And watch'd my look of dread delight,
While rose the glorious orb of light?
                                        My Father

Who, from each flower and verdant stalk,
Gather'd a honey'd store of talk,
To fill the long, delightful walk?
                                        My Father.

Not on an insect would he tread;
Nor strike the stinging nettle dead;
Who taught at once my heart and head?
                                        My Father

Who wrote upon that heart the line
Religion grav'd on Virtue's shrine,
To make the human race divine?
                                        My Father.

Who taught my early mind to know
The God from whom all blessings flow,
Creator of all things below?
                                        My Father.

Who, now, in pale and placid light
Of mem'ry gleams upon my sight,
Bursting the sepulchre of night?
                                        My Father.

Oh! teach me still the Christian plan;
Thy practice with thy precept ran:
Nor yet desert me now a man,
                                        My Father.

Still let thy scholar's heart rejoice,
With charms of thy angelic voice,
Still prompt the motive and the choice,
                                        My Father.

For yet remains a little space,
Till I shall meet thee face to face,
And not, as now, in vain embrace
                                        My Father.

Soon, and before the mercy seat,
Spirits made perfect – we shall meet;
Thee with what transport shall I greet,
                                        My Father!

 

~~

Ann Taylor (1782-1866)
from Original Poems for Infant Minds, 1834

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Ann Taylor biography

"My Father" performed for Dead Poets Revival.

Afternoon on a Hill / Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

Afternoon on a Hill

I will be the gladdest thing
    Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
    And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
    With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
    And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
    Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
    And then start down!

~~
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
from Renascence, and other poems, 1912

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

Edna St. Vincent Millay biography 

"Afternoon on a Hill" (music by Cynthia Gray). Courtesy The Lorenz Corporation.

June Dreams, in January / Sidney Lanier (1)

June Dreams, In January

"So pulse, and pulse, thou rhythmic-hearted Noon
That liest, large-limbed, curved along the hills,
In languid palpitation, half a-swoon
With ardors and sun-loves and subtle thrills;

"Throb, Beautiful! while the fervent hours exhale
As kisses faint-blown from thy finger-tips
Up to the sun, that turn him passion-pale
And then as red as any virgin's lips.

"O tender Darkness, when June-day hath ceased,
– Faint Odor from the day-flower's crushing born,
– Dim, visible Sigh out of the mournful East
That cannot see her lord again till morn:

"And many leaves, broad-palmed towards the sky
To catch the sacred raining of star-light:
And pallid petals, fain, all fain to die,
Soul-stung by too keen passion of the night:

"And short-breath'd winds, under yon gracious moon
Doing mild errands for mild violets,
Or carrying sighs from the red lips of June
What aimless way the odor-current sets:

"And stars, ringed glittering in whorls and bells,
Or bent along the sky in looped star-sprays,
Or vine-wound, with bright grapes in panicles,
Or bramble-tangled in a sweetest maze,

"Or lying like young lilies in a lake
About the great white Lotus of the moon,
Or blown and drifted, as if winds should shake
Star blossoms down from silver stems too soon,

"Or budding thick about full open stars,
Or clambering shyly up cloud-lattices,
Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars,
Or trim-set in quaint gardener's fantasies:

"And long June night-sounds crooned among the leaves,
And whispered confidence of dark and green,
And murmurs in old moss about old eaves,
And tinklings floating over water-sheen!"

[continued in part 2 . . . ]

"June Dreams in January" performed for AI Music Experiment Band.

Read complete poem

Over hill, over dale / William Shakespeare

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dewdrops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:
Our queen and all our elves come here anon.

~~
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
from A Midsummer Night's Dream, 1600

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Shakespeare biography

"Over hill, over dale" sung by Moon Cast. Courtesy Broadway Records Archive.

Winter in the Country / Claude McKay

Winter in the Country

Sweet life! how lovely to be here
     And feel the soft sea-laden breeze
Strike my flushed face, the spruce's fair
     Free limbs to see, the lesser trees'

Bare hands to touch, the sparrow's cheep
     To heed, and watch his nimble flight
Above the short brown grass asleep.
     Love glorious in his friendly might,

Music that every heart could bless,
     And thoughts of life serene, divine,
Beyond my power to express,
     Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!

But oh! to leave this paradise
     For the city's dirty basement room,
Where, beauty hidden from the eyes,
     A table, bed, bureau and broom

In corner set, two crippled chairs
     All covered up with dust and grim
With hideousness and scars of years,
     And gaslight burning weird and dim,

Will welcome me . . . And yet, and yet
     This very wind , the winter birds,
The glory of the soft sunset,
     Come there to me in words.

~~
Claude McKay (1889-1948)
from Harlem Shadows, 1922

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

Claude McKay biography

"Winter in the Country" read by Harp Griffin.

The Holly and the Ivy

The Holly and the Ivy

The holly and the ivy
     Now are both well grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood
     The holly bears the crown.

The rising of the sun,
     The running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
     The singing in the choir.

The holly bears a blossom
     As white as the lily flower,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
     To be our sweet Saviour.

The rising of the sun . . .

The holly bears a berry
      As red as any blood,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
     To do poor sinners good.

The rising of the sun . . .

The holly bears a prickle
     As sharp as any thorn,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
     On Christmas day in the morn.

The rising of the sun . . .

The holly bears a bark
     As bitter as any gall,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
     For to reedem us all.

The rising of the sun . . .

The holly and the ivy
     Now are both well grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood
     The holly bears the crown.

The rising of the sun,
     The running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
     The singing in the choir.

~~
Anonymous, 18th century
from A Garland of Christmas Carols, 1861

[Poem is in the public domain]

"The Holly and the Ivy" sung by Annie Lennox. Courtesy scamparoo.

Christmas Bells / Edward Capern

Christmas Bells

Ring out ye merry bells, welcome bright icicles,
Welcome old holly-crowned Christmas again,
Blythe as a child at play, keeping his holiday.
Welcome him in from the snow peak and plain.
Up with the holly bough, green from the winter’s brow;
Lock up your ledgers and cares for a day,
Out to the forest go, gather the mistletoe,
Old and young, rich and poor, up and away.

Up with the holly bough, ay and the laurel now,
In with the yule log and brighten the hearth.
Quick, he is here again, come with his joyous train:
Laughter and music and friendship and mirth.
Up with your holly boughs, high in each manor house,
Garnish the antlers that hang in the hall;
Yes, and the neck of corn with a gay wreath adorn,
Rich as the bloom on the cottager’s wall.

Wealth has its duties now, Christians you will allow;
Think then ye rich whilst your tables are spread?
Think of those wretched ones, poverty’s stricken sons,
Weeping whilst children are asking for bread.
Ring out ye merry bells, ring till your music swells,
Out o’er the mountain, and far on the main.
Ring till those cheerless ones catch up your merry tones,
Singing come Christmas again and again.

~~
Edward Capern (1819-1894)

from The Devonshire Melodist, 1861

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edward Capern biography

"Christmas Bells" performed by Nick Wyke and Becki Driscoll. Courtesy Halsway Manor.

Green / Paul Verlaine

Green

Here are the fruits, the flowers, the leaves, the wands,
Here my heart that beats only for your sighs.
Shatter them not with your snow-white hands,
Let my poor gifts be pleasing to your eyes.

I come to you, still covered with dew, you see,
Dew that the dawn wind froze here on my face.
Let my weariness lie down at your feet,
And dream of the dear moments that shed grace.

Let my head loll here on your young breast
Still ringing with your last kisses blessed,
Allow this departure of the great tempest,
And let me sleep now, a little, while you rest.

~~
Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
translated by A.S. Kline
from Paul Verlaine: Selected poems in translation

[This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.]


Green

Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches
Et puis voici mon cœur qui ne bat que pour vous.
Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains blanches
Et qu’à vos yeux si beaux l’humble présent soit doux.

J’arrive tout couvert encore de rosée
Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon front.
Souffrez que ma fatigue à vos pieds reposée
Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront.

Sur votre jeune sein laissez rouler ma tête
Toute sonore encore de vos derniers baisers;
Laissez-la s’apaiser de la bonne tempête,
Et que je dorme un peu puisque vous reposez.

~~
Paul Verlaine (1844-1896), 1872
from Romances sans paroles, 1874

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Paul Verlaine biography

"Green" chanson courtesy La musique francaise.

September / Carlos Wilcox

September

The sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year.
All mildness, soothing loneliness, and peace;
The fading season ere the falling come,
More sober than the buxom, blooming May,
And therefore less the favourite of the world,
But dearest month of all to pensive minds,
Is now far spent; and the meridian sun,
Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams,
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth.
Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods,
Checker'd by one night's frost with various hues,
While yet no wind has swept a leaf away,
Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight
Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged
Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues,
The yellow, red or purple of the trees
That singly, or in tufts, or forests thick
Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side
Of some high mount reflected far below,
With its bright colours, intermix'd with spots
Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad
To wander in the open fields, and hear,
E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past,
The lulling insects of the summer's night;
To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard,
A lonely bee long roving here and there
To find a single flower, but all in vain;
Then rising quick, and with a louder hum,
In widening circles round and round his head,
Straight by the listener flying clear away,
As if to bid the fields a last adieu;
To hear, within the woodland's sunny side
Late full of music, nothing save, perhaps,
The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropp'd
From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves.

~~
Carlos Wilcox (1794-1827)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Carlos Wilcox biography

"September" sung by the American Poetry to Music AI Experiment Band.

The Tree of My Life / Edward Rowland Sill

The Tree of My Life

When I was yet but a child, the gardener gave me a tree,
A little slim elm, to be set wherever seemed good to me.
What a wonderful thing it seemed! with its lace-edged leaves uncurled,
And its span-long stem, that should grow to the grandest tree in the world!
So I searched all the garden round, and out over field and hill,
But not a spot could I find that suited my wayward will.
I would have it bowered in the grove, in a close and quiet vale;
I would rear it aloft on the height, to wrestle with the gale.

Then I said, "I will cover its roots with a little earth by the door,
And there it shall live and wait, while I search for a place once more."
But still I could never find it, the place for my wondrous tree,
And it waited and grew by the door, while years passed over me;
Till suddenly, one fine day, I saw it was grown too tall,
And its roots gone down too deep, to be ever moved at all.

So here it is growing still, by the lowly cottage door;
Never so grand and tall as I dreamed it would be of yore,
But it shelters a tired old man in its sunshine-dappled shade,
The children's pattering feet round its knotty knees have played,
Dear singing birds in a storm sometimes take refuge there,
And the stars through its silent boughs shine gloriously fair.

~~
Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)
from Poetical Works, 1887

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edward Rowland Sill biography

"The Tree of My Life" performed by the American Poetry to Music AI Experiment Band.

The Brook in February / Charles G.D. Roberts

The Brook in February

A snowy path for squirrel and fox,
    It winds between the wintry firs.
Snow-muffled are its iron rocks,
    And o’er its stillness nothing stirs.

But low, bend low a listening ear!
    Beneath the mask of moveless white
A babbling whisper you shall hear
    Of birds and blossoms, leaves and light.

~~
Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)
from The Book of the Native, 1896

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

Charles G.D. Roberts biography

"The Brook in February" sung by Elizabeth McDonald. Courtesy Martha Hill Duncan.

Lana Turner has collapsed! / Frank O'Hara

Poem

Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up

~~
Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)
from Lunch Poems, 1964

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Frank O'Hara biography

Poem read by Frank O'Hara. Music: "Love Buzz" by Nirvana. Courtesy Poetry Meets Music.