Sunday, October 6, 2013

When I Heard at the Close of the Day /
Walt Whitman


When I Heard at the Close of the Day

When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow’d;
And else, when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d, still I was not happy;
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,
When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way coming, O then I was happy;
O then each breath tasted sweeter — and all that day my food nourish’d me more — and the beautiful day pass’d well,
And the next came with equal joy — and with the next, at evening, came my friend;
And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me, whispering, to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,
In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast — and that night I was happy.

~~
Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
from Leaves of Grass, 1867

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Walt Whitman biography

"When I Heard at the Close of the Day" read by Gil Cole.

Saturday, October 5, 2013

Autumn Ballad / Henry Abbey


Autumn Ballad

How mild and fair the day, dear love! and in these garden ways
The lingering dahlias to the sun their hopeless faces raise.
The buckwheat and the barley, once so bonny and so blithe,
Fall before the rhythmic labor of the cradler's gleaming scythe.

Behold the grapes and all the fruits that Autumn gives today,
As robed in red and gold, she rules, the Empress of Decay!
Out to the orchard come with me, among the apple trees;
No dragon guards the laden boughs of our Hesperides.

This golden pear, my darling, that I hold up to your mouth,
Is a hanging-nest of sweetness; but the birds are winging south.
The purses of the chestnuts, by the chilly-fingered Frost,
Were opened in his frolic, and their triple hoards are lost.

Last night you heard the tempest, love – the wind-entangled pines,
The spraying waves, the sobbing sky that lowered in gloomy lines;
The storm was like a hopeless soul, that stood beside the sea,
And wept in dismal rain and moaned for what could never be.

But the morn is rich with sunshine, though the storm may bode the snow,
All the woods in northern distance with their gold and crimson glow,
And I've come to seek you, darling, 'mong the queenly dahlias here,
That you may be my dahlia, in this Autumn of my year.

~~
Henry Abbey (1842-1911)
from Ralph, and other poems, 1866

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Abbey biography

"Autumn Ballad" read for Audiobook Passion.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Penny's Top 20 - September 2013


Penny's Top 20
The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in September 2013:

  1.  Penny (or Penny's Hat), George J. Dance
  2.  Esthétique du Mal, Wallace Stevens
  3.  In June and Gentle Oven, Anne Wilkinson
  4.  Sensation, Arthur Rimbaud 
  5.  Bird Cage / Cage d'oiseau, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau
  6.  
Life is but a Dream, Lewis Carroll 
  7.  
Large Red Man Reading, Wallace Stevens
  8.  
Last Week in October, Thomas Hardy
  9.  A Greek Idyl, Mortimer Collins

10.  Christmas Eve, Edgar Guest


11. 
 The Dwarf, Wallace Stevens
12.  A City Sunset, T.E. Hulme
13.  Solitude, Archibald Lampman
14.  
Over the Hills and Far Away, Eugene Field
15.  September 1819, William Wordsworth
16.  
The Reader, Wallace Stevens
17.  The Pines and the Sea, Christopher Pearse Cranch

18.  The Whispering Poplars, Jane Elizabeth MacDonald

19.  When summer's end is nighing, A.E. Housman

20.  September, Helen Hunt Jackson



Source: Blogger, "Stats"

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Over the Hills and Far Away / Eugene Field


Over the Hills and Far Away

Over the hills and far away,
A little boy steals from his morning play,
And under the blossoming apple-tree
He lies and dreams of the things to be:
Of battles fought and of victories won,
Of wrongs o'erthrown and of great deeds done –
Of the valor that he shall prove some day,
Over the hills and far away –
Over the hills and far away!

Over the hills and far away
It's, oh, for the toil of the livelong day!
But it mattereth not to the soul aflame
With a love for riches and power and fame!
On, O man! while the sun is high –
On to the certain joys that lie
Yonder where blazeth the noon of day.
Over the hills and far away –
Over the hills and far away!

Over the hills and far away
An old man lingers at close of day;
Now that his journey is almost done,
His battles fought and his victories won –
The old-time honesty and truth,
The trustfulness and the friends of youth,
Home and mother  – where are they?
Over the hills and far away –
Over the hills and far away!

~~
Eugene Field (1850-1895)
from Field Flowers, 1896

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]


"Over the Hills and Far Away" read for insanely great audiobook.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

September [1892] / Helen Hunt Jackson


September

The golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook.

From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.

But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret
Which makes September fair.

'T is a thing which I remember;
To name it thrills me yet:
One day of one September
I never can forget.

~~
Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)
from Poems, 1896

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Helen Hunt Jackson biography

"September" read by Ian King for LibriVox. Courtesy Poems Cafe.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

When summer's end is nighing / A.E. Housman


XXXIX

When summer's end is nighing
And skies at evening cloud,
I muse on change and fortune
And all the feats I vowed
When I was young and proud.

The weathercock at sunset
Would lose the slanted ray,
And I would climb the beacon
That looked to Wales away
And saw the last of day.

From hill and cloud and heaven
The hues of evening died;
Night welled through lane and hollow
And hushed the countryside,
But I had youth and pride.

And I with earth and nightfall
In converse high would stand,
Late, till the west was ashen
And darkness hard at hand,
And the eye lost the land.

The year might age, and cloudy
The lessening day might close,
But air of other summers
Breathed from beyond the snows,
And I had hope of those.

They came and were and are not
And come no more anew;
And all the years and seasons
That ever can ensue
Must now be worse and few.

So here's an end of roaming
On eves when autumn nighs:
The ear too fondly listens
For summer's parting sighs,
And then the heart replies.

~~
A.E. Housman (1859-1936)
from Last Poems, 1922

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


"When summer's end is nighing" read by Richard Mitchley. Courtesy Richard Mitchley - Topic.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

The End of Summer [1902]/ Madison Cawein


The End of Summer

Pods are the poppies, and slim spires of pods
    The hollyhocks; the balsam's pearly bredes
    Of rose-stained snow are little sacs of seeds
Collapsing at a touch; the lote, that sods
The pond with green, has changed its flowers to rods
    And discs of vesicles; and all the weeds,
    Around the sleepy water and its reeds.
Are one white smoke of seeded silk that nods.
Summer is dead, ay me! sweet Summer's dead!
    The sunset clouds have built her funeral pyre,
    Through which, e'en now, runs subterranean fire:
While from the East, as from a garden bed,
    Mist-vined, the Dusk lifts her broad moon – like some
    Great golden melon – saying, "Fall has come."

~~
Madison Cawein (1865-1914)
from A Voice on the Wind, and other poems, 1902

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


"The End of Summer" read for Librivox. Courtesy LibriVox Audiobooks.