What Would I Give ( Christina Georgina Rossetti )

What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,
Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do!
Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.

What would I give for words, if only words would come!
But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb.
O merry friends, go your own way, I have never a word to say.

What would I give for tears! Not smiles but scalding tears,
To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,
To wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again.

23:07 Gepost door Birdie | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |

When I am dead, my dearest ( Christina Georgina Rossetti )

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

23:04 Gepost door Birdie | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |


The Solitary Reaper ( William Wordsworth )

This is one of the poems that my father used to read to me. I would close my eyes and listen to his voice rise and fall. And when he would say the lines, " Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!", my heart and mind would stop for a second and then again move along with the poem. Its one of my favourite.

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Painting: Harvest Gold by Lynn Gertenbach

21:02 Gepost door Birdie | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |


Skylark Haikus

All the long day-
Yet not long enough for the skylark,
Singing, singing
above the white clouds;
In the midst of the plain
sings the skylark,
Free of all things
The skylark rises,
The skylark falls,-
How green the barley!
I lost sight
of the skylark
My old village lies
far beyond what we can see,
but there the lark is singing
Painitng: Lark by Pál Szinyei Merse

22:40 Gepost door Birdie | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |

An Ode To Bread ( Joseph Bau )

This is the second poem by Bau on my site. The other one is called "The Great Hunger". And there you'll find a petit introduction to Bau's life.
Flour hardened to a loaf of concrete
as payment for one day's torture.
Behold the loaf!
Eight empty bellies, staring through the eyes,
carve up the prize
into eight equal portions
with no crumb wasted.
Behold the idol!
To him we address
our most ardent thoughts,
from behind these triple layers
of walls, mighty barriers
of electrified barbed wire.
And I, one of the eight to share this loaf,
grateful owner of a slice with the memory
of abundance and fullness (may they rest in peace),
I beat my breast and beg you,
Forgive my past insults, uttered so thoughtlessly
in times of plenty.
Forget my unjust words to loaves before the flood,
when I called them "heavier than lead,
dry as wood, tasteless, hard to digest."
False charges all!
Forgive me, kind bread,
my heresies against the sacred loaves
I squeeze on grocery shelves, saying,
"Dough's half raw, not fresh enough, unappetizing,"
words fallen from an ignorant tongue.
To all the loaves of wheat bread, rye bread, dark bread,
enriched with a layer of butter or jam,
which were demeaned, rejected, forgotten,
till the the insults made them dry up
or hide beneath a skin of mold
to be tossed into a garbage dump,
I say:
Kind bread, forgive me and the other hungry millions,
whose empty stomachs shamefully confess their sins.

22:09 Gepost door Birdie | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |


Blue Roses ( Rudyard Kipling )

Roses red and roses white
Plucked I for my love's delight.
She would none of all my posies--
Bade me gather her blue roses.

Half the world I wandered through,
Seeking where such flowers grew.
Half the world unto my quest
Answered me with laugh and jest.

Home I came at wintertide,
But my silly love had died
Seeking with her latest breath
Roses from the arms of Death.

It may be beyond the grave
She shall find what she would have.
Mine was but an idle quest--
Roses white and red are best!

16:41 Gepost door Birdie | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |


A Boy's Song ( James Hogg )

Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from their play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.


Painting: Boys in a Pasture by Barney Burstein

06:05 Gepost door Birdie | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |

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