Grandmamma's Kitchen

In grandmamma's kitchen, things got in a riot-
The cream in a pot on the shelf,
Where everything always seemed peaceful and quiet,
Got whipped, for I heard it myself.
And grandmamma said-such a queer thing to say,
That it made some things better to whip them that way.


Some bold naughty eggs that refused to be eaten,
On toast with their brothers may be,
Were stripped of their clothing and cruelly beaten
Right where all the dishes could see.
And grandmamma said though the poor things might ache,
The harder the beating, the lighter the cake.


The bright golden butter was petted and patted
And coaxed to be shapely and good.
But it finally had to be taken and spatted
Right hard with a paddle of wood.
When grandmamma carried the round balls away,
The buttermilk sulked, and looked sour all day.


The water declared that the coffee was muddy,
But an egg settled that little fuss.
Then the steak and the gridiron got in a bloody
And terrible broil! Such a muss!
And a flat-iron spat at grandma in the face,
And I ran away from the quarrelsome place.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Snowflakes

Out of the bosom of the Air,

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare,

Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

Silent, and soft, and slow

Descends the snow.



even as our cloudy fancies take

Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

In the white countenance confession,

The troubled sky reveals

The grief it feels.



This is the poem of the air,

Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

this is the secret of despair,

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

now whispered and revealed

to wood and field.



by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Ode Written On The First Of December

by Robert Southey

Written on the FIRST of DECEMBER, 1793.

Tho' now no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze
That lingers o'er the green wood shade,
I love thee Winter! well.

Sweet are the harmonies of Spring,
Sweet is the summer's evening gale,
Pleasant the autumnal winds that shake
The many-colour'd grove.

And pleasant to the sober'd soul
The silence of the wintry scene,
When Nature shrouds her in her trance

Not undelightful now to roam
The wild heath sparkling on the sight;
Not undelightful now to pace
The forest's ample rounds;

And see the spangled branches shine,
And mark the moss of many a hue
That varies the old tree's brown bark,
Or o'er the grey stone spreads.

The cluster'd berries claim the eye
O'er the bright hollies gay green leaves,
The ivy round the leafless oak
Clasps its full foliage close.

So VIRTUE diffident of strength
Clings to RELIGION'S firmer aid,
And by RELIGION'S aid upheld
Endures calamity.

Nor void of beauties now the spring,
Whose waters hid from summer sun
Have sooth'd the thirsty pilgrim's ear
With more than melody.

The green moss shines with icey glare,
The long grass bends its spear-like form,
And lovely is the silvery scene
When faint the sunbeams smile.

Reflection too may love the hour
When Nature, hid in Winter's grave,
No more expands the bursting bud
Or bids the flowret bloom.

For Nature soon in Spring's best charms
Shall rise reviv'd from Winter's grave.
Again expand the bursting bud,
And bid the flowret bloom.





Robert Southey (12 August 1774 – 21 March 1843) was an English poet of the Romantic school, one of the so-called "Lake Poets", and Poet Laureate for 30 years from 1813 to his death in 1843. Although his fame has been long eclipsed by that of his contemporaries and friends William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Southey's verse still enjoys some popularity.

*paintings by GEORGE MORLAND (1763-1804)

The Heat of Autumn

By Jane Hirshfield

The heat of autumn is different from the heat of summer.
One ripens apples, the other turns them to cider.
One is a dock you walk out on,
the other the spine of a thin swimming horse
and the river each day a full measure colder.
A man with cancer leaves his wife for his lover.
Before he goes she straightens his belts in the closet,
rearranges the socks and sweaters inside the dresser
by color. That’s autumn heat:
her hand placing silver buckles with silver,
gold buckles with gold, setting each
on the hook it belongs on in a closet soon to be empty,
and calling it pleasure.


http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/jane-hirshfield

The Knitter

I knit to keep death away

For hame will dae me.

On a day like this the fine mist

Is a dropped stitch across the sky.



I knit to hold a good yarn

For stories bide with me

On a night like this, by the peat fire;

I like a story with a herringbone twist.



But a yarn aye slips through your fingers.

And my small heart has shrunk with years.

I couldn’t measure the gravits, the gloves, the mittens,

The jerseys, the cuffs, the hose, the caps,



The cowls, the cravats, the cardigans,

The hems and facings over the years.

Beyond the sea wall, the waves unfurl.

I knitted through the wee stitched hours.



I knitted till my eyes filled with tears,

Till the dark sky filled with colour.

Every spare moment. Time was a ball of wool.

I knitted to keep my croft; knitted to save my life.



When my man was out at sea; I knitted the fishbone.

Three to the door, three to the fire.

The more I could knit; the more we could eat.

I knitted to mend my broken heart



When the sea took my man away, and by day

I knitted to keep the memories at bay.

I knitted my borders by the light of the fire

When the full moon in the sky was a fresh ball of yarn.



I knitted to begin again: Lay on, sweerie geng.

Takkin my makkin everywhere I gang.

Een and een. Twin pins. My good head.

A whole life of casting on, casting off



Like the North sea. I watch wave after wave,

plain and purl, casting on, casting off.

I watch the ferries coming back, going away.

Time is a loop stitch. I knit to keep death away.

By Jackie Kay

The Lamplighter

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;
It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by;
For every night at teatime and before you take your seat,
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street.
Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,
And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be;
But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do,
O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you!
For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;
And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight!





by Robert Louis Stevenson. This poem is about the days when "Leerie" the lamplighter went round to lignite the gas lamps in the streets of Edinburgh. Stevenson was a sickly child (hence the reference to "when I am stronger) and looking out of the window to see the lamplighter would be a frequent occurrence for the lonely child.





This is a sweet little song about the lamp lighter. It is not Scottish but it fits.






.

Glendevon

©
John Bearcat-Redmond
Fife, Scotland
1960's

Ther's a wee place in Perthshire, it's nae far frae thi Forth
Glendevon Castle is its name ain its nae thit far north.
It stauns oon a hull, nae veri hi, ais ye'll see,
Bit a beautifil place ye hae evir clapped ain eee.

Oh thi castle, thi Castle, in this a glorius Glen
Its donor wis a Douglas, a man amongst men.
Be ye rich, be ye pair or humble, ye wull ken,
Thir's room fer ye aw in thi glorius Glen

Ave bin doon tae Edinbury, ain Glesca ais weel,
Ain ave bin doon in England ait thi big birlin wheel.
Bit gie mi thi land o'Red Douglas ain his men,
Ain thi strength in ma legs fer a waulk up thi Glen.

Oh thi castle, thi Castle, in this a glorius Glen
Its donor wis a Douglas a man amongst men.
Be ye rich, be ye pair or humble, ye wull ken,
Thir's room fer ye aw in thi glorius Glen.

Whin ye gan up Glendevon, which a hope ye intend,
Hae a look ait thi church ais ye waulk rooned thi bend,
Thin gaze yer een roond ye and see fer yersel,
Thit that jaunt up Glendevon his paid ye richt weel.

Oh thi castle, thi castle, in this a glorius Glen
Its donor wis a Douglas a man amongst men.
Be ye rich, be ye pair or humble, ye wull ken,
Thir's room fer ye aw in thi glorius Glen.

So whaur er ye mite be in yer journey throo life,
Wi its ups ain its doons, ain struggles ain strife,
Jist stop fer yin minute, ain yer thochts ye kin sen,
Tae thit beautifil dae thit ye spent in thi Glen.

Oh thi castle, thi castle, in this a glorius Glen
Its donor wis a Douglas a man amongst men.
Be ye rich, be ye pair or humble, ye wull ken,
Ther's room fer ye aw in thi glorious Glen.

GYPSY

I asked a gypsy pal
To imitate an old image
And speak old wisdom.
She drew in her chin,
Made her neck and head
The top piece of a Nile obelisk
and said:
Snatch off the gag from thy mouth, child,
And be free to keep silence.
Tell no man anything for no man listens,
Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.

Carl Sandburg

An August Midnight

By Thomas Hardy

A shaded lamp and a waving blind,
And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:
On this scene enter--winged, horned, and spined -
A longlegs, a moth, and a *dumbledore;
While 'mid my page there idly stands
A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands . . .




Thus meet we five, in this still place,
At this point of time, at this point in space.
- My guests parade my new-penned ink,
Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink.
"God's humblest, they!" I muse. Yet why?
They know Earth-secrets that know not I.





*'Dumbledore' is an unusual name for what is more commonly called a bumblebee or humblebee.




Thomas Hardy, OM (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928) was an English novelist and poet. While his works typically belong to the Naturalism movement, several poems display elements of the previous Romantic and Enlightenment periods of literature, such as his fascination with the supernatural.

The Herding

by Cale Young Rice

Quietly, quietly in from the fields
Of the grey Atlantic the billows come,
Like sheep to the fold.
Shorn by the rocks of fleecy foam,
They sink on the brown seaweed at home;
And a bell, like that of a bellwether,
Is scarcely heard from the buoy--
Save when they suddenly stumble together,
In herded hurrying joy,
Upon its guidance: then soft music
From it is tolled.

Far out in the murk that follows them in
Is heard the call of the fog-horn's voice,
Like a shepherd's--low.
And the strays as if waiting it seem to pause
And lift their heads and listen--because
It is sweet from wandering ways to be driven,
When we have fearless breasts,
When all that we strayed for has been given,
When no want molests
Us more--no need of the tide's ebbing
And tide's flow.



Cale Young Rice (December 11, 1872 – January 24, 1943) was an American poet and dramatist. He was born in Dixon, Kentucky to Laban Marchbanks Rice, a Confederate veteran and tobacco merchant, and his wife Martha Lacy. He was a younger brother of Laban Lacy Rice, a noted educator. Cale Rice grew up in Evansville, Indiana and Louisville, Kentucky. He was educated at Cumberland University and at Harvard (A.B., 1895; A.M., 1896).

THE SHEPHERD’S TREE

Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred,
Like to a warrior’s destiny, I love
To stretch me often on thy shadowed sward,
And hear the laugh of summer leaves above;
Or on thy buttressed roots to sit, and lean
In careless attitude, and there reflect
On times and deeds and darings that have been -
Old castaways, now swallowed in neglect,
While thou art towering in thy strength of heart,
Stirring the soul to vain imaginings
In which life’s sordid being hath no part.
The wind of that eternal ditty sings
Humming of future things, that burn the mind
To leave some fragment of itself behind.




John Clare, the nineteenth-century Northamptonshire poet, mirrored Robert Burns in his deep love of nature.

Ash Trees

I love ash trees and have a few here on my wee farm. There is a massive one that stands by my driveway and I call it the mama as I think it has produced most of the other ash trees growing on our property. The four young ash trees below I call the four sisters and they stand at the upper side of our horse paddock. I have several ash walking sticks I have made and often use when hiking.

The Ash tree has always been given mystical import and character, frequently being associated with healing and enchantment. In Celtic literature, there are many references to the Ash tree, but in particular as associated with the Welsh Magician-God Gwyddion, who bears an Ash staff/wand, a symbol of healing and especially transformation and empowerment in matters of destiny. As such in the Mabinogion the magic of Gwydion is concerned with tricking Arianhrod to give the young Llew his arms which she had previous sworn never to do, having placed a Geis ( or conditional curse or fate ) upon him. Gwydion used his powers of enchantment and transformation, to create a Phantom army fleet of ships which then tricks Arianhrod into giving Llew his arms, and thus removing the Geis upon his destiny. Llew is later said in the myth to rest as an Eagle in an Ash Tree.

Ash was often used for spear shafts or handles for weapons and hence also Ash can be also seen to be Checking the powers of peace as above in the Word Ogams of Morann Mac Main. In this sense, application of force to destiny may bring peace through resolution of a conflict - which would be seen as healing. The English name Ash may have been derived from the Anglo-Saxon word Asec which is the name for a ritualistic spear. The name Nuin or Nin, literally means letters in the Celtic languages.

Ash trees are trees of the family Oleaceae (Olive-tree like). They are medium-height to large trees. Some of them are evergreen, but most are deciduous. The seeds are commonly known as keys in English. They are a type of fruit known as samara. Ash wood is used to make various tools, handles, bows. It also makes very good firewood. Ash trees are also perfect material for old fashion shafts for bow and arrows.

In Norse Mythology, the World tree Yggdrasil is commonly thought to be an ash tree. The first man, Askr, was formed from an ash. The first woman was made from an alder.





The Ash Grove


The ash grove, how graceful, how plainly to speaking
The harp through it playing has language for me;
Whenever the light through its branches is breaking,
A host of kind faces is gazing on me,
The friends of my childhood again are before me.
Each step wakes a memory as freely I roam.
With soft whispers laden its leaves rustle o'er me,
The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.

My lips smile no more; my heart loses its lightness,
No dream of the future my spirit can cheer.
I only can brood on the past and its brightness.
The dead I have mourned are again living here.
From every dark nook they press forward to meet me;
I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome,
And others are there, looking downward to greet me.
The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.





The Ash Grove (Welsh: Llwyn Onn) is a traditional Welsh folk song whose melody has been set to numerous sets of lyrics.

A Summer Wish

Live all thy sweet life through,
Sweet Rose, dew-sprent,
Drop down thine evening dew
To gather it anew
When day is bright:
I fancy thou wast meant
Chiefly to give delight.


Sing in the silent sky,
Glad soaring bird;
Sing out thy notes on high
To sunbeam straying by
Or passing cloud;
Heedless if thou art heard
Sing thy full song aloud.


Oh that it were with me
As with the flower;
Blooming on its own tree
For butterfly and bee
Its summer morns:
That I might bloom mine hour
A rose in spite of thorns.


Oh that my work were done
As birds' that soar
Rejoicing in the sun:
That when my time is run
And daylight too,
I so might rest once more
Cool with refreshing dew.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti

The World is Too Much With Us: Late and Soon

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON


The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

–William Wordsworth 1806

Old Homestead

Old homestead! old homestead! what feelings arise!
As now the old homestead greets kindly our eyes;
Old homestead, where oft we were merry or sad;
Each day as it fled, still some witchery had.

The homestead! how dear is its old, friendly look,
Its dun rolling hills, and its slow running brook;
Its time-worn, old gables, and cornice so plain,
Its roof that grew mossy from shadow and rain.

Old homestead! some dwelt with us, loved with us here;
Some smiled at our smile, and they wept at our tear:
Of those some have gone to a far distant land;
And some--where yon cedars like pale mourners stand.

Oh! memories most thrilling, most holy, most dear,
Still cluster around thee, old homestead, fore'er;
Thou hast a deep magic that never can die,
'Till 'neath the green valley, we endlessly lie.


by James Avis Bartley

It's Flag Day in the USA

Duty to Our Flag

by Edgar A. Guest

Less hate and greed
Is what we need
And more of service true;
More men to love
The flag above
And keep it first in view.

Less boast and brag
About the flag,
More faith in what it means;
More heads erect,
More self-respect,
Less talk of war machines.

The time to fight
To keep it bright
Is not along the way,
Nor' cross the foam,
But here at home
Within ourselves today.

'Tis we must love
That flag above
With all our might and main;
For from our hands
Not distant lands
Shall come dishonor's stain.

If that flag be
Dishonored, we
Have done it not the foe;
If it shall fall,
We, first of all,
Shall have to strike the blow.

Pentecost Poem

Pentecost Poem

Love's cup still pours its fill
And we can sip
And feed our veins
With its miraculousness.

Marvel at the Risen Lord, marvel that
A God of such outlandish love
Should love us to the point
Of death, and more -
Pour onto us
Love's gift for lovers -
His Holy Spirit, to shore up
Breached walls
And battle grounds

Where evil limbs are
With virtues bound
And souls' citadels
Restored to holy wonders

The Holly-Tree

O reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly-tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves
Ordered by an Intelligence so wise
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen,
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound;
But, as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;
And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree
Can emblem see
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, -
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear
Harsh and austere;
To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And should my youth - as youth is apt, I know, -
Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I, day by day,
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly-leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree? -

So, serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;
So would I seem, amid the young and gay,
More grave than they;
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly-tree.


by Robert Southey

June

Rise up, and do begin the day's adorning;
The Summer dark is but the dawn of day.
The last of sunset fades into the morning,
The morning calls you from the dark away.
The holy mist, the white mist of the morning,
Was wreathing upward on my lonely way.
The way was waiting for your own adorning
That should complete the broad adorned day.

Rise up, and do begin the day's adorning;
The little eastern clouds are dapple grey:
There will be wind among the leaves to-day;
It is the very promise of the morning.
Lux Tua Via Mea: your light's my way -
Then do rise up and make it perfect day.

Hilaire Belloc

My Garden

A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Ferned grot--
The veriest school
Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not--
Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
'Tis very sure God walks in mine.

by Thomas Edward Brown