[Womble]

This is mine. Feel free to share yours.

The Sun, by Mary Oliver.

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

[Rupert the bear]

If , R Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;   
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;   
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

[HappyHippy]

I shan't share any today - I'm having a Philip Larkin/Sylvia Plath type day so will spare everyone the misery 
Will come back with something happier soon! I love poetry!
Kx

[Ghdp]

Keats 'Ode to Autumn, every time especially now obviously. Cannot find a cut and paste version to add sorry. Go and read it if you can.

[Bionic]

Is this what you were after Ghdp?

CCLV. Ode to Autumn [/font]
S[size=-1]EASON[/size] of mists and mellow fruitfulness,	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Conspiring with him how to load and bless	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
And still more, later flowers for the bees,	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Until they think warm days will never cease;	[/font]
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;	[/font]
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Steady thy laden head across a brook;	[/font]
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day	[/font]
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;	[/font]
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.	[size=-2] [/size] [/font]

[Ghdp]

In deed!!
Thanks Bionic
Greg

[Ghdp]

Some extra prinying came up on my version from you Bionic but I have nw found this so I will try to post again

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

[Womble]

The Eagle soars in the summit of Heaven,
The Hunter with his dogs pursues his circuit.
O perpetual revolution of configured stars,
O perpetual recurrence of determined seasons,
O world of spring and autumn, birth and dying!
The endless cycle of idea and action,
Endless invention, endless experiment,
Brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness;
Knowledge of speech, but not of silence;
Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word.
All our knowledge brings us nearer to death,
But nearness to death no nearer to God.
Where is the Life we have lost in living?
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
The cycles of heaven in twenty centuries
Brings us farther from God and nearer to the Dust.

The lot of man is ceaseless labor,
Or ceaseless idleness, which is still harder,
Or irregular labour, which is not pleasant.
I have trodden the winepress alone, and I know
That it is hard to be really useful, resigning
The things that men count for happiness, seeking
The good deeds that lead to obscurity, accepting
With equal face those that bring ignominy,
The applause of all or the love of none.
All men are ready to invest their money
But most expect dividends.
I say to you: Make perfect your will.
I say: take no thought of the harvest,
But only of proper sowing.
 
The world turns and the world changes,
But one thing does not change.
In all of my years, one thing does not change,
However you disguise it, this thing does not change:
The perpetual struggle of Good and Evil.
 
 
from "The Rock"
by T.S. Eliot

[Womble]

Feeling sad today  :

The New Colossus, by Emma Lazarus.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

[Rosemary]

Feeling sad today 

Many of us fel sad today, and maybe a little scared. God bless America.

[Marches Farmer]

.....and God help us all.

[Marches Farmer]

..... and here's a poem by an American which some folks on this forum may feel applies to them .....

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence;
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

[Rosemary]

Another Robert Frost and  one of my favourites

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

[Womble]

Nice! 

I wonder if I can get away with posting my favourite poem of all time?:

The Verse (by Philip Larkin):


They **** you up, your mum and dad.   
    They may not mean to, but they do.   
They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.

But they were ****ed up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   
Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.


And if that's too dark for you:
the Converse (not by Philip Larkin):

They tuck you up, your Mum and Dad,
     They read you Peter Rabbit, too.
 They give you all the treats they had
     And add some extra, just for you.

 They were tucked up when they were small,
     (Pink perfume, blue tobacco-smoke),
 By those whose kiss healed any fall,
     Whose laughter doubled any joke.

 Man hands on happiness to man.
     It deepens like a coastal shelf.
 So love your parents all you can
     And have some cheerful kids yourself.

[PK]

Well, since Philip Larkin has been mentioned, here is one of his smallholders might relate to:-

First Sight

Lambs that learn to walk in snow
When their bleating clouds the air
Meet a vast unwelcome, know
Nothing but a sunless glare.
Newly stumbling to and fro
All they find, outside the fold,
Is a wretched width of cold.

As they wait beside the ewe,
Her fleeces wetly caked, there lies
Hidden round them, waiting too,
Earth’s immeasurable surprise.
They could not grasp it if they knew,
What so soon will wake and grow
Utterly unlike the snow.