Posted in O-R, Poems of Other Poets, tagged Alexander Pope" >, bard on the hill, embrace, endure, pity, poems, poetry, Vice on June 6, 2013 | 1 Comment »
Vice
Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As to be hated, needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
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photo by Crystal Woronuik at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nxwVPLA/Halloween+Pumpkin
Copyright ©2013 Crystal Woroniuk
Posted in O-R, Poems of Other Poets, tagged bard on the hill, Bethsabe's Song, black shade, fair nurse, George Peele, hot sun cool fire, poems, poetry on April 17, 2013 | Leave a Comment »
Bethsabe’s Song
Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair;
Shine sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me:
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning,
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.
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photo by Michael Adams-Wade at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mX6aVuO/Shady+Trees
Posted in O-R, Poems of Other Poets, tagged albatross, bard on the hill, Edgar Allan Poe, Fairy-Land, macabre, poems, poetry, videlicet on April 5, 2013 | Leave a Comment »
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Fairy-Land
Dim vales – and shadowy floods –
And cludy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane –
Again – again – again –
Every moment of the night –
Forever changing places –
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down – still down – and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be –
O’er the strange woods – o’er the sea –
Over spirits on the wing –
Over every drowsy thing –
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light –
And then, how deep! – O, deep!
In the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like – almost any thing –
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before –
Videlicet a tent –
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
Posted in O-R, Poems of Other Poets, tagged bard on the hill, Civil War, muffled drum's sad roll, poems, poetry, The Bivouac of the Dead, Theodore O'Hara on March 6, 2013 | Leave a Comment »
Plaque opposite the entrance to the chapel of Golden Gate National Cemetery in San Bruno, California. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The Bivouac Of The Dead
The muffled drum’s sad roll has beat
The soldier’s last tattoo!
No more on life’s parade shall meet
The brave and fallen few.
On Fame’s eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe’s advance
Now swells upon the wind,
Nor troubled thought of midnight haunts,
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow’s strife
The warrior’s dreams alarms,
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn to call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their pluméd heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud –
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle’s stirring blast,
The charge, – the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are passed;
Nor war’s wild notes, nor glory’s peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore shall feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Come down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o’er the field beneath,
Knew the watchword of the day
Was “Victory or death!”
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear is the blood you gave –
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave.
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.
You marble minstrel’s voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished year hath flown,
The story how you fell.
Nor wreck nor change, nor winter’s blight,
Nor time’s remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.
Posted in O-R, Poems of Other Poets, tagged bard on the hill, Christina Georgina Rossetti, I wish I could remember, love, poems, poetry, seemed to mean so little meant so much, The First Day on March 1, 2013 | 1 Comment »
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The First Day
I wish I could remember the first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or Winter for aught I can say;
O unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand – Did one but know!
Posted in O-R, Poems of Other Poets, tagged < META name = "keywords" content = "What Smith Knew About Farming, bard on the hill, James Whitcomb Riley, poems, poetry on January 3, 2013 | 4 Comments »
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
What Smith Knew About Farming
There wasn’t two purtier farms in the state
Than the couple of which I’m about to relate; -
Jinin’ each other – belongin’ to Brown,
And jest at the edge of a flourishin’ town.
Brown was a man, as I understand,
That allus had handled a good ‘eal o’ land,
And was sharp as a tack in drivin’ a trade -
For that’s the way most of his money was made.
And all the grounds and the orchards about
His two pet farms was all tricked out
With poppies and posies
And sweet-smellin’ rosies;
And hundreds o’ kinds
Of all sorts o’ vines,
To tickle the most horticultural minds;
And little dwarf trees not as thick as your wrist
With ripe apples on ‘em as big as your fist:
And peaches – Siberian crabs and pears,
And quinces – Well! any fruit any tree bears;
And the purtiest stream – jest a-swimmin’ with fish
And – jest a’most everything heart could wish!
The purtiest orch’rds – I wish you could see
How purty they was, fer I know it ‘ud be
A regular treat! – but I’ll go ahead with
My story! A man by the name o’ Smith -
(A bad name to rhyme,
But I’m reckon that I’m
Not going back on a Smith! nary time!)
‘At hadn’t a soul of kin nor kith,
And more money than he knowed what to do with, -
So he comes a-ridin’ along one day,
And he says to Brown, in his offhand way -
Who was train’ some newfangled vines round a bay -
Winder – “Howdy-do – look-a-here – say:
What’ll you take fer this property here? -
I’m talkin’ o’ leavin’ the city this year,
And I want to be
Where the air is free,
And I’ll buy this place, if it ain’t too dear!” -
Well – they grumbled and jawed aroun’ -
“I don’t like to part with the place,” says Brown;
“Well,” says Smith, a-jerkin’ his head,
“That house yonder – bricks painted red -
Jest like this’n – a purtier view -
Who it it owns it?” “That’s mine too,”
Says Brown, as he winked at a hole in his shoe,
“But I’ll tell you right here jest what I kin do: -
If you’ll pay the figgers I’ll sell it to you.”
Smith went over and looked at the place -
Badgered with Brown, and argied the case -
Thought that Brown’s figgers was rather too tall,
But, findin’ that Brown wasn’t goin’ to fall,
In final agreed,
So they drawed up the deed
Fer the farm and the fixtures – the live stock an’ all.
And so Smith moved from the city as soon
As he possibly could – But “the man in the moon”
Knowed more’n Smith o’ farmin’ pursuits,
And jest to convince you, and have no disputes,
How little he knowed,
I’ll tell you his “mode,”
As he called it, o’ raisin’ “the best that growed,”
In the way o’ potatoes -
Cucumbers – tomatoes,
And squashes as lengthy as young alligators.
“Twas allus a curious thing to me
How big a fool a feller kin be
When he gits on a farm after leavin’ a town! -
Expectin’ to raise himself up to renown,
And reap fer himself agricultural fame,
By grownin’ of squashes – without any shame -
As useless and long as a technical name.
To make the soil pure,
And certainly sure,
He plastered the ground with patent manure.
He had cultivators, and double-hoss plows,
And patent ha-forks – patent measures and weights,
And new patent back-action hinges fer gates,
And barn locks and latches, and such little dribs,
And patents to keep the rats out o’ the cribs -
Reapers and mowers,
And patent grain sowers;
And drillers
And tillers
And cucumber hillers,
And horries; – and had patent rollers and scrapers,
And took about ten agricultural papers.
So you can imagine how matters turned out:
But Brown didn’t have not a shadder o’ doubt
That Smith didn’t know what he was about
When he said that, “the old way to farm was played out.”
But Smith worked ahead,
And when any one said
That the old way o’ workin’ was better instead
O’ his “modern idees,” he allus turned red,
And wanted to know
What made people so
Infernally anxious to hear themselves crow?
And guessed that he’d manage to hoe his own row.
Brown he come one’t and leant over the fence,
And told Smith that he couldn’t see any sense
In goin’ to such a tremendous expense
Fer the sake o’ such no-account experiments: -
“That’ll never make corn!
As shore’s you’re born
It’ll come out the leetlest end of the horn!”
Says Brown, as he pulled off a big roastin’-ear
From a stalk of his own
That had tribble outgrown
Smith’s poor yaller shoots, and says he,
“Looky here! This corn was raised in the old-fashioned way,
And I rather imagine that this corn’ll pay
Expenses fer raisin’ it! – What do you say?”
Brown got him then to look over his crop. -
His luck that season had been tip-top!
And you may surmise Smith opened his eyes
And let out a look o’ the wildest surprise
When Brown showed him punkins as big as the lies
He was stuffin’ him with – about offers he’s had
Fer his farm: “I don’t want to sell very bad,”
He says, but says he,
“Mr. Smith, you kin see
Fer yourself how matters is standin’ with me,
I understand farmin’ and I’d better stay,
You know, on my farm; – I’m a-makin’ it pay -
I oughtn’t to grumble! – I reckon I’ll clear
Away over four thousand dollars this year.”
And that was the reason, he made it appear,
Why he didn’t care about sellin’ his farm,
And hinted at his havin’ done himself harm
In sellin’ the other, and wanted to know
If Smith wouldn’t sell back ag’in to him. – So
Smith took the bait, and says he, “Mr. Brown,
I wouldn’t sell out but we might swap aroun’ -
How’ll you trade your place fer mine?”
(Purty sharp way o’ comin’ the shine
Over Smith! Wasn’t it?) Well, sir, this Brown
Played out his hand and brought Smithy down -
Traded with him an’, workin’ it cute,
Raked in two thousand dollars to boot
As slick as a whistle, an’ that wasn’t all, -
He managed to trade back ag’in the next fall, -
And the next – and the next – as long as Smith stayed
He reaped with his harvests an annual trade. -
Why, I reckon that Brown must ‘a’ easily made -
On an average – nearly two thousand a year -
Together he made over seven thousand – clear. -
Till Mr. Smith found he was losin’ his health
In as big a proportion, almost, as his wealth;
So at last he concluded to move back to town,
And sold back his farm to this same Mr. Brown
At very low figgers, by gittin’ it down.
Further’n this I have nothin’ to say
Than merely advisin’ the Smiths fer to stay
In their grocery stores in flourishin’ towns
And leave agriculture alone – and the Browns.
