The Throstle by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

The Throstle

“Summer is coming, summer is coming.
   I know it, I know it, I know it.
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,”
   Yes, my wild little Poet. 

Sing the new year in under the blue.
   Last year you sang it as gladly.
“New, new, new, new!”  Is it then so new
   That you should carol so madly? 

“Love again, song again, nest again, young again.
   Never a prophet so crazy!
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,
   See, there is hardly a daisy. 

“Here again, here, here, here, happy year!”
   O warble unchidden, unbidden!
Summer is coming, is coming my dear,
   And all the winters are hidden.

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The Song Of The Brook by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Song Of The Brook

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
   I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
   To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down,
   Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
   And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow
   To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go
   But I go on for ever. 

I chatter over stony ways,
   In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
   I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret
   By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
   With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
   To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go
   But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out,
   With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
   And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake
   Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
   Above the golden gravel. 

And drawn them all along, and flow
   To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go
   But I go on for ever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
   I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
   That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
   Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
   Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars
   In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
   I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow
   To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go
   But I go on for ever.

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photo by Mirna Sentic at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mA3vi4y/forest+stream

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The Star by Jane Taylor

(Photo credit: Acerview54 via Wikipedia)

              The Star

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky. 

When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. 

Then the traveler in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark!
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so. 

In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveler in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

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One of my granddaughters, now 18 months,
frequently “sings” the song.  She doesn’t get
any words right yet, but she has the melody
down.  She and I have been watching
videos of songs on Youtube together since
she was 9 months old.  She’s got her own
“playlist”.  Her favorites are the Giggle-
bellies, but the first link is to the version
of Twinkle she may like the best. The
Gigglebellies mix in another song with it
and it’s quite beautiful, too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCjJyiqpAuU

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAioeWL1xaU

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Here’s a little jewel that rewrites the first
stanza of the poem:
http://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2012/09/30/scintillate-scintillate-anonymous/

 

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Bedouin Song by Bayard Taylor

Bedouin Song

From the desert I come to thee,
On a stallion shod with fire;
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire.
Under thy window I stand,
And the midnight hears my cry:
I love thee, I love but thee,
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!

Look from thy window, and see
My passion and my pain;
I lie on the sands below,
And I faint in thy disdain.
Let the night-winds touch thy brow
With the heat of my burning sigh,
And melt thee to hear the vow
Of a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!

My steps are nightly driven,
By the fever in my breast,
To hear from thy lattice breathed
The word that shall give me rest.
Open the door of thy heart,
And open thy chamber door,
And my kisses shall teach thy lips
The love that shall fade no more
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!

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God by John Banister Tabb

(Photo credit: Pharaoh Hound via Wikipedia)

                       God

I see Thee in the distant blue;
But in the violet’s dell of dew,
Behold, I breath and touch Thee too.

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The Miller’s Daughter by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Miller’s Daughter

It is the miller’s daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
That trembles at her ear:
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I’d touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle
About her dainty dainty waste,
And her heart would beat against me
In sorrow and in rest:
And I should know if it beat right,
I’d clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,
And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
With her laughter or her sighs,
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.

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The Violet by Jane Taylor

(Photo credit: Pharaoh Hound via Wikipedia)

The Violet

Down in a green and shady bed
A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its color bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused a sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go,
This pretty flower to see,
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.

 

 

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Nature by Henry David Thoreau

(Photo credit: gelinh)

Nature

O Nature!  I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy choir, -
To be a meteor in thy sky,
Or comet that may range on high;
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by the river low;
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reed,
Or in the woods, with leafy din,
Whisper the still evening in:
Some still work give me to do, -
Only – be it near to you!

For I’d rather be thy child
And pupil, in the forest wild,
Than be the king of men elsewhere,
And most sovereign slave of care;
To have one moment of thy dawn,
Than share the city’s year forlorn.

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Of Old Sat Freedom On The Heights by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Alfred Tennyson (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
    The thunders breaking at her feet;
 Above her shook the starry lights;
    She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,
    Self-gathered in her prophet-mind,
 But fragments of her mighty voice
    Came rolling on the wind.

Grave mother of majestic works,
    From her isle-altar gazing down,
 Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
    And, King-like, wears the crown:

Her open eyes desire the truth.
    The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them.  May perpetuate youth
    Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine,
    Make bright our days and light our dreams,
 Turning to scorn with lips divine
    The falsehood of extremes!

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Sweet and Low by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
   Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
   Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
   Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
   Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
   Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
   Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

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photo by Francesco La Barbera via Flickr

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