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………………….(infantry column)

We’re foot-slog-slog-slog-sloggin’ over Africa
Foot-foot-foot-foot-sloggin’ over Africa –
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up and down again!)
……..There’s no discharge in the war! 

Seven-six-eleven-five-nine-an’-twenty mile to-day –
Four-eleven-seventeen-thirty-two the day before –
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up an’ down again!)
……..There’s no discharge in the war! 

Don’t-don’t-don’t-don’t-look at what’s in front of you.
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movn’ up an’ down again),
Men-men-men-men-men go mad with watchin’ ’em,
……..An’ there’s no discharge in the war! 

Try-try-try-try-to think o’ something different –
Oh-my-God-keep-me from goin’ lunatic!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up and down again!)
……..There’s no discharge in the war! 

Count-count-count-count-the bullets in the bandoliers.
If-your-eyes-drop-they will get atop o’ you.
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up and down again) –
……..An’ there’s no discharge in the war! 

We-can-stick-out-‘unger, thirst, an’ weariness,
But-not-not-not-not the chronic sight of ’em –
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up an’ down again,
……..An’ there’s no discharge in the war! 

Tain’t-so-bad-by-day because o’ company,
But-night-brings-long-strings-o’ forty thousand million
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up and down again.
……..There’s no discharge in the war! 

I-‘ave-marched-six-weeks in ‘Ell an’ certify
It-is-not-fire-devils-dark or anything,
But boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up and down again,
……..An’ there’s no discharge in the war!

 

Image result for picture of churchill

The bulldog stood upon the English shore
And growled across the channel at the scourge
That swept through Europe, knocked on England’s door.
He knew they wouldn’t lose, though on the verge. 

His bark was sweetest Britain ever heard;
His bite in war, for Hitler, was severe.
And by his speeches, Englishmen were stirred;
His expertise would vict’ry engineer. 

Great eloquence was in the books he wrote,
Revealing insight by the records kept.
The kindest critic, never one to gloat,
A gentle wind that shaped all that it swept. 

There never was a nobler Nobel Prize
Than his; and he, the world should lionize.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:

“Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

“And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

“For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, ‘Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'”

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black, and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.

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Links to analysis:

http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/blake/section4.rhtml

http://www.gradesaver.com/songs-of-innocence-and-of-experience/study-guide/summary-the-little-black-boy

http://www.tate.org.uk/learn/online-resources/william-blake/songs-innocence-and-experience/songs-innocence-little-black-boy

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Little_Black_Boy 

https://poemanalysis.com/the-little-black-boy-by-william-blake-poem-analysis/

 

oosx89S

A geode –
When beauty is more
Than skin deep.

——————– 

photo by Elvis Santana at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oosx89S/stone+1

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

—————————–

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been – a most familiar bird –
Taught me my alphabet to say –
To lisp my earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child – with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Though gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings –
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away – forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.

 

Adolf_Hitler

He was a devil wanting Satan’s throne,
With failed Napoleon’s heart, to rule the world,
And was so arrogant he thought his own
One land could stand against all forces hurled. 

A power peacock, nation bully, beast,
Who thought himself and kind superior.
He proved to all instead to be the least,
Since mark of men is they can shed a tear. 

Against a hist’ry lesson that he knew,
He sought a second front against the Russian bear,
And greedy, bit off more than he could chew,
And choked to death upon that frozen fare. 

The world remembers him as bloody ghoul,
But Adolf Hitler lived and died a fool.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

She has laughed as softly as if she sighed,
She has counted six and over,
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried –
Oh each a worthy lover!
They “give her time”; for her soul must slip
Where the world has set the grooving:
She will lie to none with her fair red lip –
But love seeks truer loving.

She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,
As her thoughts were beyond recalling,
With a glance for one, and a glance for some,
For her eyelids rising and falling;
Speaks common words with a blushful air,
Hears bold words, unreproving
But her silence says – what she never will swear –
And love seeks better loving.

Go, lady, lean to the night-guitar,
And drop a smile to the bringer,
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,
At the voice of an indoor singer.
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;
Glance lightly on their removing;
And join new vows to old perjuries –
But dare not call it loving.

Unless you can think, when the song is done,
No other is soft in the rhythm;
Unless you can feel, when left by one,
That all men else go with him;
Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,
That your beauty itself wants proving;
Unless you can swear, “For life, for death!” –
Oh fear to call it loving!

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day,
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past –
Oh never call it loving!

SONY DSC

The way out
Of a dark hole’s oft
A way up.

——————– 

photo by Javier Gonzalezat
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/moyLDa8/Mysterious+stairs

——————————

* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

——————————-

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew.
The wide-spreading pond and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e’en the rude bucket that hung in the well.

That moss-covered bucket I hailed as a treasure,
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell.
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Tho’ filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hung in the well.

——————————————————————————

Bing Crosby sings The Old Oaken Bucket (3:14).

This video shows the old oaken bucket in Massachusetts and a 1902 recording of the song by the Edison Quartet is played on an antique Victrola (4:09)

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

I often have thought it amazing
That the “In” in a club keep on hazing.
They loathed it. When through
Is this what they do? –
Out vengeful instead of out-phasing?

———————————————————

photo by Michal Zacharzewski at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nZ68hx2/Padlock

———————————————————

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.