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Archive for November, 2012


The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, – rejoicing, – sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou has taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

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                          Simile

Like spring to the rise of dead the last day;
Like fortunes to snow that just melts away;
Like eclipse to eyes that close with a blink;
Like bridges to thoughts to join as a link,
Like this and like that, we so like to say.

As life to eggs; fragile, handle with care;
As Ming to honor, exceedingly rare;
As hawk to hunter who circles his prey;
As talk to hot air that just goes away;
As this and as that – how quick we compare!

Thus, simile combines for clarity,
Two things that have a semblance rarity.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.

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The Beyond

It seemeth such a little way to me,
Across to that strange country, the Beyond;
And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be
The home of those of whom I am so fond;
They make it seem familiar and most dear,
As journeying friends bring distant countries near.

And so for me there is no sting to death,
And so the grave has lost its victory;
It is but crossing with abated breath
And white, set face, a little strip of sea,
To find the loved ones waiting on the shore,
More beautiful, more precious than before.

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A Rose Is A Rose Is A Rose

Call a cat
Another name – rose.
Still a cat.

 

or

 

Cat Be Nimble; Cat Be Quick

If I’m still
And don’t even blink –
Hummingbird?

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(photo by johnnyberg at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mjzN64a/Cat+in+flowers )

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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/

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.

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              Sub Pondere Crescit

The hope of Truth grows stronger, day by day;
I hear the soul of Man around me waking,
Like a great sea, its frozen fetters breaking,
And flinging up to heaven its sunlit spray,
Tossing huge continents in scornful play,
And crushing them, with din of grinding thunder,
That makes old emptinesses stare in wonder;
The memory of a glory passed away
Lingers in every heart, as, in the shell,
Resounds the bygone freedom of the sea,
And, every hour new signs of promise tell
That the great soul shall once again be free,
For high, and yet more high, the murmurs swell
Of inward strife for truth and liberty.

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The Hidden Stars

When life is bleak and future’s dimmed,
When storms assail and sails are trimmed,
When no solution is in sight,
There is one thought that makes things bright.

Think then that life’s like day – when sky
Has naught that’s visible to eye.
Both life and sky like empty jars,
Except… a million hidden stars.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.

 

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Humpty Dumpty

The king’s men
Can’t put together
Shattered dreams.

(photo by saavem at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/1mUxD8/Broken+glass )

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Picasso?  Dali?  Molly?

Beautiful!
An art masterpiece!
No, burned car.

 

(photo by dlritter at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mi6ag4i/Steel%2C+Paint+and+Fire )
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Ten Stories Tall

Wear and tear?
No, more sinister:
Giant stepped here.

 

(photo by drow at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mWyrOGc/damaged+pavement )

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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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.

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                    Sonnet XVI

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours;
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit.
So should the lines of life that life repair
Which this time’s pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

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Wisdom Passed Down

Musty pages, yellowed pages –
From past ages for the ages:

Though you’re not in white robes dressed,
Though no beard hangs to your chest,
Though none for you climb mountain peaks,
Your old wisdom wise man seeks.

Musty pages, yellowed pages –
From past ages for the ages.

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(photo by TACLUDA at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mY7JR4O/old+books )

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.

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Sonnet XV

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth naught by shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check’d even by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory:
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night
And, all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I ingraft you new.

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(photo by scottsnyde at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mioWF5I/The+girls )

 

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