Archive for October, 2014

Patrick Henry

Said Patrick:
Liberty or death,
Treat or trick.


Devil At The Door 

How he works:
Treat, treat, treat, treat, treat,
Treat, treat, TRICK!


Not one day.
He does it all days –
That’s scary!



* 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, 2014.



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…….On Such A Night

On such a night, or such a night,
Would anybody care
If such a little figure
Slipped quiet from its chair – 

So quiet – Oh how quiet,
That nobody might know
But that the little figure
Rocked softer – to and fro – 

On such a dawn, or such a dawn –
Would anybody sigh
That such a little figure
Too sound asleep did lie 

For Chanticleer to wake it –
Or stirring house below –
Or giddy bird in orchard –
Or early task to do? 

There was a little figure plump
For every little knoll –
Busy needles, and spools of thread –
And trudging feet from school – 

Playmates, and holidays, and nuts –
And visions vast and small –
Strange that the feet so precious charged
Should reach so small a goal!


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……..Sonnet 5 – The Conqueror

Earth’s rippled hills outside the window spread
Like ocean waves, foam-crested, cedar green.
Rise! They swell to sky and thus are wed
As valleyed flower girls walk in between.

The hills hold mysteries, when down below
Man cannot see what lies beyond the crest.
The urge to climb, cross over yonder row,
Gives birth, like old, to an explorer’s breast.

Besides the climbers, there are those who stay
To build, to nest like eagles near the skies;
A lure to stake a claim, to dwell each day
That nothing but an empire satisfies.

The one who lives atop a hill or crag
Is kin of conqueror who plants the flag.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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They have made for Leonora this low dwelling in the ground,
And with cedar they have woven the four walls around.
Like a little dryad hiding she’ll be wrapped all in green,
Better kept and longer valued than by ways that would have been. 

They will come with many roses in the early afternoon,
They will come with pinks and lilies and with Leonora soon;
And as long as beauty’s garments over beauty’s limbs are thrown,
There’ll be lilies that are liars, and the rose will have its own. 

There will be a wondrous quiet in the house that they have made,
And to-night will be a darkness in the place where she’ll be laid;
But the builders, looking forward into time, could only see
Darker nights for Leonora than to-night shall ever be.


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A Cloud? Who Cares?

These two are
Definitely not
Storm chasers.



New York City

Republicans? No,
Taxis rule.



They Shine

Sun’s glory
Reveals and highlights
Tree’s glory.


Cloud – photo by Constantin Jurcut at

NYC – photo by Ivo Bouwmans at

Shine – photo by Cristiano Galbiati at


* 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, 2014.

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The leaves, now liquid, pour from off the trees.
The summer bloom is past, a pause, and then a blast
Since winter rides upon the northern breeze.

The sun sleeps late and works less like the bees.
Cool is the morning air; the deer no longer bare.
The leaves, now liquid, pour from off the trees.

From harvest moon, earth reaps rich royalties;
The workers ply the fields, and hurry out with yields,
Soon, winter rides upon the northern breeze.

The calmness and the beauty bring an ease
To troubled souls who rest, and let their eyes be blest.
The leaves, now liquid, pour from off the trees.

We long for fall to be a photo – freeze;
Remain in this grand pose; it won’t, and each one knows
That winter rides upon the northern breeze.

The earth has opened brilliant galleries –
Like fireworks burst the blades! – and then the color fades.
The leaves, then liquid, pour from off the trees.
Soon winter rides upon the northern breeze.


photo by Agnes Scholiers at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nJYyWma/Fall


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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……………Happy Is England

Happy is England! I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances blent:
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
For skies Italian, and an inward groan
To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
And half forget what world or worldling meant.
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;
Enough their simple loveliness for me,
……Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:
Yet do I often warmly burn to see
……Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,
And float with them about the summer waters.

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………………….Telling The Bees

Here is the place, right over the hill
Runs the path I took,
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. 

There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;
And the barn’s brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall. 

There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o’errun,
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
And the same brook sings of a year ago. 

There’s the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. 

I mind me how with a lover’s care
From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. 

Since we parted, a month had passed, –
To love, a year;
Down through the beeches I looked at last
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. 

I can see it all now, – the slantwise rain
Of light through the leaves,
The sundown’s blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 

Just the same as a month before, –
The house and the trees,
The barn’s brown gable, the vine by the door, –
Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 

Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black. 

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on a journey we all must go! 

Then I said to myself, “My Mary weeps
For the dead to-day:
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
The fret and the pain of his age away.” 

But her dog whines low; on the doorway sill,
With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
Sung to the bees stealing out and in. 

And the song she was singing ever since
In my ear sounds on: –
“Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!”


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Outside, I sit upon the steps and see
The sun play peek-a-boo behind a cloud;
The wind wafts o’er the tops of cedar trees,
A rustling, sometimes whirring – never loud. 

A buzz, as unseen neighbor uses saw
To fell a tree or trim a limb that’s grown.
My dog stops once, to stare and raise a paw,
Immortalized as statue, into stone. 

A distant jet roars in the sky above,
A speeding needle in the haystack’s blue.
Upon the poles and wires, a message – dove:
A peace that’s promised, too good to be true. 

A car rolls by; the driver and I greet –
Two sailors on two ships that cross at sea.
But far beyond the flying birds that tweet,
There is a world of woe and misery. 

While nations, neighbors, mates are all at odds,
There is within my yard sweet nature’s peace,
Since missing is direct news from the gods
And drums of war are distant – so they cease.



© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.



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There be none of beauty’s daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean’s pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming: 

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o’er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant’s asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.


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