Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘poems’

I cannot sing the old songs
I sang long years ago,
For heart and voice would fail me,
And foolish tears would flow;
Far by-gone hours come o’er my heart
With each familiar strain.
I cannot sing the old songs,
Or dream those dreams again. 

I cannot sing the old songs,
Their charm is sad and deep;
Their melodies would waken
Old sorrows from their sleep,
And though all unforgotten still,
And sadly sweet they be,
I cannot sing the old songs,
They are too dear to me! 

I cannot sing the old songs,
For visions come again
Of golden dreams departed
And years of weary pain;
Perhaps when earthly fetters shall
Have set my spirit free
My voice shall know the old songs
For all eternity.

 

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

mf8bmbK

I found no rhyme for Florida
So, orange you two are kin.
And very understandably,
You two already spend
Much time alone together
Since each must need a friend.

———————————— 

photo by Dominic Morel at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mf8bmbK/Orangey

————————————

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

Read Full Post »

When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray, –
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover
And wring his bosom, is – to die.

 

Read Full Post »

oyhnc3A

Where are they
When one is needed –
Boy Scout?

——————–

photo by nbsnoopy (Nani ) at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oyhnc3A/Streets+of+Bratislava

——————–

* 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, 2018.
 

Read Full Post »

nj98RMe

I’m here, and I’m waiting again
(Another will suffer the pain).
But as that’s occurring – away –
My minutes are whittled – my day
Is shortened, restricted. My view:
An office, a worker, or two.

Life’s filled with these moments we wait
Like horses to start at a gate.
A woman will wait for a child
Nine months, though it’s driving her wild.
The check’s in the mail – will it come?
Impatient, our fingers may drum.

I’m sitting here thinking of this,
And waiting is not far from bliss.
I’m turning these thoughts in my mind
To verses some others may find.
Thus, sweet balm of peace fills my brain
Like sounds and the smell of the rain.

Occurring to me is this thought:
Since waiting is often, we ought
Put weight in our waiting so space
Won’t sit on, like shadows, our face.
If silver, or if it is gold,
The wait will shine forth forty fold.

Our living itself is a wait,
For death, we hope distant in date.
And what with our lives will we do
While days whittle down till we’re through?

——————————————————————-

photo by Robert Proksa at
https://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nj98RMe/Clock+01

——————————————————————

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

Read Full Post »

Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure,
Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.

 

Read Full Post »

osQXlrg

Now, the toast,
A bite of fruit each –
To your health!

——————– 

photo by Aga Grafik at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/osQXlrg/fresh+fruits+on+white+backgrou

 ——————-

* 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, 2018.
 

 

Read Full Post »

Good-bye, proud world! I’m going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I’m not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I’ve been tossed like the driven foam;
But now, proud world! I’m going home.  

Good-bye to Flattery’s fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth’s averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good-bye, proud world! I’m going home.  

I am going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone, —
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird’s roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.  

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet? 

 

 

Read Full Post »

Jewish holocaust


The Germans, grown calloused to slaughter
Of Jewish man, wife, son, and daughter
Could go on their way
Not bothered all day
While just over there was the slaughter.

—————————————————-

We do the same regarding 2500 abortion murders per day.

—————————————————-

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

Read Full Post »

Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion’s name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea;
We know its walks of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear;
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil;
We talk the battle over,
And share the battle’s spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier’s cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads-
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
‘Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
‘Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp-
A moment – and away,
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band,
With kindest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
Forever, from our shore.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »