Favorite lines of poetry

[Lexus77]

One of my favorite poems from my own hand, written in my mother tongue, low Saxon:

Wat gif dat nog, a'j heimwee hebt?
Dat maakt oew hett mar zwoar.
Dat thoes, da'j laang nich meer hebt zeen,
zeg zölf, wat zeuk iej doar?

Loat goan den dreum van laang veurbiej,
de weg wierum is wied.
Iej zeukt gin stuksken oale stiej,
iej zeukt ne keendertied.

Iej keunt niks umdreajn, mut veuroet,
loat goan dus, dat beklag.
Kiek nich meer um noar wat is west,
leaf hier, met dizn dag.

In English, roughly translated:

What is there in being homesick?
It only makes your heart heavy.
That home, you haven't seen for long,
say, what do you search for, there?

Let go that dream of long gone times,
the road back is long,
you're not looking for the old place,
you're looking for a childhood.

You can't reverse anything, have to go forward,
so let go of your complaints.
Don't look back at what has passed,
live here, with this day.

Edited December 9, 2017 by Lexus77

[Runnin_Ute]

If by Rudyard Kipling

 

the last couple of lines:

 

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

[Doulton]

I really like your poem, Lexus77 Thank you for posting it and for the translation.

[MG66]

My favorite part of one of my favorite poems:

 

-----

 

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

[Doulton]

What an ear Lord Tennyson had! Thank you for posting that.

[Lexus77]

I really like your poem, Lexus77 Thank you for posting it and for the translation.

Awh... thank you!

[hh1990]

Besides the Autumn poets sing - Emily Dickinson

 

Besides the Autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze -

A few incisive mornings -
A few Ascetic eves -
Gone - Mr Bryant’s “Golden Rod” -
And Mr Thomson’s “sheaves.”

Still, is the bustle in the brook -
Sealed are the spicy valves -
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many Elves -

Perhaps a squirrel may remain -
My sentiments to share -
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind -
Thy windy will to bear!

[Doulton]

Very nice commentary by Emily Dickinson on those “prosaic days”.

[Carrau]

The Oxen

BY THOMAS HARDY

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

“Now they are all on their knees,”

An elder said as we sat in a flock

By the embers in hearthside ease.

 

We pictured the meek mild creatures where

They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

To doubt they were kneeling then.

 

So fair a fancy few would weave

In these years! Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve,

“Come; see the oxen kneel,

 

“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know,”

I should go with him in the gloom,

Hoping it might be so.

 

 

One of my favorites at this time of year.

[Doulton]

I love "The Oxen," Herrjaeger. "So fair a fancy few would weave..."

I am glad that you posted it. 2 or 3 years ago I posted it to an alumni chat list and was asked to leave the list for the "offensive material"!!!!

[Doulton]

Christmas Mail

BY TED KOOSER

Cards in each mailbox,

angel, manger, star and lamb,

as the rural carrier,

driving the snowy roads,

hears from her bundles

the plaintive bleating of sheep,

the shuffle of sandals,

the clopping of camels.

At stop after stop,

she opens the little tin door

and places deep in the shadows

the shepherds and wise men,

the donkeys lank and weary,

the cow who chews and muses.

And from her Styrofoam cup,

white as a star and perched

on the dashboard, leading her

ever into the distance,

there is a hint of hazelnut,

and then a touch of myrrh.

[Carrau]

Christmas Mail

 

 

BY TED KOOSER

 

 

 

Cards in each mailbox,

angel, manger, star and lamb,

as the rural carrier,

driving the snowy roads,

hears from her bundles

the plaintive bleating of sheep,

the shuffle of sandals,

the clopping of camels.

At stop after stop,

she opens the little tin door

and places deep in the shadows

the shepherds and wise men,

the donkeys lank and weary,

the cow who chews and muses.

And from her Styrofoam cup,

white as a star and perched

on the dashboard, leading her

ever into the distance,

there is a hint of hazelnut,

and then a touch of myrrh.

 

Doulton, this has a similar, lovely sentiment, albeit more modern. Thanks for posting it.

[Doulton]

Carol
James Harpur

The falcon flew from dark to dark
drew silver from the Northern Star
and headed for the crinkled hills,
the rivers, lakes and waterfalls
to find the source of light on earth
the source of light on earth.

And as three weary pilgrim kings
looked up and saw his glittering wings
the falcon saw a darkened town
a stable glowing like a crown
and knew that he had found the truth
that he had found the truth.

The falcon hovered like a star
his wings spun out a spirit fire
that drew the kings inside the shed:
the child asleep in his straw bed
was dreaming of a silver bird
was dreaming of a bird.

His task now done, the falcon rose
a spark ablaze with joyful news;
he lit the stars, he lit the moon
then vanished in the arc of sun
that dawned beyond the Southern Cross
beyond the Southern Cross.

[MG66]

So live, that when thy summons comes to join

The innumerable caravan, which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

[Doulton]

"Year's End" by Richard Wilbur (1950)

Now winter downs the dying of the year,

And night is all a settlement of snow;

From the soft street the rooms of houses show

A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,

Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin

And still allows some stirring down within.

I’ve known the wind by water banks to shake

The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell

And held in ice as dancers in a spell

Fluttered all winter long into a lake;

Graved on the dark in gestures of descent,

They seemed their own most perfect monument.

There was perfection in the death of ferns

Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone

A million years. Great mammoths overthrown

Composedly have made their long sojourns,

Like palaces of patience, in the gray

And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii

The little dog lay curled and did not rise

But slept the deeper as the ashes rose

And found the people incomplete, and froze

The random hands, the loose unready eyes

Of men expecting yet another sun

To do the shapely thing they had not done.

These sudden ends of time must give us pause.

We fray into the future, rarely wrought

Save in the tapestries of afterthought.

More time, more time. Barrages of applause

Come muffled from a buried radio.

The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.

[hh1990]

There is no frigate like a book

To take us lands away,

Nor any coursers like a page

Of prancing poetry.

This traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of toll;

How frugal is the chariot

That bears a human soul!

Emily Dickinson

[Carrau]

Dust of Snow

BY ROBERT FROST

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

 

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

[Doulton]

I love the recently posted excerpt from "Thanatopsis," plus the Dickinson and Frost. They are so very well-chosen for this time of year. Thank you.

[MG66]

I've wondered how the end/beginning of the year is seen in the southern hemisphere. So much of our poetry and literature refer to the darkness, coldness, snow, frost, etc... the hope of a brighter, warmer tomorrow, new life on the horizon (spring) etc... What would we write if Christmas and New Year's Day had a decent shot at being among the longest, hottest days of the year?

 

Interesting.

 

 

- C

[praxim]

I've wondered how the end/beginning of the year is seen in the southern hemisphere. So much of our poetry and literature refer to the darkness, coldness, snow, frost, etc... the hope of a brighter, warmer tomorrow, new life on the horizon (spring) etc... What would we write if Christmas and New Year's Day had a decent shot at being among the longest, hottest days of the year?

 

Interesting.

 

 

- C

 

From my youth I do not recall any poetry related to solstice, christmas or new year. I was down at the beach.

 

Henry Lawson probably wrote something about a drover trying to get back home for christmas while his wife at home messed with snakes and fought a bushfire, but he gets killed by a falling gumtree branch before he makes it.