Bee

Childhood When did my childhood go? Was it the day I ceased to be eleven, Was it the time I realised that Hell and Heaven, Could not be found in Geography, And therefore could not be, Was that the day! When did my childhood go? Was it the time I realised that adults were not all they seemed to be, They talked of love and preached of love, But did not act so lovingly, Was that the day! When did my childhood go? Was it when I found my mind was really mine, To use whichever way I choose, Producing thoughts that were not those of other people, But my own, and my alone, Was that the day! Where did my childhood go? It went to some forgotten place, That's hidden in an infant's face, That's all I know. _____________________________ Markus Natten (wrote this poem when he was 12 years old).

"ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD" The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, O

Robert Graves - Dialogue on the Headland ======================================== SHE: You'll not forget these rocks and what I told you? HE: How could I? Never: whatever happens. SHE: What do you think might happen? Might you fall out of love? - did you mean that? HE: Never, never! 'Whatever' was a sop For jealous listeners in the shadows. SHE: You haven't answered me. I asked: 'What do you think might happen?' HE: Whatever happens: though the skies should fall Raining their larks and vultures in our laps - SHE: 'Though the sea turn to slime' -say that - 'Though water-snakes be hatched with six heads.' HE: Though the seas turn to slime, or tower In an arching wave above us, three miles high - SHE: 'Though she should break with you' - dare you say that? - 'Though she deny her words on oath.' HE: I had that in my mind to say, or nearly; It hurt so much I choked it back. SHE: How many ot

A Ballad of Dreamland _________________________ I hid my heart in a nest of roses, Out of the sun's way, hidden apart; In a softer bed then the soft white snow's is, Under the roses I hid my heart. Why would it sleep not? why should it start, When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred? What made sleep flutter his wings and part? Only the song of a secret bird. Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes, And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart; Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes, And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art. Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart? Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred? What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart? Only the song of a secret bird. The green land's name that a charm encloses, It never was writ in the traveller's chart, And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is, It never was sold in the merchant's mart. The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, And sleep&

It Must Give Pleasure ___________________________________ Print friendly version E-mail this poem to e friend Send this poem as eCard Add this poem to MyPoemList I To sing jubilas at exact, accustomed times, To be crested and wear the mane of a multitude And so, as part, to exult with its great throat, To speak of joy and to sing of it, borne on The shoulders of joyous men, to feel the heart That is the common, the bravest fundament, This is a facile exercise. Jerome Begat the tubas and the fire-wind strings, The golden fingers picking dark-blue air: For companies of voices moving there, To find of sound the bleakest ancestor, To find of light a music issuing Whereon it falls in more than sensual mode. But the difficultest rigor is forthwith, On the image of what we see, to catch from that Irrational moment its unreasoning, As when the sun comes rising, when the sea Clears deeply, when the moon hangs on the wall Of heaven-haven. These are not things transformed. Yet

Sobre La Tierra Amarga __________________________________ Sobre la tierra amarga, caminos tiene el sueno laberinticos, sendas tortuosas, parques en flor y en sombra y en silencio; criptas hondas, escalas sobre estrellas, retablos de esperanzas y recuerdos. Figurillas que pasan y sonrien —jugetes me1ancó1icos de viejo—; imágenes amigas, a la vuelta florida del sendero, y quimeras rosadas que hacen camino . . . lejos . . . ____________________________________ by Antonio Machado. Hardie St. Martin, Roots and Wings: Poetry from Spain, 1900- 1975. New York: Harper and Row, 1976. _______________________________________________ Daydreams Have Endlessly Turning Paths ________________________________________________ Daydreams have endlessly turning paths going over the bitter earth, winding roads, parks flowering, in darkness and in silence; deep vaults, ladders against the stars; scenes of hopes and memories. Tiny figures that walk past and smile —sad playthings for an old man—;, friends we t