Follies by Carl Sandburg

Follies  

by

Carl Sandburg

Shaken,

The blossom of lilac,

And shattered,

The atoms of purple.

Green dip the leaves,

Darker the bark,

Longer the shadows.

Sheer lines of poplar

Shimmer with masses of silver

And down in a garden  old with years

And broken walls of ruin and story,

Roses rise with red rain - memories.

May!

In the open world

The sun comes and finds your face,

Remembering all.

The Fairies by William Allingham

  This is off the beaten path for this blog, but I found this poem in the book 'Irish Fairy & Folk Tales' by William Butler Yates called 'The Faeries' by Irish poet William Allingham. It is a beautifully sad  lyrical poem about the good wee people of Ireland ( must be nice or they can get a trifle nasty, according to what I have read so far). Anyway, I thought I would share it with you, I hope you enjoy it.

THE FAERIES

by

William Allingham 

 Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren't go a hunting

For fear of little men;

We folk, good folk

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore,

Some make their home,

They live on crispy pancakes

Of yellow tide- foam;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain lake,

With frogs for their watch - dogs,

All night awake.

HIgh on the hill

The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray

He nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge ogf white mist

Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;

Or going up with music

On cold starry nights,

To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights

They stole little Bridget

For seven long years;

When she game down again

Her friends were gone.

They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow,

They thought she was fast asleep,

But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since

Deep within the lake,

On a bed of flag leaves,

Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hill-side,

Through the mosses bare,

They have planted thorn-trees

For pleasure here and there.

If any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find there sharpest thorns

In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren't go a hunting

For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

Happy Thanksgiving

FIRST THANKSGIVING 

by

 Aileen Fisher

 Venison for stew and roasting,

 Oysters in the ashes toasting,

 Geese done to a turn,

Berries(dried) and wild grapes (seeded),

 Mixed with dough and gently kneaded.

 What a feast to earn! Indian corn in strange disguises,

 Ash cakes, hoe cakes (many sizes),

Kernels roasted brown...

After months of frugal living

What a welcome first Thanksgiving

 There in Plymouth town. 

_______________

THANKSGIVING DAY  

 by

 Emily Dickinson

 One day is there of the series

 Termed Thanksgiving Day,

 Celebrated part at table,

 Part in memory.

 Neither patriarch or pussy,

 I dissect the play;

Seem it, to my hooded thinking, 

 Reflex holidy.

 Had there been no sharp subtraction,

 From the early sum,

 Not an acre or a caption,

 Where was once a room.

 Not a mention, whose small pebble,

 Wrinkled any bay, --

 Unto such, were such assembly,

 'T were Thanksgiving day.

 

 

The Raven

  "The Raven" by the American author Edgar Allen Poe was first published in January of 1845. It is often noted for it's stylized language, supernatural atmosphere and musicality.

THE RAVEN 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

 As of some one gently rapping - rapping at my chamber door. 

 ' ' Tis some visitor,' I muttered, ' tapping at my chamber door -

 Only this and nothing more'

 Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

 Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow

 From my books surcrease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -

Nameless here forever more.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

 Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

 ' 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance st my chamber door -

 Some late visitor entreating entrance upon my chamber door, -

 Tis this and nothing more. '

 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

 'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

 And so faintly you came tapping - tapping at my chamber door,

 That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door -

 Darkness there and nothing more.

 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

 But the silence was unbroken, and darkness gave o token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!'

 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word 'Lenore!'

 Merely this and nothing more.

 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

 Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.

 "Surely,' I said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore; - 

 Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; -

'Tis the wind and nothing more.'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he

But, with mien of lord of Pallas just above my chamber door -

Perched, and set, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from Nightly shore -

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' 

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore,'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

 Though its answer little meaning - little relevance bore;

Fore we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

 With such a name as 'Nevermore.'

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - before-

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

'Doubtless,' said i, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore

Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore

Of ' Never - nevermore.''


But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself into linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core,
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
 She shall press, ah, nevermore!


 Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
 Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
 'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
 Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
 Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, an forget this lost Lenore!'
 Quoth the Raven, ' Nevermore.'


 'Prophet!' said I, ' things of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
 Desolate yet undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
 On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore-
 Is there- is there a balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!'
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.'



 By the Heaven that bend above us- by that God we both adore-
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'
 Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'


 'Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked, upstarting
 'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
 Leave no black plume as a token of the lie thy soul hath spoken!
 Leave thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
 Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'


 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!

Bust of Pallas

In Hardwood Groves

IN HARDWOOD GROVES
BY
 ROBERT FROST

 The same leaves over and over again!

 They fall from the giving shade above

 To make one texture of faded brown

 And fit the earth like a leather glove.

 Before the leaves can mount again

 To fill the trees with another shade,

 They must go down past things coming up

 They must go down into the dark decayed.

 They must be pierced by flowers and put

 Beneath the feet of dancing flowers.

However it is some other world

 I know that this way in ours