My chosen poem this week is by Walter de la Mare (1873-1956) who was an English poet, short story writer and novelist. He is best known for his works for children.
Mistletoe
Sitting under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), One last candle burning low, All the sleepy dancers gone, Just one candle burning on, Shadows lurking everywhere: Some one came, and kissed me there.
Tired I was; my head would go Nodding under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), No footsteps came, no voice, but only, Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely, Stooped in the still and shadowy air Lips unseen—and kissed me there.
I have had a lovely day of reading and relaxing today which has been just what I needed.
I have been busy planning the Carol service for the church I play the organ for and I found this little poem which I thought I would use for my blog today and the Carol service later this month.
The poem is by the Cornish poet, school teacher and writer Charles Causley (1917-2003).
Mary's Song
Your royal bed Is made of hay In a cattle-shed. Sleep, King Jesus, Do not fear, Joseph is watching And waiting near.
Warm in the wintry air You lie, The ox and the donkey Standing by, With summer eyes They seem to say: Welcome, Jesus, On Christmas Day!
Sleep, King Jesus: Your diamond crown High in the sky Where the stars look dawn. Let your reign Of love begin, That all the world May enter in.
My chosen poem this week is actually a folk song but one that I rather like.
Fare You Well
Fare you well, my dear, I must be gone, And leave you for a while; If I roam away I'll come back again, Though I roam ten thousand miles, my dear, Though I roam ten thousand miles.
So fair thou art, my bonny lass, So deep in love am I; But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love, Till the stars fall from the sky, my dear, Till the stars fall from the sky.
The sea will never run dry, my dear, Nor the rocks melt with the sun, But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love, Till all these things be done, my dear, Till all these things be done.
O yonder doth sit that little turtle dove, He doth sit on yonder high tree, A-making a moan for the loss of his love, As I will do for thee, my dear, As I will do for thee.
My chosen poem this week is by one of my favourite poets.
Shake Hands
Shake hands, we shall never by friends, all's over; I only vex you the more I try. All's wrong that ever I've done or said, And nought to help it in this dull head: Shake hands, here's luck, good-bye.
But if you come to a road where danger Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share, Be good to the lad that loves you true And the soul that was born to die for you, And whistle and I'll be there.
I am now back from a lovely holiday in Barcelona so it is all back to normal with the blog.
My chosen poem this week is by one of my favourite authors, Anne Bronte.
The Consolation
Though bleak these woods and damp the ground With fallen leaves so thickly strewn, And cold the wind that wanders round With wild and melancholy moan:
There is a friendly roof, I know, Might shield me from the wintry blast; There is a fire, whose ruddy glow Will cheer me for my wanderings past.
And so, through still where'er I go Cold stranger-glances meet my eye, Though, when my spirit sinks in woe, Unheeded swells the unbidden sigh,
Though solitude, endured too long Bids youthful joys too soon decay, Makes mirth a stranger to my tongue, And overclouds my noon of day;
When kindly thoughts that would have way, Flow back discouraged to my breast; I know there is, though far away, A home where heart and soul may rest.
Warm hands are there, that, clasped in mine, The warmer heart will not belie; While mirth, and truth, and friendship shine In smiling lip and earnest eye.
The ice that gathers round my heart May there be thawed; and sweetly, then, The joys of youth that now depart, Will come to cheer my soul again.
Though far I roam, this thought shall be My hope, my comfort everywhere; While such a home remains to me, My heart shall never know despair!
My chosen poem this week is by the American poet, musician, playwright and author Joy Harjo (1951).
Remember
Remember the sky that you were born under, know each of the star's stories. Remember the moon, know who she is. Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the strongest point of time. Remember sundown and the giving away to night. Remember your birth, how your mother struggled to give you form and breath. You are evidence of her life, and her mother's and hers. Remember your father. He is your life, also. Remember the earth whose skin you are: red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth brown earth, we are earth. Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them, listen to them. They are alive poems. Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the origin of this universe. Remember you are all people and all people are you. Remember you are this universe and this universe is you. Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you. Remember language comes from this. Remember the dance language is, that life is. Remember.
My chosen poem this week is by Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811-1896). Stowe was an American author and abolitionist who wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
Think Not All Is Over
Think not, when the wailing winds of autumn Drive the shivering leaflets from the tree, - Think not all is over: spring returneth, Buds and leaves and blossoms thou shalt see.
Think not, when the earth lies cold and sealed, And the weary birds above her mourn,- Think not all is over: God still liveth, Songs and sunshine shall again return.
Think not, when thy heart is waste and dreary, When thy cherished hopes lie chill and sere,- Think not all is over: God still loveth, He will wipe away thy every tear.
Weeping for a night alone endureth, God at last shall bring a morning hour; In the frozen buds of every winter Sleep the blossoms of a future flower.
Lady Book Dragon 