Friday Poetry: Sara Teasdale

Happy Friday!

Christmas is fast approaching, so here is another Christmas poem and this one is by Sara Teasdale.

This poem is by Sara Teasdale, Teasdale was an American lyric poet born in 1884. Sadly she committed suicide in 1933.

Christmas Carol

The kings they came from out the south,
All dressed in ermine fine;
They bore Him gold and chrysoprase,
And gifts of precious wine.

The shepherds came from out the north,
Their coats were brown and old;
They brought Him little new-born lambs—
They had not any gold.

The wise men came from out the east,
And they were wrapped in white;
The star that led them all the way
Did glorify the night.

The angels came from heaven high,
And they were clad with wings;
And lo, they brought a joyful song
The host of heaven sings.

The kings they knocked upon the door,
The wise men entered in,
The shepherds followed after them
To hear the song begin.

The angels sang through all the night
Until the rising sun,
But little Jesus fell asleep
Before the song was done.

Sara Teasdale

Happy Reading!

Friday Poetry: The Friendly Beasts

Happy Friday!

It is time for another Christmas themed poem and this one is about the animals of the Christmas story. Sadly the author of this lovely poem is unknown.

The Friendly Beasts

Jesus our brother, kind and good,
Was humbly born in a stable rude,
And the friendly beasts around him stood;
Jesus our brother, kind and good.

'I,' said the donkey, shaggy and brown,
'I carried his mother up hill and down,
I carried her safely to Bethlehem town;
I,' said the donkey, shaggy and brown.

'I,' said the cow, all white and red,
'I gave him my manger for his bed,
I gave him my hay to pillow his head;
I,' said the cow, all white and red.

'I,' said the sheep, with the curly horn,
'I gave him my wool for his blanket warm;
He wore my coat on Christmas morn.
'I,' said the sheep with the curly horn.

'I,' said the dove, from the rafters high,
'Cooed him to sleep, my mate and I,
We cooed him to sleep, my mate and I;
I,' said the dove, from the rafters high.

And every beast, by some good spell,
In the stable dark, was glad to tell,
Of the gift he gave Emmanuel,
The gift he gave Emmanuel.

Happy Reading

Friday Poetry: Clare Bevan

Happy Friday!

It is time for some Christmas poetry!

I chose this poem because it is about a cat and poems about cats are always good.

Christmas Cat

I've built a cuddly snowcat
With whiskers made from straws
And I'm almost sure,
I'm almost sure
I saw him lick his paws.

He's sitting in my garden,
He's smiling at me now,
And I'm almost sure,
I'm almost sure
I heard him say, 'Mee-ow!'

Clare Bevan

Happy Reading!

Friday Poetry: Christina Rossetti

Happy Friday!

I hope everyone has some good bookish plans for the weekend. As most of you probably know November has been Christina Rossetti month for my Friday Poetry section, so here is my last Rossetti poem for November.

What is Pink?

What is pink? a rose is pink
By the fountain's brink
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? why, an orange,
Just an orange!

Christina Rossetti

Friday Poetry: Christina Rossetti

Happy Friday!

Today is a chill day for me as I have handed in my two assignments so it is time for a little break before I start again on Saturday.

So here is my chosen poem for this week.

A Wintry Sonnet

A Robin said: The Spring will never come,
And I shall never care to build again.
A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,
My sap will never stir for sun or rain.
The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,
I neither care to wax nor care to wane.
The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,
Because earth's rivers cannot fill the main.-
When Springtime came, red Robin built a nest,
And trilled a lover's song in sheer delight.
Grey hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might
Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.
The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,
Dimpled his blue, yet thirsted evermore.

Christina Rossetti

Happy Reading!

Friday Poetry: Christina Rossetti

Happy Friday!

Here is my chosen Rossetti poem for this week and this week I have chosen one of her sonnets and this one is about Autumn.

18

So late in Autumn half the world's asleep,
And half the wakeful world looks pinched and pale,
For dampness now, not freshness, rides the gale;
And cold and colourless comes ashore the deep
With tides that bluster or with tides that creep;
Now veiled uncouthness wears an uncouth veil
Of fog, not sultry haze; and blight and bale
Have done their worst, and leaves rot on the heap.
So late in Autumn one forgets the Spring,
Forgets the Summer with its opulence,
The callow birds that long have found a wing,
The swallows that more lately gat them hence:
Will anything like Spring, will anything
Like Summer, rouse one day the slumbering sense?

Christina Rossetti

Happy Reading.

Friday Poetry: Christina Rossetti

Happy Friday!

This month I have decided to do something different. This month I am dedicating to my favourite poet Christina Rossetti. This means that each Friday of November I will post a poem by Rossetti.

Apologies if you do not like Rossetti but she is my absolute favourite.

A Pin

A pin has a head, but has no hair;
A clock has a face, but no mouth there;
Needles have eyes, but they cannot see;
A fly has a trunk without lock or key;
A timepiece may lose, but cannot win;
A corn-field dimples without a chin;
A hill has no leg, but has a foot;
A wine-glass a stem, but not a root;
A watch has hands, but no thumb or finger;
A boot has a tongue, but is no singer;
Rivers run, though they have no feet;
A saw has teeth, but it does not eat;
Ash-trees have keys, yet never a lock;
And baby crows, without being a cock.

Christina Rossetti

Have a good weekend everyone!

Happy Reading!

Friday Poetry: Thomas Hardy

Happy Friday!

I have gone for another Autumn based poem this week.

Autumn in King’s Hintock Park

Here by the baring bough

Raking up leaves,

Often I ponder how

Springtime deceives, –

I, an old woman now,

Raking up leaves.

Here in the avenue

Raking up leaves,

Lord’s ladies pass in view,

Until one heaves

Sighs at life’s russet hue,

Raking up leaves!

Just as my shape you see

Raking up leaves,

I saw, when fresh and free,

Those memory weaves

Into gray ghosts by me,

Raking up leaves.

Yet, Dear, though one may sigh,

Raking up leaves,

New leaves will dance on high –

Earth never grieves! –

Will not, when missed am I

Raking up leaves.

Thomas Hardy

Friday Poetry: Rabindranath Tagore

Happy Friday!

Rabindranath Tagore was the recipient of the Nobel Prize for literature in 1913. Tagore was a musician and artist as well a poet. Tagore was born and raised in Calcutta in India and spent his entire life there.

Paper Boats

Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running stream.

In big black letters I write my name on them and the name of the village where I live.

I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and know who I am.

I load my little boats with shiuli flowers from our garden, and hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land in the night.

I launch my paper boats and look into the sky and see the little clouds setting their white bulging sails.

I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down the air to race with my boats!

When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars.

The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading is their baskets full of dreams.

Rabindranath Tagore

Happy Reading!

Friday Poetry: William Shakespeare

Happy Friday!

I have gone for another Shakespeare Sonnet and this one I think is perfect for Autumn.

Sonnet 73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see’st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.

This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

William Shakespeare