A new blog 

Every Day a Discovery on the Net

begins tomorrow !st November

everydayadiscoveryonthenet.blogspot.com

-o0o-

No.94

When I have baked White Cakes
Amy Lowell

When I have baked white cakes
And grated green almonds to spread upon them;
When I have picked the green crowns from the strawberries
And piled them, cone-pointed, in a blue and yellow platter;
When I have smoothed the seam of the linen I have been working;
What then?
To-morrow it will be the same:
Cakes and strawberries,
And needles in and out of cloth.
If the sun is beautiful on bricks and pewter,
How much more beautiful is the moon,
Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree;
The moon,
Wavering across a bed of tulips;
The moon,
Still,
Upon your face.
You shine, Beloved,
You and the moon.
But which is the reflection?
The clock is striking eleven.
I think, when we have shut and barred the door,
The night will be dark
Outside.

-o0o-

No.93

Invictus
William Ernest Henley 1849-1903

Out of the night that covers me,
   Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
   For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
   I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
   My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond the place of wrath and tears
   Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
   Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
   How charged with punishment the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
 I am the captain of my soul.

-o0o-

No. 92

The Mountains of Mourne

Percy French 1854-1920

Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight,

With people all working by day and by night.

Sure, they don't sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat,

But there's gangs of them digging for gold in the street.

At least when I asked them that's what I was told,

So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,

But for all that I found there I might as well be

Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I believe that when writing a wish you expressed

As to how the fine ladies in London are dressed,

Well if you'll believe me, when asked to a ball,

They don't wear no top to their dresses at all.

Oh I've seen them meself and you could not in truth,

Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath.

Don't be starting such fashions, oh no, Mary dear,

Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I've seen England's king from the top of a bus

And I've never known him, but he means to know us.

And tho' by the Saxon we once were oppressed,

Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest.

And now that he's visited Erin's green shore

We'll be much better friends than we've been heretofore

When we've got all we want, we're as quiet as can be

Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

You remember young Peter O'Loughlin, of course,

Well, now he is here at the head of the Force.

I met him today, I was crossing the Strand,

And he stopped the whole street with a wave of his hand.

And there we stood talkin' of days that are gone,

While the whole population of London looked on.

But for all these great powers he's wishful like me,

To be back where the dark Mournes sweep down to the sea.

There's beautiful girls here, oh, never you mind,

With beautiful shapes nature never designed,

And lovely complexions all roses and cream,

But let me remark with regard to the same

That if of those roses you ventured to sip,

The colours might all come away on your lip,

So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting for me

Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

-o0o-

No.91

Sunset

Florence Peacock 

(dates not known)

"The setting sun of old age ever gilds with rosy tints the days gone by."

The setting sun of life gilds with its rays

The unforgotten but far distant days,

The days when youth and hope walked hand in hand.

It sheds around the past a rosy glow,

That past which never was a present, though

On looking back o'er life it seems to stand

Bathed in a crimson glory,--and old age

Lingers with loving fondness o'er the page

Thus lighted up by memory's golden rays.

-o0o-

No.90

One Perfect Rose
Dorothy Parker 1893-1967

A single flower he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet –
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
“My fragile leaves,” it said, “his heart enclose.”
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.

Why is it no one’s ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah, no – it’s always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

-o0o-

No.89

Beautiful Old Age

D. H. Lawrence 1885-1930

It ought to be lovely to be old 

to be full of the peace that comes of experience 

and wrinkled ripe fulfilment. 

The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a life 

lived undaunted and unsoured with accepted lies 

they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins 

in their old age. 

Soothing, old people should be, like apples 

when one is tired of love. 

Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the soft 

stillness and satisfaction of autumn. 

And a girl should say: 

It must be wonderful to live and grow old. 

Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! - 

And a young man should think: By Jove 

my father has faced all weathers, but it's been a life!

-o0o-

No.88

A Magic Moment I Remember

Alexander Sergeyevich Poushkin 1799-1837

A magic moment I remember:

I raised my eyes and you were there,

A fleeting vision, the quintessence

Of all that's beautiful and rare.

I pray to mute despair and anguish,

To pursuits the vain world esteems,

Long did I hear your soothing accents,

Long did your features haunt my dreams. 

Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered

The reveries that once were mine

And I forgot your soothing accents,

Your features gracefully divine. 

In dark days of enforced retirement

I gazed upon grey skies above

With no ideals to inspire me

No one to cry for, live for, love. 

Then came a moment of renaissance,

I looked up - you again are there

A fleeting vision, the quintessence

Of all that's beautiful and rare.

-o0o-

No.87

Halfway Down
A.A. Milne 1882-1956

Halfway down the stairs
Is a stair
Where I sit.
There isn't any
Other stair
Quite like
It.
I'm not at the bottom,
I'm not at the top;
So this is the stair
Where
I always
Stop.

Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up
And it isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery,
It isn't in town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head.
It isn't really
Anywhere!
It's somewhere else
Instead!

-o0o-

No.86

HOPE THE HERMIT 
17th Cent
Anon

Once in a blythe greenwood 
Lived a hermit wise and good
Whom the folks from far and near
For his council sought,
Knowing well that what he taught 
The dreariest of hearts would cheer.
Though his hair was white 
His eye was clear and bright, 
And he thus was ever wont to say:
"Though to care we are born, 
Yet the dullest morn 
Often heralds in the fairest day!" 

"The very longest lane,
Has a turning, it is plain,
E'en the blackest of clouds will fly:
And what can't be cured
Must with patience be endured:
As cheaply can we laugh as cry."
And people gazed,
At words so deep amazed,
While the Sage went on to say:
"Though to care we are born, 
Yet the dullest morn 
Often heralds in the fairest day!" 

Pray, is the hermit dead?
From the forest has he fled?
No, he lives to counsel all
Who an ear will lend
To their wisest, truest friend,
And Hope the Hermit's name they call.
Still he sits, I ween,
'Mid branches ever green,
And cheerly you may hear him say:
"Though to care we are born, 
Yet the dullest morn 
Often heralds in the fairest day!" 

-o0o-

No.85

From a Carriage Window
Alexander Anderson 1845-1909

Just a peep from a carriage window,
As we stood for a moment still,
Just one look - and no more - till the engine
Gave a whistle sharp and shrill.

But I saw in that moment the heather,
That lay like a purple sheet
On the hills that watch o’er the hamlet
That sleeps like a child at their feet.

O, sweet are those hills when the winter
Flings round them his mantle of snow,
And sweet when the sunshine of summer
Sets their fair green bosoms aglow.

But sweeter and grander in autumn,
When the winds are soft with desire,
When the buds of the heather take blossom,
And run to their summits like fire.

I saw each and all through the heather
That purple lay spread like a sheet
On the hills that watch over the hamlet,
That sleeps like a child at their feet.

-o0o-

No.84

She Walks in Beauty
Lord Byron 1788-1824

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
And all that’s best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 
Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o’er her face; 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent!

-o0o-

No.83

The Sunlight on the Garden

Louis MacNeice 1907-63

The sunlight on the garden 

Hardens and grows cold, 

We cannot cage the minute 

Within its nets of gold, 

When all is told 

We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances 

Advances towards its end; 

The earth compels, upon it 

Sonnets and birds descend; 

And soon, my friend, 

We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying 

Defying the church bells 

And every evil iron 

Siren and what it tells: 

The earth compels, 

We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon, 

Hardened in heart anew, 

But glad to have sat under 

Thunder and rain with you, 

And grateful too 

For sunlight on the garden.

-o0o-

No.82

Abou Ben Adhem

Leigh Hunt 1784-1859

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 

And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 

An angel writing in a book of gold:— 

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 

And to the presence in the room he said, 

"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head, 

And with a look made of all sweet accord, 

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." 

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, 

Write me as one that loves his fellow men." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 

It came again with a great wakening light, 

And showed the names whom love of God had blest, 

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 

-o0o-

No.81

Th First Lesson

Phyllis McGinley 1905-78

The first thing to remember about fathers is, they're men. 

A girl has to keep it in mind. 

They are dragon-seekers, bent on impossible rescues. 

Scratch any father, you find 

Someone chock-full of qualms and romantic terrors, 

Believing change is a threat - 

Like your first shoes with heel on, like your first bicycle 

It took months to get. 

Walk in strange woods, they warn you about the snakes there. 

Climb and they fear you'll fall. 

Books, angular looks, swimming in deep water - 

Fathers mistrust them all. 

Men are the worriers. It is difficult for them 

To learn what they must learn: 

How you have a journey to take and very likely, 

For a while, will not return. 

-o0o-

No.80

Sleeping compartment 

Norman McCaig 1910-96

I don't like this, being carried sideways

through the night. I feel wrong and helpless - like

a timber broadside in a fast stream.

Such a way of moving my suit

that odd snake the sidewinder

in Arizona: but not me in Perthshire.

I feel at right angles to everything,

a crossgrain in existence. - It scrapes

the top of my head and my footsoles.

To forget outside is no help either -

then I become a blockage

in the long gut of the train.

I try to think I'm an Alice in Wonderland

mountaineer bivouacked

on a ledge five feet high.

It's no good. I go sidelong.

I rock sideways - I draw in my feet

To let Aviemore pass.

-o0o-

No.79

My Love Bound Me With a Kiss

Anon

My love bound me with a kiss

  That I should no longer stay;

When I felt so sweet a bliss

  I had less power to part away:

Alas, that women doth not know

Kisses make men loath to go.

Yes, she knows it but too well,

  For I heard when Venus’ dove

In her ear did softly tell

  That kisses were the seals of love:

O muse not then though it be so,

Kisses make men loath to go.

Wherefore did she thus inflame

  My desires heat my blood,

Instantly to quench the same

  And starve whom she had given food?

I the common sense can show,

Kisses make men loath to go.

Had she bid me go at first

  It would ne’er have grieved my heart,

Hope delayed had been the worst;

  But ah to kiss and then to part!

How deep it struck, speak, gods, you know

Kisses make men loath to go.

-o0o-

No.78

Happy the Man

John Dryden 1631-1700

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call today his own;

He who, secure within, can say,

Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul or rain or shine

The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

-o0o-

No.77

Sick

Shel Silverstein 1930-99

“I cannot go to school today,"

Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

“I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I’m going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox

And there’s one more--that’s seventeen,

And don’t you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,

I’m sure that my left leg is broke--

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button’s caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,

My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,

My temperature is one-o-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?

What’s that? What’s that you say?

You say today is. . .Saturday?

G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

-o0o-

No.76 

The Way Through The Woods

Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936

They shut the road through the woods

Seventy years ago. 

Weather and rain have undone it again, 

And now you would never know 

There was once a road through the woods 

Before they planted the trees. 

It is underneath the coppice and heath, 

And the thin anemones.

Only the keeper sees 

That, where the ring-dove broods,

And the badgers roll at ease, 

There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods 

Of a summer evening late, 

When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools 

Where the otter whistles his mate, 

(They fear not men in the woods, 

Because they see so few.) 

You will hear the beat of a horse's feet, 

And the swish of a skirt in the dew, 

Steadily cantering through 

The misty solitudes, 

As though they perfectly knew 

The old lost road through the woods.

But there is no road through the woods.

-o0o-

No.75

Drake's Drum
 Henry Newbolt 1862-1938

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,    
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)    
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,    
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.    

Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,             
Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,    
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'    
    He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.    
  
Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,    
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),      
Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,    
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,    

"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,    
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;    
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,      
    An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."     

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,    
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),    
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,    
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.      

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,    
    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;    
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin', 
They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.    

-o0o-

No.74

The Ash Grove

The Oxenford Lyrics

The ash grove, how graceful, how plainly 'tis speaking

The wind through it playing has language for me.

When over its branches the sunlight is breaking,

A host of kind faces is gazing on me.

The friends of my childhood again are before me

Each step wakes a memory as freely I roam.

With soft whispers laden the leaves rustle o’er me

The ash grove, the ash grove again is my home.

Down yonder green valley where streamlets meander

When twilight is fading I pensively rove

Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander

Amid the dark shades of the lonely ash grove.

‘Twas there while the blackbird was cheerfully singing

I first met that dear one, the joy of my heart

Around us for gladness the bluebells were ringing

But then little thought I how soon we should part.

My lips smile no more, my heart loses its lightness;

No dream of the future my spirit can cheer.

I only can brood on the past and its brightness

The dear ones I long for again gather here.

From ev'ry dark nook they press forward to meet me;

I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome,

And others are there, looking downward to greet me

The ash grove, the ash grove, again is my home.

-o0o-

No.73

Life

Daisaku Ikeda  b.1928

I will cast out

All the vagueness and indecision within me

Because my wish is to construct

The castle of my whole life

On the fulfilment of each promise that I make.

I want to live my life

As a surpassingly broadminded man

Known for being happy and honest

A person in whom people can have absolute trust.

I've put behind me

The age of dreaming about a rosy future

And with roots extended into life's reality

I realise that the power to create happiness

Derives from what we actually do today. 

-o0o-

No.72

A Plain Life

W.H. Davies 1871-1940

No idle gold - since this fine sun, my friend,

Is no mean miser, but doth freely spend.

No precious stones - since these green mornings show,

Without a charge, their pearls where'er I go.

No lifeless books - since birds with their sweet tongues

Will read aloud to me their happier songs.

No painted scenes - since clouds can change their skies

A hundred times a day to please my eyes.

No headstrong wine - since, while I drink, the spring

Into my eager ears will softly sing.

No surplus clothes - since every simple beast

Can teach me to be happy with the least.

-o0o-

No.71

By the Sea

Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830-94

Why does the sea moan evermore?

Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,

It frets against the boundary shore;

All earth's full rivers cannot fill

The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.

Sheer miracles of loveliness

Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed:

Anemones, salt, passionless,

Blow flower-like; just enough alive

To blow and multiply and thrive.

Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike,

Encrusted live things argus-eyed,

All fair alike, yet all unlike,

Are born without a pang, and die

Without a pang, and so pass by.

-o0o-

No.70

I Know a Bank

from "A Midsummer Night's Dream" spoken by Oberon

William Shakespeare  1564-1616

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

-o0o-

No.69

Beautiful Dreamer

Stephen Foster 1826-64

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;

Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,

Lull'd by the moonlight have all passed away!

Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,

List while I woo thee with soft melody;

Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,

Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelei;

Over the streamlet vapors are borne,

Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.

Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,

Even as the morn on the streamlet and sea;

Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

-o0o-

No.68

Untitled
Rabindranath Tagore 1861-1941

I want to give you something, my child,
for we are drifting in the stream of the world.
Our lives will be carried apart,
and our love forgotten.
But I am not so foolish as to hope that
I could buy your heart with my gifts.
Young is your life, your path long, and
you drink the love we bring you at one draught
and turn and run away from us.
You have your play and your playmates.
What harm is there if you have no time
or thought for us.
We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age
to count the days that are past,
to cherish in our hearts what our
hands have lost for ever.
The river runs swift with a song,
breaking through all barriers.
But the mountain stays and remembers,
and follows her with his love.

-o0o-

No.67

After Three Years

Paul Verlaine

Translation from French by A.S. Kline

Opening the narrow rickety gate,

I went for a walk in the little garden,

All lit up by that gentle morning sun,

Starring each flower with watery light.

Nothing was changed. Again: the humble arbour

With wild vines and chairs made of rattan…

The fountain as ever in its silvery pattern,

And the old aspen with its eternal murmur.

The roses as then still trembled, and as then

The tall proud lilies rocked in the wind.

I knew every lark there, coming and going.

I found the Veleda statue standing yet,

At the end of the avenue its plaster flaking,

– Weathered, among bland scents of mignonette.

-o0o-

No.66

Unwelcome

Mary Coleridge 1861-1907

We were young, we were merry, we were very, very wise,

And the door stood open at our feast,

When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes,

And a man with his back to the East.

O, still grew the hearts that were beating so fast,

The loudest voice was still,

The jest died away on our lips as they passed,

And the rays of July struck chill.

The cups of red wine turned pale on the board,

The white bread black as soot,

The hound forgot the hand of her lord,

She fell down at his foot. 

Low let me lie where the dead dog lies,

Ere I sit me down again at a feast,

When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes,

And a man with his back to the East.

-o0o-

No.65

The Harvest Moon

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes

And roofs of villages, on woodland crests

And their aerial neighbourhoods of nests

Deserted, on the curtained window-panes

Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes

And harvest-fields, its mystic splendour rests!

Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,

With the last sheaves return the labouring wains!

All things are symbols: the external shows

Of Nature have their image in the mind,

As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;

The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,

Only the empty nests are left behind,

And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

-o0o-

No.64

The Ageing House
Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

When the walls were red
        That now are seen
        To be overspread
        With a mouldy green,
        A fresh fair head
        Would often lean
        From the sunny casement
        And scan the scene,
While blithely spoke the wind to the little sycamore tree.

        But storms have raged
        Those walls about,
        And the head has aged
        That once looked out;
        And zest is suaged
        And trust is doubt,
        And slow effacement
        Is rife throughout,
While fiercely girds the wind at the long-limbed sycamore tree!

-o0o-