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-