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Have You Forgotten?
Have you forgotten how one Summer night
We wandered forth together with the moon,
While warm winds hummed to us a sleepy tune?
Have you forgotten how you praised both light
Started by from church,
Travelled for faith,
Met with the wanted,
Given selfless for surety,
With usura hath no man a house of good stone
each block cut smooth and well fitting
Michael: A Pastoral Poem
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
Few hours pictures on s/media,
Nonga gone too early, mortuary ices like that we bought Sunday after church
What to think then, soil one me after relatives to come,
Temperature is above normal in a coffin can't scream
Calm as no stories heard, Days to count: in white you vowed,
Eight years together for you money mattered,
In House of God you called each other brother and sister,
You blood related, blood related, Technologies never lie
The Old Huntsman
I've never ceased to curse the day I signed
A seven years' bargain for the Golden Fleece.
'Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough
It cost me, what with my daft management,
Note To Dad
There is a new one called Bob, or is it Rob.
His face is round just like a door knob.
He has a mop of hair that looks like a mob.
Although he is not, he acts like a snob.
I Miss You
Where are you my darling
I tried calling out your name but I met no reponse
I tried reaching out to you but you are no where to be seen, honey
Where are you, I need you to set me free from these nightmares.
A Rainy Day
Oh, what a blessed interval
A rainy day may be!
No lightning flash nor tempest roar,
But one incessant, steady pour
Nothing But Stones
I think I never passed so sad an hour,
Dear friend, as that one at the church to-night.
The edifice from basement to the tower
Was one resplendent blaze of coloured light.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Some men were born for great things,
Some were born for small;
Some--it is not recorded
Why they were born at all;
Man stomping over my bed in boots
carrying a large bronze church bell
which you occasionally drop:
gross man with iron heels
My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
Dim, as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars
To lonely, weary, wand'ring travellers,
Is reason to the soul; and as on high,
Those rolling fires discover but the sky
THE two were silent in a sunless church,
Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones,
And wasted carvings passed antique research;
And nothing broke the clock's dull monotones.
Think not that incense-smoke has had its day.
My friends, the incense-time has but begun.
Creed upon creed, cult upon cult shall bloom,
Shrine after shrine grow gray beneath the sun.
The Crimes Of Peace
Musing upon the tragedies of earth,
Of each new horror which each hour gives birth,
Of sins that scar and cruelties that blight
Life's little season, meant for man's delight,
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The three stood listening to a fresh access
Of wind that caught against the house a moment,
Gulped snow, and then blew free again-the Coles
Dressed, but dishevelled from some hours of sleep,
Chorus: Let all the world in ev'ry corner sing
'My God and King.'
Verse: The heav'ns are not too high,
The Dance Of Death
THE warder looks down at the mid hour of night,
On the tombs that lie scatter'd below:
The moon fills the place with her silvery light,
And the churchyard like day seems to glow.
Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
Go to sleep-though of course you will not-
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
William Carlos Williams
AMONG deep woods is the dismantled scite
Of an old Abbey, where the chaunted rite,
By twice ten brethren of the monkish cowl,
Was duly sung; and requiems for the soul
Absalom And Achitophel
In pious times, ere priest-craft did begin,
Before polygamy was made a sin;
When man, on many, multipli'd his kind,
Ere one to one was cursedly confin'd:
HARK! Young Democracy from sleep
Our careless sentries raps:
A backwash from the Futureâ??s deep
Our Evilâ??s foreland laps.
Hark-how the church-bells thundering harmony
Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come,
Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships
Met on the element,-they met, they fought
They are the last romantics, these candles:
Upside-down hearts of light tipping wax fingers,
And the fingers, taken in by their own haloes,
Grown milky, almost clear, like the bodies of saints.
King Arthur's Tomb
Hot August noon: already on that day
Since sunrise through the Wiltshire downs, most sad
Of mouth and eye, he had gone leagues of way;
Ay and by night, till whether good or bad
Know you her secret none can utter?
Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown?
Still on the spire the pigeons flutter,
Still by the gateway flits the gown;
Sir Arthur Quiller-couch
After The Rain
THE rain has ceased, and in my room
The sunshine pours an airy flood;
And on the church's dizzy vane
The ancient cross is bathed in blood.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Now ere I slept, my prayer had been that I might see my way
To do the will of Christ, our Lord and Master, day by day;
And with this prayer upon my lips, I knew not that I dreamed,
But suddenly the world of night a pandemonium seemed.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
To A Louse
ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
That some day, emerging at last from the terrifying vision
I may burst into jubilant praise to assenting angels!
That of the clear-struck keys of the heart not one may fail
to sound because of a loose, doubtful or broken string!
Rainer Maria Rilke
now lets down as white
As may be in dark woods, and with a song
It shall not make again all winter long
Of hissing on the yet uncovered ground,
A Waft Of Perfume
A waft of perfume from a bit of lace
Moved lightly by a passing woman's hand;
And on the common street, a sensuous grace
Shone suddenly from some lost time and land.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
One Sabbath day my friend and I
After the meeting, quietly
Passed from the crowded village lanes,
White with dry dust for lack of rains,
John Greenleaf Whittier
Sun-Tanned men and women, toiling there together;
Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat,
Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather
Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat.
In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires the ring them
In steeples far and near,
A. E. Housman
Be where I may when Death brings in his bill,
Demanding payment for life's ling'ring debt,
Or in my native village nestling still,
Or tracing scenes I've never known as yet,