Written by
Rabindranath Tagore |
Come to my garden walk, my love.
Pass by the fervid flowers that
press themselves on your sight.
Pass them by, stopping at some
chance joy, which like a sudden wonder of sunset illumines, yet
elude.
For lover's gift is shy, it never tells its name, it flits
across the shade, spreading a shiver of joy along the dust.
Overtake it or miss it for ever.
But a gift that can be
grasped is merely a frail flower, or a lamp with flame that will
flicker.
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Written by
Barry Tebb |
Any poets about or bored muses fancying a day out?
Rainy, windy, cold Leeds City Station
Half-way through its slow chaotic transformation
Contractors’ morning break, overalls, hard hats and harness
Flood McDonalds where I sip my tea and try to translate Val?ry.
London has everything except my bardic inspiration
I’ve only to step off the coach in Leeds and it whistles
Its bravuras down every wind, rattles the cobbles in Kirkgate Market
Hovers in the drunken brogue of a Dubliner in the chippie
As we share our love of Joyce the Aire becomes the Liffey.
All my three muses have abandoned me.
Daisy in Asia,
Brenda protesting outside the Royal Free, Barbara seeing clients at the C.
A.
B.
Past Saltaire’s Mill, the world’s eighth wonder,
The new electric train whisperglides on wet rails
Past Shipley’s fairy glen and other tourist trails
Past Kirkstall’s abandoned abbey and redundant forge
To Grandma Wild’s in Keighley where I sit and gorge.
I’ve travelled on the Haworth bus so often
The driver chats as if I were a local
But when the rainbow’s lightning flash
Illumines all the valleys there’s a hush
And every pensioner's rheumy eye is rooted
On the gleaming horizon as its mooted
The Bronte’s spirits make the thunder crack
Three cloaked figures converging round the Oakworth track.
Haworth in a storm is a storm indeed
The lashing and the crashing makes the gravestones bleed
The mashing and the bashing makes the light recede
And on the moor top I lose my way and find it
Half a dozen times slipping in the mud and heather
Heather than can stand the thrust of any weather.
Just as suddenly as it had come the storm abated
Extremes demand those verbs so antiquated
Archaic and abhorred and second-rated
Yet still they stand like moorland rocks in mist
And wait as I do till the storm has passed
Buy postcards at the parsonage museum shop
Sit half an hour in the tea room drying off
And pen a word or two to my three muses
Who after all presented their excuses
But nonetheless the three all have their uses.
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Written by
Eugene Field |
There's a dear little home in Good-Children street -
My heart turneth fondly to-day
Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet
Make sweetest of music at play;
Where the sunshine of love illumines each face
And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.
For dear little children go romping about
With dollies and tin tops and drums,
And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout
Till bedtime too speedily comes!
Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
With little folk living in Good-Children street.
See, here comes an army with guns painted red,
And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts;
The captain rides gaily and proudly ahead
On a stick-horse that prances and snorts!
Oh, legions of soldiers you're certain to meet -
Nice make-believe soldiers - in Good-Children street.
And yonder Odette wheels her dolly about -
Poor dolly! I'm sure she is ill,
For one of her blue china eyes has dropped out
And her voice is asthmatic'ly shrill.
Then, too, I observe she is minus her feet,
Which causes much sorrow in Good-Children street.
'T is so the dear children go romping about
With dollies and banners and drums,
And I venture to say they are sadly put out
When an end to their jubilee comes:
Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
With little folk living in Good-Children street!
But when falleth night over river and town,
Those little folk vanish from sight,
And an angel all white from the sky cometh down
And guardeth the babes through the night,
And singeth her lullabies tender and sweet
To the dear little people in Good-Children Street.
Though elsewhere the world be o'erburdened with care,
Though poverty fall to my lot,
Though toil and vexation be always my share,
What care I - they trouble me not!
This thought maketh life ever joyous and Sweet:
There's a dear little home in Good-Children street.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Of whom so dear
The name to hear
Illumines with a Glow
As intimate -- as fugitive
As Sunset on the snow --
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Written by
Omar Khayyam |
Each heart that God illumines with the light of
love, as it frequents the mosque or synagogue, inscribes
its name upon the book of love, and is set free from
fear of Hell while it awaits the joys of Paradise.
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