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Best Famous Raced Poems

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Written by William Wordsworth | Create an image from this poem

Resolution And Independence

 I 

There was a roaring in the wind all night; 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods; 
But now the sun is rising calm and bright; 
The birds are singing in the distant woods; 
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; 
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; 
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. 

II 

All things that love the sun are out of doors; 
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; 
The grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors 
The hare is running races in her mirth; 
And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, 
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 

III 

I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 
I saw the hare that raced about with joy; 
I heard the woods and distant waters roar; 
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: 
The pleasant season did my heart employ: 
My old remembrances went from me wholly; 
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 

IV 

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low; 
To me that morning did it happen so; 
And fears and fancies thick upon me came; 
Dim sadness--and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. 

V 

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; 
And I bethought me of the playful hare: 
Even such a happy Child of earth am I; 
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; 
Far from the world I walk, and from all care; 
But there may come another day to me-- 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 

VI 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 
As if life's business were a summer mood; 
As if all needful things would come unsought 
To genial faith, still rich in genial good; 
But how can He expect that others should 
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? 

VII 

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, 
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; 
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 
Following his plough, along the mountain-side: 
By our own spirits are we deified: 
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; 
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. 

VIII 

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
A leading from above, a something given, 
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place, 
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
I saw a Man before me unawares: 
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. 

IX 

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence; 
Wonder to all who do the same espy, 
By what means it could thither come, and whence; 
So that it seems a thing endued with sense: 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; 

X 

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, 
Nor all asleep--in his extreme old age: 
His body was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage; 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 

XI 

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood: 
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 
That heareth not the loud winds when they call 
And moveth all together, if it move at all. 

XII 

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 
As if he had been reading in a book: 
And now a stranger's privilege I took; 
And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." 

XIII 

A gentle answer did the old Man make, 
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: 
And him with further words I thus bespake, 
"What occupation do you there pursue? 
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes, 

XIV 

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
But each in solemn order followed each, 
With something of a lofty utterance drest-- 
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 
Of ordinary men; a stately speech; 
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, 
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. 

XV 

He told, that to these waters he had come 
To gather leeches, being old and poor: 
Employment hazardous and wearisome! 
And he had many hardships to endure: 
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; 
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance, 
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. 

XVI 

The old Man still stood talking by my side; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; 
And the whole body of the Man did seem 
Like one whom I had met with in a dream; 
Or like a man from some far region sent, 
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. 

XVII 

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; 
And hope that is unwilling to be fed; 
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; 
And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
--Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
My question eagerly did I renew, 
"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" 

XVIII 

He with a smile did then his words repeat; 
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide 
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet 
The waters of the pools where they abide. 
"Once I could meet with them on every side; 
But they have dwindled long by slow decay; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 

XIX 

While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 
The old Man's shape, and speech--all troubled me: 
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
About the weary moors continually, 
Wandering about alone and silently. 
While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 

XX 

And soon with this he other matter blended, 
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, 
But stately in the main; and when he ended, 
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; 
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Scapegoat

 We have all of us read how the Israelites fled 
From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, 
And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup" 
When the waters rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. 
The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" 
That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. 
You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo -- 
Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro". 
For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears 
In deserts with never a famine to follow by, 
The Israelite horde went roaming abroad 
Like so many sundowners "out on the wallaby". 
When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, 
Was dying, he murmured, "A rorty old hoss you are: 
I give you command of the whole of the band" -- 
And handed the Government over to Joshua. 

But Moses told 'em before he died, 
"Wherever you are, whatever betide, 
Every year as the time draws near 
By lot or by rote choose you a goat, 
And let the high priest confess on the beast 
The sins of the people the worst and the least, 
Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer. 
Because all your sins are 'his troubles' in future. 
Then lead him away to the wilderness black 
To die with the weight of your sins on his back: 
Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, 
For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!" 

'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity 
This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. 
By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, 
Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, 
Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, 
Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate; 
Just here let us note -- Did they choose their best goat? 
It's food for conjecture, to judge from the picture 
By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a 
Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose 
Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. 

In fact I should think he was one of their weediest: 
'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, 
When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; 
Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers 
Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, 
That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers. 
Be that as it may, as each year passed away, 
a scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted 
With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) 
And left there -- to die as his fancy dictated. 

The day it has come, with trumpet and drum. 
With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb 
They lead the old billy-goat off to his doom: 
On every hand a reverend band, 
Prophets and preachers and elders stand 
And the oldest rabbi, with a tear in his eye, 
Delivers a sermon to all standing by. 
(We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he 
No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.) 
The sermon was marked by a deal of humility 
And pointed the fact, with no end of ability. 
That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, 
And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. 
Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat 
And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, 
Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. 
With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- 
"Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, 
The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" 
Then signs to his pal "for to let the brute go". 
(That "pal" as I've heard, is an elegant word, 
Derived from the Persian "Palaykhur" or "Pallaghur"), 
As the scapegoat strains and tugs at the reins 
The Rabbi yells rapidly, "Let her go, Gallagher!" 

The animal, freed from all restraint 
Lowered his head, made a kind of feint, 
And charged straight at that elderly saint. 
So fierce his attack and so very severe, it 
Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, 
Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it. 
The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, 
A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp", 
Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground", 
And made a beeline back again to the camp. 
The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast 
So gallantly making his way to the east, 
Says he, "From the tents may I never more roam again 
If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. 
He's hurrying, too! This never will do. 
Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. 
After all our confessions, so openly granted, 
He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. 
We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, 
If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" 

He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light, 
A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. 
"Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, 
And drive back the brute to the desert again. 
The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids will frown on you, 
From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you -- 
Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you." 
So Abraham ran, like a man did he go for him, 
But the goat made it clear each time he drew near 
That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him. 

The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -- 
"Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace -- 
And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, 
The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. 
The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, 
And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! 
He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!" 
But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. 
('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), 
"It's a hard race," said he, "and I think it would be 
A good thing for someone to take up the running." 
As soon said as done, they started to run -- 
The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns 
All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, 
And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. 
And then it came out, as the rabble and rout 
Streamed over the desert with many a shout -- 
The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, 
Had been in his youth a bold metallician, 
And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, 
"Any price Abraham! Evens the field!" 
Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, 
And Abraham proved him an "even time" man, 
But the goat -- now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on -- 
Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' 
And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. 

Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp 
Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, 
And paling and wall he plasters them all, 
"I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat," he says, 
The pulls out his bills, "Use Solomon's Pills" 
"Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all 
Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; 
Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! 
Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children and all, 
For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!!" 
Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side 
Was the scapegoat: And eating his latest advertisement! 
One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" 
And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. 
His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, 
But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste. 

With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, 
The people came back from the desert in dread. 
"The goat -- was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?" 
In very short order they got plenty word of him. 
In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, 
"The trail of the serpent was over them all." 
A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter 
Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter". 
The bill-sticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, 
The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; 
He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, 
But his latest achievement most anger arouses, 
For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, 
One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flow'r-bed, 
Discovered him eating the Rabbi's geraniums. 


Moral 
The moral is patent to all the beholders -- 
Don't shift your own sins on to other folks' shoulders; 
Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, 
Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them: 
Take their lives if needs must -- when it comes to the worst, 
But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. 
Remember, no matter how far you may roam 
That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens, 
Their talent stupendous for "getting back home". 
Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, 
And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it, 
But, die in the wilderness! Don't you believe it!
Written by Jack Prelutsky | Create an image from this poem

Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens

 Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.

They were on the chairs and tables,
they were on the chandeliers,
they were roosting in the corners,
they were clucking in my ears,
there were chickens, chickens, chickens
for as far as I could see...
when I woke today, I noticed
there were eggs on top of me.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Exorcists

 And I solemnly swear
on the chill of secrecy
that I know you not, this room never,
the swollen dress I wear,
nor the anonymous spoons that free me,
nor this calendar nor the pulse we pare and cover.

For all these present,
before that wandering ghost,
that yellow moth of my summer bed,
I say: this small event
is not. So I prepare, am dosed
in ether and will not cry what stays unsaid.

I was brown with August,
the clapping waves at my thighs
and a storm riding into the cove. We swam
while the others beached and burst
for their boarded huts, their hale cries
shouting back to us and the hollow slam
of the dory against the float.
Black arms of thunder strapped
upon us, squalled out, we breathed in rain
and stroked past the boat.
We thrashed for shore as if we were trapped
in green and that suddenly inadequate stain

of lightning belling around
our skin. Bodies in air
we raced for the empty lobsterman-shack.
It was yellow inside, the sound
of the underwing of the sun. I swear,
I most solemnly swear, on all the bric-a-brac

of summer loves, I know
you not.
Written by William Wordsworth | Create an image from this poem

Resolution And Independence

 I 

There was a roaring in the wind all night; 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods; 
But now the sun is rising calm and bright; 
The birds are singing in the distant woods; 
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; 
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; 
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. 

II 

All things that love the sun are out of doors; 
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; 
The grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors 
The hare is running races in her mirth; 
And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, 
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 

III 

I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 
I saw the hare that raced about with joy; 
I heard the woods and distant waters roar; 
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: 
The pleasant season did my heart employ: 
My old remembrances went from me wholly; 
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 

IV 

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low; 
To me that morning did it happen so; 
And fears and fancies thick upon me came; 
Dim sadness--and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. 

V 

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; 
And I bethought me of the playful hare: 
Even such a happy Child of earth am I; 
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; 
Far from the world I walk, and from all care; 
But there may come another day to me-- 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 

VI 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 
As if life's business were a summer mood; 
As if all needful things would come unsought 
To genial faith, still rich in genial good; 
But how can He expect that others should 
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? 

VII 

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, 
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; 
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 
Following his plough, along the mountain-side: 
By our own spirits are we deified: 
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; 
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. 

VIII 

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
A leading from above, a something given, 
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place, 
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
I saw a Man before me unawares: 
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. 

IX 

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence; 
Wonder to all who do the same espy, 
By what means it could thither come, and whence; 
So that it seems a thing endued with sense: 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; 

X 

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, 
Nor all asleep--in his extreme old age: 
His body was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage; 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 

XI 

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood: 
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 
That heareth not the loud winds when they call 
And moveth all together, if it move at all. 

XII 

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 
As if he had been reading in a book: 
And now a stranger's privilege I took; 
And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." 

XIII 

A gentle answer did the old Man make, 
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: 
And him with further words I thus bespake, 
"What occupation do you there pursue? 
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes, 

XIV 

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
But each in solemn order followed each, 
With something of a lofty utterance drest-- 
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 
Of ordinary men; a stately speech; 
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, 
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. 

XV 

He told, that to these waters he had come 
To gather leeches, being old and poor: 
Employment hazardous and wearisome! 
And he had many hardships to endure: 
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; 
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance, 
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. 

XVI 

The old Man still stood talking by my side; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; 
And the whole body of the Man did seem 
Like one whom I had met with in a dream; 
Or like a man from some far region sent, 
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. 

XVII 

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; 
And hope that is unwilling to be fed; 
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; 
And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
--Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
My question eagerly did I renew, 
"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" 

XVIII 

He with a smile did then his words repeat; 
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide 
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet 
The waters of the pools where they abide. 
"Once I could meet with them on every side; 
But they have dwindled long by slow decay; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 

XIX 

While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 
The old Man's shape, and speech--all troubled me: 
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
About the weary moors continually, 
Wandering about alone and silently. 
While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 

XX 

And soon with this he other matter blended, 
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, 
But stately in the main; and when he ended, 
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; 
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"


Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Create an image from this poem

Falling Stars

 Do you remember still the falling stars
that like swift horses through the heavens raced
and suddenly leaped across the hurdles
of our wishes--do you recall? And we
did make so many! For there were countless numbers
of stars: each time we looked above we were
astounded by the swiftness of their daring play,
while in our hearts we felt safe and secure
watching these brilliant bodies disintegrate,
knowing somehow we had survived their fall.
Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

Love Among The Ruins

 I

Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles
 Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
 Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
 As they crop— 
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
 (So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
 Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
 Peace or war.

II

Now—the country does not even boast a tree,
 As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
 From the hills
Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
 Into one)
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
 Up like fires
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
 Bounding all,
Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest,
 Twelve abreast.

III

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
 Never was!
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
 And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
 Stock or stone— 
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
 Long ago;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
 Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
 Bought and sold.

IV

Now,—the single little turret that remains
 On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
 Overscored,
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
 Through the chinks— 
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
 Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
 As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
 Viewed the games.

V

And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
 Smiles to leave
To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
 In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
 Melt away— 
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
 Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
 For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
 Till I come.

VI

But he looked upon the city, every side,
 Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
 Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then,
 All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
 Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
 Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
 Each on each.

VII

In one year they sent a million fighters forth
 South and north,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
 As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force— 
 Gold, of course.
Oh, heart! oh, blood that freezes, blood that burns!
 Earth's returns
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
 Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest.
 Love is best!
Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

Fern Hill

 Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
 The night above the dingle starry,
 Time let me hail and climb
 Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
 Trail with daisies and barley
 Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
 In the sun that is young once only,
 Time let me play and be
 Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
 And the sabbath rang slowly
 In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
 And playing, lovely and watery
 And fire green as grass.
 And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
 Flying with the ricks, and the horses
 Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
 Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
 The sky gathered again
 And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
 Out of the whinnying green stable
 On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
 In the sun born over and over,
 I ran my heedless ways,
 My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
 Before the children green and golden
 Follow him out of grace.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
 take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
 In the moon that is always rising,
 Nor that riding to sleep
 I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
 Time held me green and dying
 Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Our New Horse

 The boys had come back from the races 
All silent and down on their luck; 
They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, 
But never a winner they's struck. 
They lost their good money on Slogan, 
And fell most uncommonly flat 
When Partner, the pride of the Bogan, 
Was beaten by Aristocrat. 
And one said, "I move that instanter 
We sell out our horses and quit; 
The brutes ought to win in a canter, 
Such trials they do when they're fit. 
The last one they ran was a snorter -- 
A gallop to gladden one's heart -- 
Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter, 
And finished as straight as a dart. 

"And then when I think that they're ready 
To win me a nice little swag, 
They are licked like the veriest neddy -- 
They're licked from the fall of the flag. 
The mare held her own to the stable, 
She died out to nothing at that, 
And Partner he never seemed able 
To pace with the Aristocrat. 

"And times have been bad, and the seasons 
Don't promise to be of the best; 
In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons 
For giving the racing a rest. 
The mare can be kept on the station -- 
Her breeding is good as can be -- 
But Partner, his next destination 
Is rather a trouble to me. 

"We can't sell him here, for they know him 
As well as the clerk of the course; 
He's raced and won races till, blow him, 
He's done as a handicap horse. 
A jady, uncertain performer, 
They weight him right out of the hunt, 
And clap it on warmer and warmer 
Whenever he gets near the front. 

"It's no use to paint him or dot him 
Or put any fake on his brand, 
For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him 
In any sale-yard in the land. 
The folk about here could all tell him, 
Could swear to each separate hair; 
Let us send him to Sydney and sell him, 
There's plenty of Jugginses there. 

"We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em 
To trials will open their eyes; 
We'll run their best horses and beat 'em, 
And then won't they think him a prize. 
I pity the fellow that buys him, 
He'll find in a very short space, 
No matter how highly he tries him, 
The beggar won't race in a race." 

* * * * * 

Next week, under "Seller and Buyer", 
Appeared in the Daily Gazette: 
"A racehorse for sale, and a flyer; 
Has never been started as yet; 
A trial will show what his pace is; 
The buyer can get him in light, 
And win all the handicap races. 
Apply before Saturday night." 

He sold for a hundred and thirty, 
Because of a gallop he had 
One morning with Bluefish and Bertie. 
And donkey-licked both of 'em bad. 
And when the old horse had departed, 
The life on the station grew tame; 
The race-track was dull and deserted, 
The boys had gone back on the game. 

* * * * * 

The winter rolled by, and the station 
Was green with the garland of Spring; 
A spirit of glad exultation 
Awoke in each animate thing; 
And all the old love, the old longing, 
Broke out in the breasts of the boys -- 
The visions of racing came thronging 
With all its delirious joys. 

The rushing of floods in their courses, 
The rattle of rain on the roofs, 
Recalled the fierce rush of the horses, 
The thunder of galloping hoofs. 
And soon one broke out: "I can suffer 
No longer the life of a slug; 
The man that don't race is a duffer, 
Let's have one more run for the mug. 

"Why, everything races, no matter 
Whatever its method may be: 
The waterfowl hold a regatta; 
The possums run heats up a tree; 
The emus are constantly sprinting 
A handicap out on the plain; 
It seems that all nature is hinting 
'Tis ime to be at it again. 

"The cockatoo parrots are talking 
Of races to far-away lands; 
The native companions are walking 
A go-as-you-please on the sands; 
The little foals gallop for pastime; 
The wallabies race down the gap; 
Let's try it once more for the last time -- 
Bring out the old jacket and cap. 

"And now for a horse; we might try one 
Of those that are bred on the place. 
But I fancy it's better to buy one, 
A horse that has proved he can race. 
Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner, 
A thorough good judge who can ride, 
And ask him to buy us a spinner 
To clean out the whole country-side." 

They wrote him a letter as follows: 
"we want you to buy us a horse; 
He must have the speed to catch swallows, 
And stamina with it, of course. 
The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us, 
It's getting a bad un annoys 
The undersigned blokes, and believe us, 
We're yours to a cinder, 'the boys'." 

He answered: "I've bought you a hummer, 
A horse that has never been raced; 
I saw him run over the Drummer, 
He held him outclassed and outpaced. 
His breeding's not known, but they state he 
Is born of a thoroughbred strain. 
I've paid them a hundred and eighty, 
And started the horse in the train." 

They met him -- alas, that these verses 
Aren't up to their subject's demands, 
Can't set forth thier eloquent curses -- 
For Partner was back in their hands. 
They went in to meet him with gladness 
They opened his box with delight -- 
A silent procession of sadness 
They crept to the station at night. 

And life has grown dull on the station, 
The boys are all silent and slow; 
Their work is a daily vexation, 
And sport is unknown to them now. 
Whenever they think how they stranded, 
They squeal just as guinea-pigs squeal; 
They'd bit their own hook, and were landed 
With fifty pounds loss on the deal.
Written by Stanley Kunitz | Create an image from this poem

Father and Son

 Now in the suburbs and the falling light
I followed him, and now down sandy road
Whitter than bone-dust, through the sweet
Curdle of fields, where the plums
Dropped with their load of ripeness, one by one.
Mile after mile I followed, with skimming feet,
After the secret master of my blood,
Him, steeped in the odor of ponds, whose indomitable love
Kept me in chains. Strode years; stretched into bird;
Raced through the sleeping country where I was young,
The silence unrolling before me as I came,
The night nailed like an orange to my brow.

How should I tell him my fable and the fears,
How bridge the chasm in a casual tone,
Saying, "The house, the stucco one you built,
We lost. Sister married and went from home,
And nothing comes back, it's strange, from where she goes.
I lived on a hill that had too many rooms;
Light we could make, but not enough of warmth,
And when the light failed, I climbed under the hill.
The papers are delivered every day;
I am alone and never shed a tear."

At the water's edge, where the smothering ferns lifted
Their arms, "Father!" I cried, "Return! You know
The way. I’ll wipe the mudstains from your clothes;
No trace, I promise, will remain. Instruct
You son, whirling between two wars,
In the Gemara of your gentleness,
For I would be a child to those who mourn
And brother to the foundlings of the field
And friend of innocence and all bright eyes.
0 teach me how to work and keep me kind."

Among the turtles and the lilies he turned to me
The white ignorant hollow of his face.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry