Famous Short Hawthorn Poems

Famous Short Hawthorn Poems. Short Hawthorn Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Hawthorn short poems

The Hawthorn Tree  

 ACROSS the shimmering meadows-- 
Ah, when he came to me! 
In the spring-time, 
In the night-time, 
In the starlight, 
Beneath the hawthorn tree. 

Up from the misty marsh-land-- 
Ah, when he climbed to me! 
To my white bower, 
To my sweet rest, 
To my warm breast, 
Beneath the hawthorn tree. 

Ask of me what the birds sang, 
High in the hawthorn tree; 
What the breeze tells, 
What the rose smells, 
What the stars shine-- 
Not what he said to me!

A Private  

 This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors
Many a frozen night, and merrily
Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:
"At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,
"I slept." None knew which bush. Above the town,
Beyond `The Drover', a hundred spot the down
In Wiltshire. And where now at last he sleeps
More sound in France -that, too, he secret keeps.

Song in the Manner of Housman  

 O woe, woe, 
People are born and die, 
We also shall be dead pretty soon 
Therefore let us act as if we were 
dead already.

The bird sits on the hawthorn tree 
But he dies also, presently. 
Some lads get hung, and some get shot. 
Woeful is this human lot. 
Woe! woe, etcetera . . . .

London is a woeful place, 
Shropshire is much pleasanter. 
Then let us smile a little space 
Upon fond nature's morbid grace. 
Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera . . .

Epilogue  

 "Why can't you say what you mean straight out in prose?"
Well, say it yourself: then say "It's that, but more,
Or less perhaps, or not that way, or not
That after all." The meaning of a song
Might be an undernote; this tree might mean
That leaf as much as trunk, branch, other leaves.
And does one know till one begins? And let's
Look over hedges far as eyesight lets us,
Since road's not, surely, road, but road and hedge
And feet and sky and smell of hawthorn, horse-dung.

Give Me Back My Rags #12  

 Enough chattering violets enough sweet trash
I won't hear anything know anything
Enough enough of all

I'll say the last enough
Fill my mouth with earth
Grit my teeth

To break off you skull guzzler
To break off once for all

I'll just be what I am
Without root without branch without crown
I'll lean on myself
On my own bumps and bruises

I'll be the hawthorn stake through you
That's all I can be in you
In you spoilsport in you muddlehead

Get lost

Tis Time I Think By Wenlock Town  

 'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town 
The golden broom should blow; 
The hawthorn sprinkled up and down 
Should charge the land with snow. 

Spring will not wait the loiterer's time 
Who keeps so long away; 
So others wear the broom and climb 
The hedgerows heaped with may. 

Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge, 
Gold that I never see; 
Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge 
That will not shower on me.

The Hawthorn Tree  

 Not much to me is yonder lane 
Where I go every day; 
But when there’s been a shower of rain 
And hedge-birds whistle gay, 
I know my lad that’s out in France
With fearsome things to see 
Would give his eyes for just one glance 
At our white hawthorn tree.

. . . . 
Not much to me is yonder lane 
Where he so longs to tread:
But when there’s been a shower of rain 
I think I’ll never weep again 
Until I’ve heard he’s dead.

In The Green And Gallant Spring  

 IN the green and gallant Spring,
Love and the lyre I thought to sing,
And kisses sweet to give and take
By the flowery hawthorn brake.

Now is russet Autumn here,
Death and the grave and winter drear,
And I must ponder here aloof
While the rain is on the roof.

The First Of May  

The fair maid who, the first of May,Goes to the fields at break of day,And washes in dew from the hawthorn-tree,Will ever after handsome be.