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Poem for the Day

Posted: 30 October 2014

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack ...
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.

'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:'
Love said, 'You shall be he.'
'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.'
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
'Who made the eyes but I?'

'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.'
'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?'
'My dear, then I will serve.'
'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.'
So I did sit and eat.

Love
George Herbert

Poem for the Day

Posted: 29 October 2014

'Twas a new feeling - something more
Than we had dar'd to own before,
Which then we hid not;...
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wish'd in every broken sigh
To speak, but did not!

She felt my lips' impassion'd touch;
'Twas the first time I dar'd so much,
And yet, she chid not;
But whisper'd o'er my burning brow,
'Oh! do you doubt I love you now?'
Sweet soul! I did not!

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I prest it closer, closer still,
Though gently bid not;
Till - oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly err'd,
And yet who - did not!

Quantum Est Quod Desit (To the brink but no further)
Thomas Moore

Poem for the Day

Posted: 28 October 2014

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages...
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

In My Craft Or Sullen Art
Dylan Thomas

Poem for the Day

Posted: 27 October 2014

All that is moulded of iron
Has lent to destruction and blood;
But the things that are honour’d of Zion...
Are most of them made from wood.

Stone can be chisell’d to Beauty,
And iron shines bright for Defence;
But when Mother Earth ponder’d her duty
She brought forth the forest, from whence

Come tables, and chairs, and crosses,
Little things that a hot fire warps,
Old ships that the blue wave tosses,
And fiddles for music, and harps;

Oak boards where the carved ferns mingle,
Monks’ shrines in the wilderness,
Snug little huts in the dingle,
All things that the sad poets bless.

King Arthur had a wood table;
And Our Lord blessed wood; for, you see,
He was born in a wooden stable,
And He died on a wooden tree;

And He sailed in a wooden vessel
On the waters of Galilee,
And He work’d at a wooden trestle
At His wonderful carpentry.

Oh, all that is moulded of iron
Has lent to destruction and blood;
But the things that are honour’d of Zion
Are most of them made from wood.

Woodworker's Ballad
Herbert Edward Palmer

Poem for the Day

Posted: 26 October 2014

When I too long have looked upon your face,
Wherein for me a brightness unobscured
Save by the mists of brightness has its place,...
And terrible beauty not to be endured,
I turn away reluctant from your light,
And stand irresolute, a mind undone,
A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight
From having looked too long upon the sun.
Then is my daily life a narrow room
In which a little while, uncertainly,
Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,
Among familiar things grown strange to me
Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,
Till I become accustomed to the dark.

When I Too Long Have Looked Upon Your Face
Edna St Vincent Millay

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