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Poem for the Day

Posted: 1 October 2014

Overtones of Burns' "Song, Composed in August" in this lovely wee poem I think.

I love to see the old heath's withered brake
Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling,...
While the old heron from the lonely lake
Starts slow and flaps its melancholy wing,
An oddling crow in idle motion swing
On the half-rotten ash-tree's topmost twig,
Beside whose trunk the gypsy makes his bed.
Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brig
Where a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread;
The fieldfares chatter in the whistling thorn
And for the haw round fields and closen rove,
And coy bumbarrels, twenty in a drove,
Flit down the hedgerows in the frozen plain
And hang on little twigs and start again.

Emmonsail's Heath In Winter
John Clare

Poem for the Day

Posted: 30 September 2014

Nice warm socks,
Nice warm socks-
We should celebrate them....
Ask a toe!
Toes all know
It’s hard to overrate them.

Toes say, ‘Please
Don’t let us freeze
Till we’re numb and white,
Summer’s gone-
Put them on!
Wear them day and night!’

Nice warm socks,
Nice warm socks –
Who would dare to mock them?
Take good care
Of every pair
And never, ever knock them.

The Joy of Socks
Wendy Cope

Poem for the Day

Posted: 29 September 2014

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;...
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old. . . ." "And when we die
All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"

"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;
"We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
- And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

The Hill
Rupert Brooke

Poem for the Day

Posted: 28 September 2014

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain ...
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Sonnet XLII
Edna St Vincent Millay

Poem for the Day

Posted: 27 September 2014

This, Gentle Readers, will take many of you back to magical Saturday mornings and Children's Favourites on the radio.

A bold hippopotamus was standing one day,
On the banks of the cool Shalimar....
He gazed at the bottom as it peacefully lay
By the light of the evening star.
Away on a hilltop, sat brushing her hair
His fair hippopotamine maid.
The hippopotamus was no ignoramus
And sang her this sweet serenade.

Mud, mud, glorious mud,
Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood.
So follow me, follow, down to the hollow
And there let us wallow in glorious mud.

The fair hippopotama he aimed to entice
From that seat on the hilltop above.
As she hadn't got a ma to give her advice
Came tiptoeing down to her love.
Like thunder the forest reechoed the sound
Of the song that they sang as they met.
His inamorata adjusted her garter
And lifted her voice in duet.

Then more hippopotami began to convene
On the banks of that river so wide.
I wonder now what am I to say of the scene
That ensued by the Shalimar side.
They all dived at once with an ear-splitting "Splosh"
Then rose to the surface again.
A regular army of hippopotami
All singing this haunting refrain.

The Hippopotamus Song
Michael Flanders

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