General Chat

Could we have some nice bright poems like Words worth Daffodils etc Thanks June ..

THE WILLOW CATS --Margaret Widdemer They call them pussy-willows, But there's no cat to see Except the little furry toes That stick out on the tree: I think that very long ago, When I was just born new, There must have been whole pussy-cats Where just the toes stick through---- And every Spring it worries me, I cannot ever find Those willow-cats that ran away And left their toes behind!

Oh Heather thats Lovely Thankyou June xx

I wrote this for a very special man I became friends with on a dating site, before we met......now 7 mths later we're planning a future together.... I have more to follow..... A friendship to cherish..... Like the river mist, when the dawn sun rises.. I wake and you're with me. You take me thro each hour of the day... but no-one else can see. For we are just 2 strangers, breathing the same air. The moonlight in our sky at night.. the sunshine we do share. I long to say 'Hello'... to touch and sense you're real. To share a precious moment... to listen, see and feel. You are a friend, so dear to me.... no words could ever say... my friend, eventhough, we've never met... you brighten up my day. If only fate would tell us... what it holds for me and you. But one thing I can be sure of... our friendship is special and true. If friends were like flowers, I'd pick you everytime.

Here is one of my favourite poems. The Flowers All the names I know from nurse: Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse, Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock, And the Lady Hollyhock. Fairy places, fairy things, Fairy woods where the wild bee wings, Tiny trees for tiny dames-- These must all be fairy names! Tiny woods below whose boughs Shady fairies weave a house; Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme, Where the braver fairies climb! Fair are grown-up people's trees, But the fairest woods are these; Where, if I were not so tall, I should live for good and all The Flowers Robert Louis Stevenson Jackiexx

I love poetry!! Living in a valley of daffodils Not one, could others see But my heart knew they were there, Through the winds blowing free They tipped every mountain Cascaded to the waters edge Trumpets all saluting As to heavens rightful pledge They showed me of the beauty That was created for us to share In this land of music Trumpets sound, whispering on air Some harvested into homes Brightening the rooms Lightness of the yellows Still whispering their tunes How these daffodils in vision Took me home to sleep Cradled in mothers arms A blanket of daffodils deep The aroma of the scents That fills every nook Could never really be captured In the words of a book Their beauty is unfounded Standing to attention Sunrays compelling their shades As your eyes are driven to retention To capture daffodils on the breeze Grasp out to hold and gain Visualising thoughts of serenity In your heart to remain. By Lynda. Gillie xx

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Village Blacksmith Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his haul, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.

Thank You girls they are lovely June xx

The Moorland Flower. Beneath a crag, whose forehead rude O'erfrowns the mountain side,- Stern monarch of the solitude, Dark-heaving, wild, and wide,- A floweret of the moorland hill Peeped out unto the sky, In a mossy nook, where a limpid rill Came tinkling blithely by. Like a star-seed from the night-skies flung Upon the mountains lone, Into a gleaming floweret sprung,- Amid the wild it shone ; And bush and brier, and rock and rill, And every wandering wind, In interchange of sweet good-will And mutual love did bind. In the gloaming grey, at close of day, Beneath the deepening blue, It lifted up its little cup To catch the evening dew : The rippling fall, the moorfowl's call, The wandering night-wind's moan ; It heard, it felt, it loved them all,- That floweret sweet and lone. The green fern wove a screening grove From noontide's fervid ray ; The pearly mist of the brooklet kist Its leaves with cooling spray ; And when dark tempests swept the waste, And north winds whistled wild, The brave old rock kept off the shock As a mother shields her child. And when it died, the south wind sighed, The drooping fern looked dim ; The old crag moaned, the lone ash groaned, The wild heath sang a hymn ; The leaves crept near, though fallen and sere, Like old friends mustering round ; And a dew-drop fell from the heather bell Upon its burial ground. For it had bloomed content to bless Each thing that round it grew ; And on its native wilderness Its store of sweetness strew : Fair link in nature's chain of love, To noisy fame unknown, There is a register above, E'en when a flower is gone. So, lovingly embrace thy lot, Though lowly it may be, And beautify the little spot Where God hath planted thee : To win the world's approving eyes Make thou no foolish haste,- Heaven loves the heart that lives and dies To bless its neighbouring waste. Edwin Waugh.

Just thought I'd try and keep in tune And pen this little verse for June, June, gaze into the moorland bower And see the beauty of that flower.

O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry: Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it ware ten thousand mile. - Burns

Jeff as always thank you for your contribution very nice really touched June x.

nudge for Jeff June x

'LEISURE' What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. By Wm. Henry Davies. (Wm. Henry Davies (1871-1940) is to be considered as the poet of the tramps. Born at Newport, Wales in the UK, Davies came to America from Great Britain and lived the life of a vagabond. One day, as the result of jumping a train, he lost one of legs. Davies returned to England where he continued to live the life of a tramp and a pedlar. He wrote poetry (presumably he did right along) and, eventually, he determined to print his own book and did so with the little money he earned panhandling. Jackiexx

Thanks for the Leisure one i remember it from school June x