Tag: poem

Daffodils

Poetry – Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o’er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but theyOutdid the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not be but gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed – and gazed – but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me

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Poetry – Hampton Holidays

LAST comes December with his ruffian windWhirled from the maelstrom of the polar seaTo sweep our mighty hill in mockeryOf such enshrouding snows as would be kindAnd wrap their frozen mother. Stiffly linedThrough thin and crackling ice the leaves lie starkAs hoar Caina’s ice-locked souls, and darkIn the dark air the branches toss and grind. Then dawns another day when winds are still;From our frost-flashing village on the hillWe greet the laggard sun, and far belowAll down the valley see the silver spread,Save where the dim fir-forest’s pungent bedLies thatched by tufted pine-plumes bright with snow. — George Allan England

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Poetry – Gathering Leaves

Spades take up leavesNo better than spoons,And bags full of leavesAre light as balloons. I make a great noiseOf rustling all dayLike rabbit and deerRunning away. But the mountains I raiseElude my embrace,Flowing over my armsAnd into my face. I may load and unloadAgain and againTill I fill the whole shed,And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight,And since they grew dullerFrom contact with earth,Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use,But a crop is a crop,And who’s to say whereThe harvest shall stop? — Robert Frost

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The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be

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Poetry – Mandalay

BY THE old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea,There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she thinks o’ me;For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:“Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay! “Come you back to Mandalay,Where the old Flotilla lay:Can’t you ‘ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay ?On the road to Mandalay,Where the flyin’-fishes play,An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay! ‘Er petticoat was yaller an’ ‘er little cap was green,An’ ‘er name was Supi-yaw-lat – jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,An’

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Poetry – The Children’s Hour

I hear in the chamber above me      The patter of little feet,The sound of a door that is opened,      And voices soft and sweet. From my study, I see in the lamplight,      Descending the broad hall stair,Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,      And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence:      Yet I know by their merry eyesThey are plotting and planning together      To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway,      A sudden raid from the hall!By three doors left unguarded      They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret      O’er the arms and back of my chair;If I try to escape, they

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