apple picking—
a feather blows
from the empty nest
(Anon)
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apple picking—
a feather blows
from the empty nest
(Anon)
Judging distances, by Henry Reed:
Not only how far away, but the way that you say it
Is very important. Perhaps you may never get
The knack of judging a distance, but at least you know
How to report on a landscape: the central sector,
The right of the arc and that, which we had last Tuesday,
And at least you know
That maps are of time, not place, so far as the army
Happens to be concerned—the reason being,
Is one which need not delay us. Again, you know
There are three kinds of tree, three only, the fir and the poplar,
And those which have bushy tops to; and lastly
That things only seem to be things.
A barn is not called a barn, to put it more plainly,
Or a field in the distance, where sheep may be safely grazing.
You must never be over-sure. You must say, when reporting:
At five o'clock in the central sector is a dozen
Of what appear to be animals; whatever you do,
Don't call the bleeders sheep.
I am sure that's quite clear; and suppose, for the sake of example,
The one at the end, asleep, endeavors to tell us
What he sees over there to the west, and how far away,
After first having come to attention. There to the west,
On the fields of summer the sun and the shadows bestow
Vestments of purple and gold.
The still white dwellings are like a mirage in the heat,
And under the swaying elms a man and a woman
Lie gently together. Which is, perhaps, only to say
That there is a row of houses to the left of the arc,
And that under some poplars a pair of what appear to be humans
Appear to be loving.
Well that, for an answer, is what we rightly call
Moderately satisfactory only, the reason being,
Is that two things have been omitted, and those are very important.
The human beings, now: in what direction are they,
And how far away, would you say? And do not forget
There may be dead ground in between.
There may be dead ground in between; and I may not have got
The knack of judging a distance; I will only venture
A guess that perhaps between me and the apparent lovers,
(Who, incidentally, appear by now to have finished,)
At seven o'clock from the houses, is roughly a distance
Of about one year and a half.
Just in case you've already forgotten summer! :D
Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze,
A visitant that while it fans my cheek
Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings
From the green fields, and from yon azure sky.
Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come
To none more grateful than to me; escaped
From the vast city, where I long had pined
A discontented sojourner: now free,
Free as a bird to settle where I will.
The Prelude, William Wordsworth
Another Night Before Christmas - Carol Ann Duffy
On the night before Christmas, a child in a house,
as the whole family slept, behaved just like a mouse...
and crept on soft toes down red-carpeted stairs.
Her hand held the paw of her favourite bear.
The Christmas tree posed with its lights in its arms,
newly tinselled and baubled with glittering charms;
flirting in flickers of crimson and green
against the dull glass of the mute TV screen.
The hushed street was in darkness. Snow duveted the cars -
a stray cat had embroidered each roof with its paws.
An owl on an aerial had planets for eyes.
The child at the window stared up at the sky,
where two aeroplanes sped to the east and the west,
like a pulled Christmas cracker. The child held her breath
and looked for a sign up above, as the moon
shone down like a gold chocolate coin on the town.
Far beyond the quiet suburbs, the motorway droned
as it cradled the drivers who murmured at phones
and drove through the small hours, this late Christmas Eve,
the ones who were faithless, the ones who believed.
But the child who was up and long out of her bed
saw no visions of sugar plums dance in her head;
she planned to discover, for once and for all,
if Santa Claus (or Father Christmas) was real.
There were some who said no, he was really just Mum,
with big cushions or pillows to plump out her tum,
or Dad, with a red cloak and cotton-wool beard,
a whisky or three down his neck for Good Cheer.
So she took up position behind a big chair
that was close to the fireplace. Four stockings hung there.
Quite soon there'd be one tangerine in each toe
and she'd be the child who would see and would know.
And outside, a lone taxi crunched back into town,
where the shops had their shutters, like giant eyelids, down,
and people in blankets, with nowhere to go,
were hunched in shop doorways to keep from the snow;
Where a giant plastic Santa climbed up the Town Hall
and security guards dozed or smoked in the Mall.
The cashpoints glowed softly, like icons of light,
from corner to corner, on Christmas Eve night.
Then a shooting star whizzed down the sky from the North.
It was fizzing and sparkling as it fell to earth,
and growing in size. A young hare in a field
gazed up at the sky where it brightened and swelled.
It turned into a sleigh, made of silver and gold,
pulled by reindeer, whose breath chiffoned out in the cold,
with bells on their antlers and bells round each hoof.
Then - clatter! - they landed on you-know-who's roof.
Now, herself near the fireplace had fallen asleep,
So she missed every word that a voice, warm and deep,
was saying above her, as each reindeer's name
was spoken, and flared in the night like a flame.
Dasher, whoa! Dancer, whoa! Prancer! Vixen! Well done!
Comet, whoa! Cupid, whoa! Donner! Blitzen! What fun!
The shadows of reindeer were patterns on snow
which gift-wrapped the garden, three storeys below.
It's a fact that a faraway satellite dish,
which observes us from space, cannot know what we wish.
Its eye's empty socket films famine and greed,
but cannot see Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.
He was dressed all in red, from his head to his toes,
also red was the Christmassy glow of his nose.
His beard was as white as the flakes that fell down
on rich and on poor in this ordinary town.
His eyes twinkled like tinsel and starlight and frost,
and they knew how to give without counting the cost.
He'd slung on his back a huge sackful of toys
to lug down the chimneys of good girls and boys.
Dasher snorted, and Blixen pawed hard at the roof -
they'd a long night before them, and that was the truth!
But Santa had vanished! A puff of black soot
burped out of the chimney, dislodged by his foot.
All this noise woke the child, who had fallen asleep,
so she popped up her head and made sure she could peep
(without being seen) at whoever it was
who stood in the fireplace. Big wow! Santa Claus!
Though she lived in an age where celebrity ruled
and when most of the people were easily fooled
by TV and fashion, by money and cars,
the little girl knew that here was a real STAR!
Then she watched as the room filled with magic and light
as the spirit of Christmas made everything bright
and suddenly presents were heaped by the tree -
but she didn't wonder, which ones are for me?
For the best gift of all is to truly believe
in the wonderful nght that we call Christmas Eve,
when adults remember, of all childhood's laws,
this time in December will bring Santa Claus.
Santa turned and winked at her, then disappeared,
with a laugh, up the chimney, with soot in his beard.
She ran to the window and watched as his sleigh
took off from her roof and he sped on his way.
And as long as she lived she would never forget
how he flew, as the moon showed him in silhouette,
from rooftop to rooftop and called from his flight
HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT.
That was very nice Mossdog. I used to have a Border collie called Moss!
Aged
Creaking ol' mudclaws
Grind a snow-worn path, trig-wards
So, is this winter?
(Nah!)
Robbie Burns Night
Afton Water
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev'ning sweeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides,
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowrets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Colouring In
Jan Dean
And staying inside the lines
Is fine, but ...
I like it when stuff leaks -
When the blue bird and the blue sky
Are just one blur of blue flying,
And the feeling of the feathers in the air
And the wind along the blade of wing
Is a long gash of smudgy colour.
I like it when the flowers and the sunshine
Puddle red and yellow into orange,
The way the hot sun on my back
Lulls me - muddles me - sleepy
In the scented garden,
Makes me part of the picture...
Part of the place.
Ok - these line aren't from a poem but they're lyrics and then only part of the song. Found on a plate on a bench over looking upper Teesdale yesterday, and I thought they were rather touching:
Take me to some high place of heather, rock and ling
Scatter my dust and ashes, feed me to the wind
So that I will be part of all you see, the air you are breathing
I'll be part of the curlew's cry and the soaring hawk
The blue milkwort and the sundew hung with diamonds
I'll be riding the gentle wind that blows through your hair
Reminding you how we shared in the joy of living.
Ewam MacColl - The Joy of Living.
Primroses
by John Clare
I love the rath primroses pale brimstone primroses
That bloom in the thick wood and i' the green closes
I love the primroses whenever they come
Where the blue fly sits pensive & humble bees hum
The pale brimstone primroses come at the spring
Swept over and fann'd by the wild thrushes wing
Bow'd down to the leaf cover'd ground by the bees
Who sing their spring ballads thro bushes & trees
Like patches o' flame i' the Ivy so green
And dark green oak leaves where the Autumn has been
Put on thy straw hat love & russet stuff gown
And see the pale primroses grow up and down
The pale brimstone primroses wild wood primroses
Which maids i' the dark woods make into posies
Put on thy stuff gown love and off let us be
To seek brimstone primroses neath the Oak tree
Spring time is come love primroses bloom fair
The sun o' the morning shines in thy bright hair
The ancient wood shadows are bonny dark green
That throw out like giants the stovens between
While brimstone primroses like patches o' flame
Blaze through the dead leaves making Ivy look tame
I love the rath primrose in hedgerows & closes
Together lets wander to gather primroses —
Respair” by Craig van Rooyen
'Every six minutes another word is dropped from the lexicon.'
Who says there’s no use anymore for woolfell,
the skin of a sheep still attached to the fleece?
And when did we stop calling tomatoes love apples?
I need somewhere in the world for there still to be
a fishwife who understands the economy of flesh
grown taut under shimmer-skin laid out in open air.
Call me a sentimental fool, or better yet a mooncalf,
but I already miss the ten words that went extinct
in the last hour—before I learned their names
or tried to say something smart to make you love me.
Piepowder, drysalter, slugabed, forgotten
like the names of the enlisted in the army of Alexander the Great.
And where have they gone? Gathered on shrinking ice
with other victims of our inattention, floating out into a rising sea?
Like the last day my grandfather remembered my mother’s name.
So don’t mind me in the bathtub on my hands and knees
trying to keep my grandpa’s mind, a polar bear,
and the word poltroon from spinning down the drain.
It’s been left to me to save everything by remembering.
Before the cock crowed, Peter thrice denied Christ, and
twenty words marched off into the dark, never to be uttered again.
Fortunately, that night, we retained dumbass and forgiven,
two words it would be hard to live without these days.
And if I could, I’d turn myself inside out to resurrect
respair, that forgotten Emmaus Road word for
the return of hope after a long period of desolation.
Thanks Mossdog.
Every day a school day :)
The Rainbow
I saw the lovely arch
Of Rainbow span the sky,
The gold sun burning
As the rain swept by.
In bright-ringed solitude
The showery foliage shone
One lovely moment,
And the Bow was gone.
Walter de la Mare
Banks of Cree
Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village-bell has told the hour,
O what can stay my lovely maid.
'Tis not Maria's whispering call;
'Tis but the balmy breathing gale,
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall
The dewy star of eve to hail.
It is Maria's voice I hear;
So calls the woodlark in the grove
His little, faithful Mate to chear,
At once 'tis music - and 'tis love.
And art thou come! and art thou true!
O welcome dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew
Along the flowery banks of Cree.
Robert Burns.
(In mind of Old Whippet and Freckle)
Thank you Mossdog, how lovely - it’s been a long time since I visited this thread - I hope you are keeping well
For Old Whippet
The Good-Morrow
BY JOHN DONNE
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
In condolence to Posie Parker's brave attempt to stand up for all women.
THE CURSE OF CROMWELL
WB YEATS
You ask what - I have found, and far and wide I go:
Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew,
The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay,
And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen, where are they?
And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride - -
His fathers served their fathers before Christ was crucified.
O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?
All neighbourly content and easy talk are gone,
But there's no good complaining, for money's rant is on.
He that's mounting up must on his neighbour mount,
And we and all the Muses are things of no account.
They have schooling of their own, but I pass their schooling by,
What can they know that we know that know the time to die?
O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?
But there's another knowledge that my heart destroys,
As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy's
Because it proves that things both can and cannot be;
That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep company,
Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound,
That I am still their setvant though all are underground.
O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?
I came on a great house in the middle of the night,
Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,
And all my friends were there and made me welcome too;
But I woke in an old ruin that the winds howled through;
And when I pay attention I must out and walk
Among the dogs and horses that understand my talk.
O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?
https://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/re...ae9cd3b5f9ab93
As relevant today as then, and the issue of freedom of speech, perhaps?
[B]The Curse Of Cromwell[/B
]
by William Butler Yeats
You ask what -- I have found, and far and wide I go:
Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's mur-
derous crew,
The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay,
And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen,
where are they?
And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride -- -
His fathers served their fathers before Christ was
crucified.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)
All neighbourly content and easy talk are gone,
But there's no good complaining, for money's rant is
on.
He that's mounting up must on his neighbour mount,
And we and all the Muses are things of no account.
They have schooling of their own, but I pass their
schooling by,
What can they know that we know that know the
time to die?
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)
But there's another knowledge that my heart destroys,
As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy's
Because it proves that things both can and cannot be;
That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep com-
pany,
Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound,
That I am still their setvant though all are under-
ground.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)
I came on a great house in the middle of the night,
Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,
And all my friends were there and made me welcome
too;
But I woke in an old ruin that the winds. howled
through;
And when I pay attention I must out and walk
Among the dogs and horses that understand my talk.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)
The Curse Of Cromwell
by William Butler Yeats
You ask what -- I have found, and far and wide I go:
Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's mur-
derous crew,
The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay,
And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen,
where are they?
And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride -- -
His fathers served their fathers before Christ was
crucified.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)
All neighbourly content and easy talk are gone,
But there's no good complaining, for money's rant is
on.
He that's mounting up must on his neighbour mount,
And we and all the Muses are things of no account.
They have schooling of their own, but I pass their
schooling by,
What can they know that we know that know the
time to die?
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)
But there's another knowledge that my heart destroys,
As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy's
Because it proves that things both can and cannot be;
That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep com-
pany,
Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound,
That I am still their setvant though all are under-
ground.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)
I came on a great house in the middle of the night,
Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,
And all my friends were there and made me welcome
too;
But I woke in an old ruin that the winds. howled
through;
And when I pay attention I must out and walk
Among the dogs and horses that understand my talk.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)
Oddly, this post, or a simialr one, referring to how this poem could be related to 'free speech' today was cancelled with a briefly, too fast to read, message stating "Thank you for posting. Your post will not be visible until a moderatorhas approved it for posting. You will now be allowed back to the forum. If you opted to post a poll, you will now be allowed to do so. You will now be directedback to the forum"
Poetry is perhaps deemed subversive in New Britain... (or maybe just Yeats!)
Doesn't do anything for me, even third time round ;)
I am grateful for everyone who posts on the Today's poet thread, and also The Film Reviewer thread too; it is good to have something 'cultural' here, and for those who aren't interested it's easy to avoid. I read all the posts in all the threads, (unless it's one of those dreadful political rants we used to get), mainly for the useful and interesting things I have learnt - particularly from the off-thread comments.
Personally, I don't think I'm tall enough for this thread as it goes straight over my head. I do persevere, and read every post, in the hope that enlightenment and wisdom will lower their sights and reach me, but alas it hasn't happened yet. I live in hope.
A good old un'
To Autumn
BY JOHN KEATS
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Autumn
John Clare
I love the fitfull gusts that shakes
The casement all the day
And from the mossy elm tree takes
The faded leaf away
Twirling it by the window-pane
With thousand others down the lane
I love to see the shaking twig
Dance till the shut of eve
The sparrow on the cottage rig
Whose chirp would make believe
That spring was just now flirting by
In summers lap with flowers to lie
I love to see the cottage smoke
Curl upwards through the naked trees
The pigeons nestled round the coat
On dull November days like these
The cock upon the dung-hill crowing
The mill sails on the heath a-going
The feather from the ravens breast
Falls on the stubble lea
The acorns near the old crows nest
Fall pattering down the tree
The grunting pigs that wait for all
Scramble and hurry where they fall
With apologies to those of you born north of Chelmsford or west of Westminster, but this one needs to be recited in what has come to be known as "Estuary English".
Cockles from Southend-on-Sea
There’s all sorts of food in the world as you know
But some just ain’t tasty to me
Like pâté foie gras and black caviar
And porridge!
To name only three;
And you don’t have to try no French cooking,
To make up some delicacy,
For my dearest wish
Is to stand with a dish
Eating cockles from Southend-on-Sea!
Our history goes back to the Romans
But one story to me is quite clear,
How old Caesar got smitten
With one gorgeous Briton
The fellers called Queen Boadicea.
He said that they ought to go roamin’
She could even become ‘Mrs C’;
When he said that he’d buy her
Anything she’d desire
She said “Cockles from Southend-on-Sea!”
Doctor Livingstone out in the jungle
Was carving his way through the bush,
When up comes this feller called Stanley
Who says to him “Afternoon Mush!”
“I hear you’ve been out here for ages,
So I’ve brought something nice for your tea;
I’ll just ask the porter
To pop ‘em in water
They’re cockles from Southend-on-Sea!”
Doctors the whole world over
Are always trying to find
A miracle cure, that’s certain and sure
For the general good of mankind.
Now I ain’t no blooming professor,
And I don’t charge no Harley Street fee,
But what I would say
Is “Three times a day
Take cockles from Southend-on-Sea!"
Frank Owens [16/5/1932 - 31/10/2022]
A Great Wagon
by Rumi
When I see your face, the stones start spinning!
You appear; all studying wanders.
I lose my place.
Water turns pearly.
Fire dies down and doesn't destroy.
In your presence I don't want what I thought
I wanted, those three little hanging lamps.
Inside your face the ancient manuscripts
Seem like rusty mirrors.
You breathe; new shapes appear,
and the music of a desire as widespread
as Spring begins to move
like a great wagon.
Drive slowly.
Some of us walking alongside
are lame!
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
I would love to kiss you.
The price of kissing is your life.
Now my loving is running toward my life shouting,
What a bargain, let's buy it.
Daylight, full of small dancing particles
and the one great turning, our souls
are dancing with you, without feet, they dance.
Can you see them when I whisper in your ear?
They try to say what you are, spiritual or sexual?
They wonder about Solomon and all his wives.
In the body of the world, they say, there is a soul
and you are that.
But we have ways within each other
that will never be said by anyone.
Come to the orchard in Spring.
There is light and wine, and sweethearts
in the pomegranate flowers.
If you do not come, these do not matter.
If you do come, these do not matter.
I don't really get poetry but enjoyed this. It was read at the funeral of a 90 year old lady that I attended on Friday.
Dust If You Must
Rose Milligan
Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better
To paint a picture, or write a letter,
Bake a cake,or plant a seed;
Ponder the difference between want and need?
Dust if you must, but there's not much time,
With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;
Music to hear, and books to read;
Friends to cherish and life to lead.
Dust if you must, but the world's out there
With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair;
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,
This day will not come around again.
Dust if you must,but bear in mind,
Old age will come and its not kind.
And when you go (and go you must)
You, yourself, will make more dust.
Excellent. Thanks for posting.Quote:
Originally Posted by Llani Boy
Can't you see that you were born to stand by my side
And I was born to be with you, I was born to be your bride
You're the other half of what I am, you're the missing piece
And I love you more than ever with that love that doesn't cease.
The widow of my best friend from school days put these words (from a song) on the Order of Service when he died suddenly aged 58.
The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.