Poetry Monday

The Frog
by Hilaire Belloc

Be kind and tender to the Frog,

And do not call him names,

As 'Slimy skin' or 'Polly-wog,'

Or likewise 'Ugly James,'

Or 'Gap-a-grin,' or 'Toad-gone-wrong,'

Or, 'Bill Bandy-knees.'

The Frog is justly sensitive

To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay

A treatment king and fair,

At least so lonely people say

Who keep a frog (and by the way,

They are extremely rare).

Oh! My!

Poetry Monday

Summer Drought
by J.P. Irvine

Yet, ere the moon, as brass the heaven turns,
The cruel sun smites with unerring aim,
The sight and touch of all things blinds and burns,
And bare, hot hills seem shimmering into flame!

On outspread wings a hawk, far poised on high,
Quick swooping screams, and then is heard no more:
The strident shrilling of a locust nigh
Breaks forth, and dies in silence as before.


Note: I found this gem in the Hawk section of Comstock's Handbook of Nature Study.

Poetry Monday

Or rather Poetic Monday. I'm excited to be joining the discussion of one of my favorite books on education, Poetic Knowledge by James S. Taylor. The discussion is being hosted by Mystie at A Healer's Geste ( a very interesting blog to wander through, I might add) and starts tomorrow with chapter one!

Poetry Monday

The Eagle
by Alfred Tennyson

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands.
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls.
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Poetry Monday

My Gift by Christina Rossetti

What can I give Him
Poor as I am;
If I were a shepherd,
I would give Him a lamb.

If I were a wise man,
I would do my part.
But what can I give Him?
I will give Him my heart.

Wild Geese

Wild Geese
by Elinor Chipp

I heard the wild geese flying
In the dead of the night,
With beat of wings and crying
I heard the wild geese flying.

And dreams in my heart sighing
Followed their northward flight.
I heard the wild geese flying
In the dead of the night.

Summer Drift/Poetry Monday

We wrapped up school at the end of May and spent two glorious months enjoying the best summer weather for the last few years. After two wet, rainy summers this one has been hot, mostly dry, with one beautiful sunny day following another. But then drift set in.. Our days languished... Hobbits grew bored... So I started school which surprisingly was well received and we have finished one week already and today is the first Poetry Monday of the new school year (we started last Tuesday).

Piping Down the Valleys Wild
By William Blake

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:

"Pipe a song about a lamb!"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again";
So I piped: he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!"
So I sang the same again.
While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read."
So he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed.

And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

Poetry Monday

Pippa's Song
by Robert Browning

The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in His Heaven--
All's right with the world!

Poetry Monday

Yet Gentle Will the Griffin Be
by Vachel Lindsay

The moon? It is griffin's egg,
Hatching tomorrow night.
And how the little boys will watch
With shouting and delight
To see him break the shell and stretch
And creep across the sky.
The boys will laugh. The girls,
I fear, may hide and cry.
Yet gentle will the griffin be,
Most decorous and fat,
And walk up to the Milky Way
And lap it like a cat.

Poetry Monday

How Far is it to Bethlehem?
By Frances Chesterton

How far is it to Bethlehem?
Not very far.
Shall we find the stable-room
Lit by a star?

Can we see the little Child?
Is He within?
If we lift the wooden latch,
May we go in?

May we stroke the creatures there--
Ox, ass, or sheep?
May we peep like them and see
Jesus asleep?

If we touch His tiny hand,
Will He awake?
Will He know we've come so far
Just for His sake?

Great Kings have precious gifts,
And we have naught;
Little smiles and little tears
Are all we brought.

For all weary children
Mary must weep;
Here, on His bed of straw,
Sleep, children, sleep.

God, in His mother's arms,
Babes in the byre,
Sleep, as they sleep who find
Their heart's desire.

Poetry Monday

Ryhme of November Stars
by Sara Teasdale

The noiseless marching of the stars
Sweeps above me all night long;
Up the skies, over the skies,
Passes the uncounted throng,
Without haste, without rest,
From the east to the west:
Vega, Deneb, white Altair
Shine like crystals in the air,
And the lonely Fomalhaut
In the dark south, paces low.
Now the timid Pleiades
Leave the shelter of the trees,
While toward the north, mounting high,
Gold Capella, like a queen,
Watches over her demesne
Stretching toward the kingly one,
Dusky, dark Aldebaran.
Betelguese and Rigel burn
In their wide wheel, slow to turn,
And in the sharp November frost
Bright Sirius, with his blue light
Completes the loveliness of night.

Poetry Monday

Autumn by Emily Dickenson

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.

Poetry Monday

I love October and not just because it is the most beautiful month. It's because it is the month of the Rosayr and that means it must be Lepanto season!

Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Poetry Monday

The hobbits copy poetry in notebooks on Mondays instead of their handwriting workbooks. They have developed a real love for poetry over the year and I thought I would participate by blogging a poem here on Mondays. Here is today's offering which doesn't have a title that I know of. I found it in Wisdom and Innocence by Joseph Pearce. It was written by G.K. Chesterton for one of his beloved neighbors.

Rejoice all nations under the sun;
Their bishops dance, their aged statesmen run,
Paint the world red and think it frightful fun
That Barbara, Barbara is Twenty-One.
But the Crier is crying
In Lyme of the King
Lost, Stolen or Strayed
Is the Marvelous Thing.
I will ring for the sea-gulls
That dance in the spray
But the girls that go dancing
Go dancing away,
The girls that go dancing
Go dancing
go dancing,
The girls that go dancing
Go dancing away.

Poetry

I found this poem by Cecily Hallack (author of Adventure of the Amethyst) and I thought I'd share.

The Divine Office of the Kitchen

Lord of the pots and pipkins, since
I have no time to be
A saint by doing lovely things and
Vigiling with Thee,
By watching in the twilight dawn,
And storming Heaven's gates,
Make me a saint by getting meals;
And washing up the plates!

Lord of the pots and pipkins, please,
I offer Thee for souls
The tiresomeness of tea-leaves
And the sticky porridge bowls!
Remind me of the things I need,
Not just to save the stairs,
But so that I may perfectly lay
Tables into prayers.

Accept my roughened hands
Because I made them so for Thee!
Pretend my dish mop is a bow,
Which heavenly harmony
Makes on a fiddle frying pan; it
Is so hard to clean,
And oh, so horrid! Hear, dear Lord,
The music that I mean!

Although I must have Martha hands,
I have a Mary mind,
And when I black the boots, I try
Thy sandals, Lord, to find.
I think of how they trod our earth,
What time I scrub the floor.
Accept this meditation when I
Haven't time for more!

Vespers and Compline come to pass
By washing supper things,
And mostly I am very tired, and
All the heart that sings
About the morning's work is gone
Before me into bed.
Lend me, dear Lord, Thy tireless
Heart, to work in me instead!

My Matins are said over night to
Praise and bless Thy name
Beforehand for to-morrow's work,
Which will be just the same;
So that it seems I go to bed still
In my working dress.
Lord, make Thy Cinderella, soon
A heavenly Princess.

Warm all the kitchen with Thy love,
And light it with Thy peace!
Forgive the worrying and make
The grumbling words to cease.
Lord, Who laid breakfast on the shore,
Forgive the world which saith,
"Can any good thing come to God
Out of poor Nazareth?"