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The Hayloft

Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850–1894)

Through the pleasant meadow-side,

The grass grew shoulder high,

Till the shining scythes went far and wide,

And cut it down to dry.

The green and sweetly smelling crops,

They led the waggons home,

And they piled them here in mountain tops,

For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,

Mount Eagle and Mount High,

The mice that in these mountains dwell,

No happier than I!

O what joy to clamber there,

O what a place for play,

With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,

The happy hills of hay.


Leisure

W H Davies (1871 - 1940)

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 and 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.


Are you weary

Are you weary of the journey –

Does your burden seem too great?

Are you fighting uphill battles,

Struggling with a hostile fate?

The milestone at the turning point

May be a few steps round the bend.

Courage!…This may be the spot

Where joys return and troubles end.

 

The Happy Child

W H Davies (1871 - 1940)

I saw this day sweet flowers grow thick

But not one like the child did pick

I heard the packhounds in green park

But no dog like the child heard bark.

I heard this day bird after bird

But not one like the child has heard

A hundred butterflies saw I

But not one like the child saw fly

I saw the horse roll in grass

But no horse like the child saw pass

My world this day has lovely been

But not like what the child has seen

 

A Long Fall

James Rauber (1998 - )

So grand and tall

rustling leaves like emeralds,

standing on tall pillars,

pulsing with golden blood.

They suck on the sapphire water,

Like ants collecting for the nest.

The ground, a desert to be crossed by their winding limbs.

Their silent chatter is all around,

Birds, land and whistle their thanks, to the giants.

The sun is their god,

a great being that keeps them alive for a hundred years.

A cackle,

then a roar pierces the silence,

followed, by a groan, like a mother losing her child.

Their long arms,

fall from the stars,

and a crash to earth, like thunder.

As they fall, silvr droplets fall,

the birds screech,

ruby fruit hits the ground, and breaks, like a broken heart.

The snapping of tortured bones, is deafening.

Te ground is black,

the smell of fresh soil, fills the air,

black, raven black, winding arms, reach to the heavens,

as if begging for another chance,

a chance to stand tall over all.

But, silence, is their only reply

 
 
 

The Guest House

by Persian poet Rumi around 1207 to 1273 ( translated by Coleman Barks in 1995)

 

 This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some monentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they´re a crowd of sorrows

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

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