General Chat

An all time favourite of mine. 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 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. W.H. Davies

Carol - it's by Thoms Hood - I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The vi'lets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy. Gwynne

I learnt yards of Chaucer (ok, not poetry) at school and we 'did' Matthew Arnold for O level - yeuk, couldnt ever see anything in his poetry. The Merchant of Venice was our set book for O level and our English Teacher insisted that we learn it by heart - and I did. Cannot now remember a word of it, but if someone would like to start me off.... Lots of Shakespeare sonnets, alas all forgotten now. I know it isnt very fashionable but I rather like Yeats. But the one I read myself, for sheer pleasure, is The Coming and Passing of Arthur by Lord Tennyson - I never get fed up of it. And from school Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosomed friend of the maturing sun Conspiring with him to load and bless The ??? that round the ???? run. OC

From my childhood my mother recited this poem to me. I now associate it with my son Nic who loved this poem as a small boy. The Lamb. Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life, and bid thee feed, By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Little Lamb, I'll tell thee, Little Lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild; He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little Lamb, God bless thee! Little Lamb, God bless thee! Wiliam Blake.

For you OC. To Autumn. 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 mossed 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-brimmed 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-lipped by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-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 barrèd 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. John Keats.

Die Lorelei, cos I was always sent out of the German class for talking (in English lol) and used to recite it to myself to pass the time. Many years on,I can still remember some of it and recited it to my friend's German hubby at their wedding reception dinner a few years ago, when I was inebriated! He was impressed by my rendering. Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten, das ich so traurig bin, Ein Madchen ...... too tired to type it all, and spelling might be incorrect now. Liz