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JennGM
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Suzanne, is your second poem by Emily Dickinson, also?
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Jennifer G. Miller
Wife to  & ds1  '03 & ds2  '07
Family in Feast and Feria
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SuzanneG
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JennGM wrote:
| Suzanne, is your second poem by Emily Dickinson, also? |
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No...that's an author unknown....I just added it.
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Suzanne in ID
Wife to Pete
Mom of 7 (Girls - 14, 12, 11, 9, 7 and Boys - 4, 1)
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jawgee
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Thanks for the link from another thread, Jen! What a gem this thread is.
After Apple Picking by Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
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Monica
C (12/2001), N (11/2005), M (5/2008), J (8/2009) and three angels
The Catholic Cup on Facebook
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Grace&Chaos
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I just posted this on my blog and put it up on our bulletin board. Can you just see what a wonderful picture book this would make? 
How The Leaves Came Down
by Susan Coolidge
I'll tell you how the leaves came down.
The great Tree to his children said,
"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
Yes, very sleepy, little Red;
It is quite time you went to bed."
"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,
"Let us a little longer May;
Dear Father Tree, behold our grief,
'Tis such a very pleasant day
We do not want to go away."
So, just for one more merry day
To the great Tree the leaflets clung,
Frolicked and danced and had their way,
Upon the autumn breezes swung,
Whispering all their sports among,
"Perhaps the great Tree will forget
And let us stay until the spring
If we all beg and coax and fret."
But the great Tree did no such thing;
He smiled to hear their whispering.
"Come, children all, to bed," he cried;
And ere the leaves could urge their prayer
He shook his head, and far and wide,
Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
Down sped the leaflets through the air.
I saw them; on the ground they lay,
Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
Waiting till one from far away,
White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm,
Should come to wrap them safe and warm.
The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.
"Good-night, dear little leaves" he said;
And from below each sleepy child
Replied "Good-night," and murmured,
"It is so nice to go to bed."
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Blessings,
Jenny
Mom to dds(00,03) and dss(05,06,08,09)
Grace in Loving Chaos
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JennGM
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I picked up a sweet book called V is for Verses by Odille Ousley. Under J-Jack O'-Lanterns are these sweet verses:
I Wonder Why
I don't know why it is, but I
Can't make a face that's scary;
I persevere--yet every year,
My jack-o'-lantern's merry.
Ida M. Pardue
Halloween
Jack-o'-lantern in the dark
You're a scare-y fellow,
Grinning mouth and shiny eyes,
Blinking, round and yellow.
I should be afraid I know--
If I hadn't watched you grow!
Rachel Field
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Jennifer G. Miller
Wife to & ds1 '03 & ds2 '07
Family in Feast and Feria
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MaryM
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Poems for St. Martin's Summer (Indian Summer Nov. 11-Nov. 20).
St. Martin's Summer
Robert Louis Stevenson
As swallows turning backward
When half-way o'er the sea,
At one word's trumpet summons
They came again to me -
The hopes I had forgotten
Came back again to me.
I know not which to credit,
O lady of my heart!
Your eyes that bade me linger,
Your words that bade us part -
I know not which to credit,
My reason or my heart.
But be my hopes rewarded,
Or be they but in vain,
I have dreamed a golden vision,
I have gathered in the grain -
I have dreamed a golden vision,
I have not lived in vain.
St. Martin's Summer
John Greenleaf Whittier
Though flowers have perished at the touch
Of Frost, the early comer,
I hail the season loved so much,
The good St. Martin's summer.
O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn,
And thin moon curving o'er it!
The old year's darling, latest born,
More loved than all before it!
How flamed the sunrise through the pines!
How stretched the birchen shadows,
Braiding in long, wind-wavered lines
The westward sloping meadows!
The sweet day, opening as a flower
Unfolds its petals tender,
Renews for us at noontide's hour
The summer's tempered splendor.
The birds are hushed; alone the wind,
That through the woodland searches,
The red-oak's lingering leaves can find,
And yellow plumes of larches.
But still the balsam-breathing pine
Invites no thought of sorrow,
No hint of loss from air like wine
The earth's content can borrow.
The summer and the winter here
Midway a truce are holding,
A soft, consenting atmosphere
Their tents of peace enfolding.
The silent woods, the lonely hills,
Rise solemn in their gladness;
The quiet that the valley fills
Is scarcely joy or sadness.
How strange! The autumn yesterday
In winter's grasp seemed dying;
On whirling winds from skies of gray
The early snow was flying.
And now, while over Nature's mood
There steals a soft relenting,
I will not mar the present good,
Forecasting or lamenting.
My autumn time and Nature's hold
A dreamy tryst together,
And, both grown old, about us fold
The golden-tissued weather.
I lean my heart against the day
To feel its bland caressing;
I will not let it pass away
Before it leaves its blessing.
God's angels come not as of old
The Syrian shepherds knew them;
In reddening dawns, in sunset gold,
And warm noon lights I view them.
Nor need there is, in times like this
When heaven to earth draws nearer,
Of wing or song as witnesses
To make their presence clearer.
O stream of life, whose swifter flow
Is of the end forewarning,
Methinks thy sundown afterglow
Seems less of night than morning!
Old cares grow light; aside I lay
The doubts and fears that troubled;
The quiet of the happy day
Within my soul is doubled.
That clouds must veil this fair sunshine
Not less a joy I find it;
Nor less yon warm horizon line
That winter lurks behind it.
The mystery of the untried days
I close my eyes from reading;
His will be done whose darkest ways
To light and life are leading!
Less drear the winter night shall be,
If memory cheer and hearten
Its heavy hours with thoughts of thee,
Sweet summer of St. Martin!
St. Martin's Summer
Robert Browning
No protesting, dearest!
Hardly kisses even!
Don’t we both know how it ends?
How the greenest leaf turns serest,
Bluest outbreak, blankest heaven,
Lovers, friends?
You would build a mansion,
I would weave a bower
Want the heart for enterprise.
Walls admit of no expansion:
Trellis-work may haply flower
Twice the size.
What makes glad Life’s Winter?
New buds, old blooms after.
Sad the sighing “How suspect
Reams would ere mid-Autumn splinter,
Rooftree scarce support a rafter,
Walls lie wrecked?”
You are young, my princess!
I am hardly older:
Yet, I steal a glance behind!
Dare I tell you what convinces
Timid me that you, if bolder,
Bold, are blind?
Where we plan our dwelling
Glooms a graveyard surely!
Headstone, footstone moss may drape,
Name, date, violets hide from spelling,
But, though corpses rot obscurely,
Ghosts escape.
Ghosts! O breathing Beauty,
Give my frank word pardon!
What if I, somehow, somewhere,
Pledged my soul to endless duty
Many a time and oft? Be hard on
Love, laid there?
Nay, blame grief that’s fickle,
Time that proves a traitor,
Chance, change, all that purpose warps,
Death who spares to thrust the sickle
Laid Love low, through flowers which later
Shroud the corpse!
And you, my winsome lady,
Whisper with like frankness!
Lies nothing buried long ago?
Are yon, which shimmer ’mid the shady
Where moss and violet run to rankness,
Tombs or no?
Who taxes you with murder?
My hands are clean, or nearly!
Love being mortal needs must pass.
Repentance? Nothing were absurder.
Enough: we felt Love’s loss severely;
Though now, alas!
Love’s corpse lies quiet therefore,
Only Love’s ghost plays truant,
And warns us have in wholesome awe
Durable mansionry; that’s wherefore
I weave but trellis-work, pursuant
Life, to law.
The solid, not the fragile,
Tempts rain and hail and thunder.
If bower stand firm at Autumn’s close,
Beyond my hope, why, boughs were agile;
If bower fall flat, we scarce need wonder
Wreathing rose!
So, truce to the protesting,
So, muffled be the kisses!
For, would we but avow the truth,
Sober is genuine joy. No jesting!
Ask else Penelope, Ulysses,
Old in youth!
For why should ghosts feel angered?
Let all their interference
Be faint march-music in the air!
“Up! Join the rear of us the vanguard!
Up, lovers, dead to all appearance,
Laggard pair!”
The while you clasp me closer,
The while I press you deeper,
As safe we chuckle, under breath,
Yet all the slyer, the jocoser,
“So, life can boast its day, like leap-year
Stolen from death!”
Ah me, the sudden terror!
Hence quick-avaunt, avoid me,
You cheat, the ghostly flesh-disguised!
Nay, all the ghosts in one! Strange error!
So, ’twas Death’s self that clipped and toyed me,
Loved, and lied!
Ay, dead loves are the potent!
Like any cloud they used you,
Mere semblance you, but substance they!
Build we no mansion, weave we no tent!
Mere flesh, their spirit interfused you!
Hence, I say!
All theirs, none yours the glamour!
Theirs each low word that won me,
Soft look that found me Love’s, and left
What else but you, the tears and clamor
That’s all your very own! Undone me,
Ghost-bereft!
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Mary M. in Denver
Our Domestic Church
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SuzanneG
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For WINTER ....we just finished this one and had so much fun with it! All from 4 to 12 enjoyed it!
Proud Little Spruce Fir, by Jeannie Kirby
On a cold winter day the snow came down
To cover the leafless trees,
Very glad they were of a snow-white gown,
To keep out the chilly breeze
But a little spruce fir, all gaily dressed
In tiny sharp leaves of green,
Was drooping beneath the load on its breast,
And not a leaf could be seen.
“I’m an evergreen tree,” he proudly thought,
“And really they ought to know
That I’m looking my best, and care not a jot
How bitter the wind may blow.”
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Suzanne in ID
Wife to Pete
Mom of 7 (Girls - 14, 12, 11, 9, 7 and Boys - 4, 1)
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MaryM
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Thanks for bumping, Suzanne.
I know this is was asked awhile back but I recently ran across this poem and had been meaning to post it. I heard never heard this association with the daffodil. But with the early Easter this year - they may still be around 
LENT:
The Lent Lily
(A. E. Houston (1859–1936)
’Tis spring; come out to ramble
The hilly brakes around,
For under thorn and bramble
About the hollow ground
The primroses are found.
And there’s the windflower chilly
With all the winds at play,
And there’s the Lenten lily
That has not long to stay
And dies on Easter day.
And since till girls go maying
You find the primrose still,
And find the windflower playing
With every wind at will,
But not the daffodil.
Bring baskets now, and sally
Upon the spring’s array,
And bear from hill and valley
The daffodil away
That dies on Easter day.
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Mary M. in Denver
Our Domestic Church
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MaryM
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Some Easter and spring poems.
An Easter Canticle by Charles Hanson Towne
In every trembling bud and bloom
That cleaves the earth, a flowery sword,
I see Thee come from out the tomb,
Thou risen Lord.
In every April wind that sings
Down lanes that make the heart rejoice;
Yea, in the word the wood-thrush brings,
I hear Thy voice.
Lo! every tulip is a cup
To hold Thy morning's brimming wine;
Drink, O my soul, the wonder up---
Is it not Thine?
The great Lord God, invisible,
Hath roused to rapture the green grass;
Through sunlit mead and dew-drenched dell,
I see Him pass.
His old immortal glory wakes
The rushing streams and emerald hills;
His ancient trumpet softly shakes
The daffodils.
Thou art not dead! Thou art the whole
Of life that quickens in the sod;
Green April is Thy very soul,
Thou great Lord God.
Rise, Flowers, Rise by Mary Lathbury
Little children of the sun,
Wake and listen, everyone!
Hear the raindrops as they fall,
Hear the winds that call, and call,
“Rise, flowers, rise!”
Children, little sleepy-heads!
It is time to leave your beds,
Snowdrop and hepatica,
Pink spring-beauty, lead the way;
“Rise, flowers, rise!”
Tell the grasses and the trees,
Tell the bluebirds and the bees,
Tell the ferns, like crosiers curled,
It is Easter in the world,
“Rise, flowers, rise!”
Waken tardy violets;
Waken, innocent bluets;
Waken, every growing thing,
It is Easter, it is spring!
“Rise, flowers, rise!”
Rise, for Christ the Lord arose,
Victor over all His foes;
Rise, with all the souls of men,
Into light and life again;
“Rise, flowers, rise!”
Pasque by Ella Young
All so frail, so white,
The blossoms on the thorn,
So pale this first daylight
On Easter morn.
Hear the cry: '
'Christ is risen!
Our Lord sets free
The souls in prison."
The sun acclaims it
Burgeoning red
Christ! Christ is risen
From the dead.
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Mary M. in Denver
Our Domestic Church
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MaryM
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For the Feast Day – Sept. 28
Here is a poem I found on this blog written by brendakaren.
A prayer to Mary Undoer of Knots (poem)
Mary undo the knots
That fill up each day,
Untangle the troubles
That come our way.
Mary take over
And help your child.
Wipe away the tears
And bring back a smile.
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Mary M. in Denver
Our Domestic Church
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4Real Forums : Living Literature
Topic: Seasonal Poems
