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Maryan
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We like Bed in Summer by Robert Louis Stevenson. It matches "our" thoughts about it:
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
__________________
Maryan
Mom to 6 boys & 1 girl: JP('01), B ('03), M('05), L('06), Ph ('08), M ('10), James born 5/1/12
A Lee in the Woudes
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Mackfam
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| Posted: July 10 2009 at 8:49am | IP Logged
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Our summer poetry:
The first is what the boys are working on....
Barefoot Days
by Rachel Field
In the morning, very early,
That's the time I love to go
Barefoot where the fern grows curly
And grass is cool between each toe,
On a summer morning-O!
On a summer morning!
That is when the birds go by
Up the sunny slopes of air,
And each rose has a butterfly
Or a golden bee to wear;
And I am glad in every toe-
Such a summer morning-O!
Such a summer morning!
My daughter's year is based around the entire Anne of Green Gables series, so we chose together some of the lovely poetry of Lucy Maud Montgomery. This poem we both really liked because Anne (of Green Gables), my daughter, and I (when I was a little girl), all grew up with a lovely gable in our rooms...
The Gable Window
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
It opened on a world of wonder,
When summer days were sweet and long,
A world of light, a world of splendor,
A world of song.
'Twas there I passed my hours of dreaming,
'Twas there I knelt at night to pray;
And, when the rose-lit dawn was streaming
Across the day,
I bent from it to catch the glory
Of all those radiant silver skies -
A resurrection allegory
For human eyes!
The summer raindrops on it beating,
The swallows clinging 'neath the eaves,
The wayward shadows by it fleeting,
The whispering leaves;
The birds that passed in joyous vagrance,
The echoes of the golden moon,
The drifting in of the subtle fragrance,
The wind's low croon;
Held each a message and a token
In every hour of day and night;
A meaning wordless and unspoken,
Yet read aright.
I looked from it o'er bloomy meadows,
Where idle breezes lost their way,
To solemn hills, whose purple shadows
About them lay.
I saw the sunshine stream in splendor
O'er the heaven's utmost azure bars,
At eve the radiance, pure and tender,
Of white-browned stars.
I carried there my childish sorrows,
I wept my little griefs away;
I pictured there my glad to-morrows
In bright array.
The airy dreams of child and maiden
Hang round that gable window still,
As cling the vines, green and leaf-laden,
About the sill.
And though I lean no longer from it,
To gaze with loving reverent eyes,
On clouds and amethystine summit,
And star-sown skies.
The lessons at its casement taught me,
My life with rich fruition fill;
The rapture and the peace they brought me
Are with me still!
Many of the poems of Lucy Maud Montgomery can be found online and there is a nice compilation of her poetry available in a book though it does not include all of her poetry. She has many lovely seasonal poems for an older child to work on!
__________________
Jen Mackintosh
Wife to Rob, mom to dd 19 , ds 16, ds 11, dd 8, and dd 3
Wildflowers and Marbles
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CrunchyMom
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I was just searching for the poem "Blueberries" by Robert Frost to post here and discovered they cut it short in the book we have it!!! Anyway, it goes nicely with blueberry picking this time of year.
Blueberries
By Robert Frost
1874-1963
"You ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day:
Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of them green
And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!"
"I don't know what part of the pasture you mean."
"You know where they cut off the woods--let me see--
It was two years ago--or no!--can it be
No longer than that?--and the following fall
The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall."
"Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow.
That's always the way with the blueberries, though:
There may not have been the ghost of a sign
Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine,
But get the pine out of the way, you may burn
The pasture all over until not a fern
Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,
And presto, they're up all around you as thick
And hard to explain as a conjuror's trick."
"It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit.
I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.
And after all really they're ebony skinned:
The blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind,
A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand,
And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned."
"Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think?"
"He may and not care and so leave the chewink
To gather them for him--you know what he is.
He won't make the fact that they're rightfully his
An excuse for keeping us other folk out."
"I wonder you didn't see Loren about."
"The best of it was that I did. Do you know,
I was just getting through what the field had to show
And over the wall and into the road,
When who should come by, with a democrat-load
Of all the young chattering Lorens alive,
But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive."
"He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown?"
"He just kept nodding his head up and down.
You know how politely he always goes by.
But he thought a big thought--I could tell by his eye--
Which being expressed, might be this in effect:
'I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,
To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.'"
"He's a thriftier person than some I could name."
"He seems to be thrifty; and hasn't he need,
With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed?
He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say,
Like birds. They store a great many away.
They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat
They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet."
"Who cares what they say? It's a nice way to live,
Just taking what Nature is willing to give,
Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow."
"I wish you had seen his perpetual bow--
And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned,
And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned."
"I wish I knew half what the flock of them know
Of where all the berries and other things grow,
Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top
Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.
I met them one day and each had a flower
Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower;
Some strange kind--they told me it hadn't a name."
"I've told you how once not long after we came,
I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth
By going to him of all people on earth
To ask if he knew any fruit to be had
For the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad
To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad.
There had been some berries--but those were all gone.
He didn't say where they had been. He went on:
'I'm sure--I'm sure'--as polite as could be.
He spoke to his wife in the door, 'Let me see,
Mame, we don't know any good berrying place?'
It was all he could do to keep a straight face.
"If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him,
He'll find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim,
We'll pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year.
We'll go in the morning, that is, if it's clear,
And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet.
It's so long since I picked I almost forget
How we used to pick berries: we took one look round,
Then sank out of sight like trolls underground,
And saw nothing more of each other, or heard,
Unless when you said I was keeping a bird
Away from its nest, and I said it was you.
'Well, one of us is.' For complaining it flew
Around and around us. And then for a while
We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile,
And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout
Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out,
For when you made answer, your voice was as low
As talking--you stood up beside me, you know."
"We sha'n't have the place to ourselves to enjoy--
Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.
They'll be there to-morrow, or even to-night.
They won't be too friendly--they may be polite--
To people they look on as having no right
To pick where they're picking. But we won't complain.
You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain,
The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves,
Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves."
__________________
Lindsay
Five Boys(6/04) (6/06) (9/08)(3/11),(7/13), and 1 girl (5/16)
My Symphony
[URL=http://mysymphonygarden.blogspot.com/]Lost in the Cosmos[/UR
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SuzanneG
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***AUTUMN***
My 2 oldest are working on this one, which I LOVE!
Harvest Home
The maples flare among the spruces,
The bursting foxgrape spills its juices,
The gentians lift their sapphire fringes
On roadways rich with golden tinges,
The waddling woodchucks fill their hampers,
The deer mouse runs, the chipmunk scampers,
The squirrels scurry, never stopping,
For all they hear is apples dropping
And walnuts plumping fast and faster;
The bee weighs down the purple aster-
Yes, hive your honey, little hummer,
The woods are waving, "Farewell Summer."
-- Arthur Guiterman --
Back later with a couple from last year that everyone really liked and had fun with!
__________________
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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| Posted: Sept 21 2009 at 12:21pm | IP Logged
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When the Frost is on the Pumpkin - James Whitcomb Riley
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pitcur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries --kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below -- the clover overhead!
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage, too!
I don't know how to tell it -- but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me
I'd want to 'commondate 'em -- all the whole-indurin' flock --
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
__________________
Mary M. in Denver
Our Domestic Church
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MaryM
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| Posted: Sept 21 2009 at 12:46pm | IP Logged
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And some weather lore poems (or sayings which pretty much are poems  )
September blow soft.
Till the fruit's in the loft.
-----
Spring was o'er happy and knew not the reason,
And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended
In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended ;
But this is the harvest and the garnering season,
And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.
~W. Morris
-----
Wild with the winds of September
Wrestled the trees of the forest,
as Jacob of old with the angel.
~Longfellow
-----
The flush of the landscape is o'er,
The brown leaves are shed on the way,
The dye of the lone mountain-flower
Grows wan and betokens decay.
All silent the song of the thrush,
Bewildered she cowers in the dale ;
The blackbird sits lone on the bush
The fall of the leaf they bewail.
~Hogg
-----
Nothing stirs the sunny silence,
Save the drowsy humming of the bees
Round the rich, ripe peaches on the wall,
And the south wind sighing in the trees,
And the dead leaves rustling as they fall :
While the swallows, one by one, are gathering,
All impatient to be on the wing,
And to wander from us, seeking
Their beloved Spring.
~Adelaide Procter
-----
The moon in the wane, gather fruit for to last ;
But winter fruit gather, when Michael is past ;
Though michers (thieves) that love not to buy nor to crave,
Make some gather sooner, else few for to have.
~Tusser
-----
If Michaelmas Day be fair, the sun will shine
much in the winter ; though the wind at north-
east will frequently reign long, and be very
sharp and nipping.
~Thomas Passenger
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Mary M. in Denver
Our Domestic Church
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SuzanneG
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Oh, thanks Mary!!!! We are having fun with our Weather Lore copywork for our Weather Scrapbooks, and one of the things I wanted to do was get some more Autumn phrases together!!!!
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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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DominaCaeli
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My children are still too small to be memorizing, but they still love poetry, so here's one that I've been reading as part of our morning basket all month:
September
by Helen Hunt Jackson
The goldenrod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.
The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusky pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest
In every meadow-nook;
And asters by the brookside
Make asters in the brook.
From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.
And a few autumn favorites I'll be adding in this week:
A Vagabond Song
by Bliss Carman
There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood --
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.
There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.
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.
__________________
Blessings,
Celeste
Joyous Lessons
Mommy to six: three boys (8, 4, newborn) and four girls (7, 5, 2, and 1)
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Angie Mc
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Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost
Love,
__________________
Angie Mc
Maimeo to Henry! Dave's wife, mom to Mrs. Devin+Michael Pope, Aiden 20,Ian 17,John Paul 11,Catherine (heaven 6/07)
About Me
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Stephanie_Q
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I was looking for "Sing-Song" by Christina Rossetti, recommended in "Little Saints" preschool curriculum and found that you can download the pdf from .Google Books here.
Fly away, fly away over the sea,
Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done;
Come again, come again, come back to me,
Bringing the summer and bringing the sun.
If hope grew on a bush,
And joy grew on a tree,
What a nosegay for the plucking
There would be!
But oh! in windy autumn,
When frail flowers wither,
What should we do for hope and joy,
Fading together?
The wind has such a rainy sound
Moaning through the town,
The sea has such a windy sound,
Will the ships go down?
The apples in the orchard
Tumble from their tree. --
Oh, will the ships go down, go down
In the windy sea?
For late fall:
O wind, why do you never rest,
Wandering, whistling to and fro,
Bringing rain out of the west,
From the dim north bringing snow?
__________________
Stephaniedh 6.01
dd 6.02, dd 8.03, ds 3.05, ds 12.06 at Catholic school.
dd 12.09 at home.
Baby boy due 10.13
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stellamaris
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| Posted: Sept 25 2009 at 9:35am | IP Logged
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For the younger crowd, we love "Windy Nights" by Robert Louis Stevenson:
Whenever the moon and the stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.
The "man" is, of course, the sound of the autumn wind blowing through the trees.
For the older group, my personal favorite is Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind":
O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou &n bsp; 5
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 10
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill;
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 15
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30
Lull'd by the coil of his crystàlline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50
Scarce seem'd a vision—I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 55
One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own?
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 60
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse, 65
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Often, in times of trial or stress, I have meditated with profit on that last line: "If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?"
__________________
In Christ,
Caroline
Wife to dh 30+ yrs,ds's 83,85,89,dd's 91,95,ds's 01,01,02,grammy to 4
Flowing Streams
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Mackfam
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| Posted: Oct 09 2009 at 3:27pm | IP Logged
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I'm late getting my seasonal poems posted, but I love doing this so....
--------
For my 8th grader:
An Autumn Shower
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Upon the russet fringes of the hill
The shadow of a cloud falls dark and still;
Then with the rush and sweep of wind the rain
Comes down the valley and across the plain,
Where many a spicy cup
Of asters pale and sweet is lifted up.
The pattering feet of raindrops are astir
In pine-land aisles and resinous glens of fir,
And dance across the harbor till afar,
Beyond the restless moaning of the bar,
They croon in harmony
With all the harp-like voices of the sea.
The cloud is swift in passing - in an hour
The sun is shining on the parting shower
Athwart the flaming maples; and the cup
Of long glistening valley is brimmed up
With wine of airy mist,
Purple and silver and faint amethyst.
The wind from many a wild untrodden bourne
Comes sweet with breath of drenched and tangled fern
To croon in minstrel grasses; where it stirs
The goldenrod its kingly vesture wears;
Meadow and wood and plain
Have caught the benediction of the rain!
When Autumn Comes
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
The city is around us, and the clamor of the mart:
Its grip is on our pulses, and its clutch upon our heart.
We cannot hear the music of the olden dreams and days:
We have no time to tread in thought the sweet forgotten ways.
But when the tang of autumn air sweeps up the breathless street,
With sudden hint of reddening leaves and garnered fields of wheat,
Of golden lights on pastures wide and shadows in the glen,
Our souls thrill with the yearning wish to be at home again.
Out there the misty sea laps glad on crisp and windy sands;
Out there the smoke-blue asters blow on breezy meadow lands;
Out there the joyous marigolds in marsh and swamp are bright -
Despite the breath of chilly morn and nip of frosty night.
The air is ripe and pungent, and the sky is free from stain;
The fallen leaves are whispering in many a woodland lane;
And O to roam upon the hills when all the west is red,
When the moon rises from the sea and stars shine overhead!
And O to see the homelight from the farmhouse window glow,
Athwart the purple-falling dusk as in the long ago;
To hail it with our eager eyes when pilgrimage is o'er,
And dream one dream of boyhood 'neath our father's roof
once more!
--------
For my 4th grader
Autumn Fancies
Author Unknown
The maple is a dainty maid,
The pet of all the wood,
Who lights the dusky forest glade
With scarlet cloak and hood.
The elm a lovely lady is,
In shimmering robes of gold,
That catch the sunlight when she moves,
And glisten, fold on fold.
The sumac is a gypsy queen,
Who flaunts in crimson dressed,
And wild along the roadside runs,
Red blossoms in her breast.
And towering high above the wood,
All in his purple cloak,
A monarch in his splendor is
The proud and princely oak.
--------
For my preschooler
The Squirrel
Author Unknown
Whisky Frisky,
Hippity Hop,
Up he goes
To the tree top!
Whirly, twirly,
Round and round,
Down he scampers
To the ground.
Furly, curly,
What a tail!
Tall as a feather,
Broad as a sail!
Where's his supper?
In the shell,
Snap, cracky,
Out it fell.
__________________
Jen Mackintosh
Wife to Rob, mom to dd 19, ds 16, ds 11, dd 8, and dd 3
Wildflowers and Marbles
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Angie Mc
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Bumping because I was looking at the lovely spring poems here. Any other favorites to add? Thanks!
Love,
__________________
Angie Mc
Maimeo to Henry! Dave's wife, mom to Mrs. Devin+Michael Pope, Aiden 20,Ian 17,John Paul 11,Catherine (heaven 6/07)
About Me
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JodieLyn
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I remember this from a book of poems when I was little..
Who Has Seen the Wind
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling
The wind is passing thro'
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads
The wind is passing by.
__________________
Jodie, wife to Dave
G-18, B-17, G-15, G-14, B-13, B-11, G-9, B-7, B-5, B-4
All men who have turned out worth anything have had the chief hand in their own education.
-Sir Walter Scott
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Mackfam
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I'm so glad you bumped because I was just getting our spring poems together and I was thinking of this thread!
Some of these are for copywork and some are for memorizing...lots more I didn't list for just reading. 
******SPRING******
From Favorite Poems Old and New
April
by Sara Teasdale
The roofs are shining from the rain,
The sparrows twitter as they fly,
And with a windy April grace
The little clouds go by.
Yet the back yards are bare and brown
With only one unchanging tree -
I could not be so sure of Spring
Save that it sings in me.
From Nature Study and Related Literature, 1903, compiled by Anna McGovern
Easter Time
by Mary M. Redmond
Willow branches whit'ning
'Neath the April skies;
Sodden meadows bright'ning,
Where the warm sun lies,
Robin Red-breast swinging,
In a tree-top high,
Swollen brooklets singing -
Easter draweth nigh!
Tender fledgelings hushing
Eager to take wing;
Trees and hedges flushing
With the joy of spring.
Crocus buds up-springing
Through the cold dark sward,
Living incense bringing
To the risen Lord
Easter
by Margaret E. Jordan
Oh! the lilies are white in the Easter light,
The lilies with hearts of gold;
And they silently tell with each milk-white bell,
The story an Angel told.
And they've whispered it long to the weak and the strong,
The rich and the poor among men;
Each Easter day till time dies away
They will tell the tale again.
In the tomb new-made where the Christ was laid,
The Angel told the story,
Of how he rose from death's repose,
The Son of Eternal Glory.
If Ever I See
by Lydia Maria Child
If ever I see
On bush or tree,
Young birds in their pretty nest,
I must not, in play,
Steal the birds away,
To grieve their mother's breast.
* * * * * * * * * *
And when they can fly
In the bright blue sky,
They warble a song to me;
And then if I'm sad
It will make me glad
To think they are happy and free.
and this one we love to sing when the cherry blossoms are fluttering. The kids like to pick them up and toss them in the air...
The Flower
by Mary Mapes Dodge
There's a wedding in the orchard, dear,
I know it by the flowers;
They're wreathed on every bough and branch
Or falling down in showers.
From The Poetry of Lucy Maud Montgomery
Buttercups (Sarah and I chose this one because the horse she rides is allergic to buttercups and she wanted to recite it to him...so this is affectionately known as "Ode to Little Jack"
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Like showers of gold dust on the marsh
Or an inverted sky,
The buttercups are dancing now
Where silver brooks run by.
Bright, bright,
As fallen flakes of light,
They nod
In time to every breeze
That chases shadows swiftly lost
Amid those grassy seas.
See, what a golden frenzy flies
Through the light-hearted flowers!
In mimic fear they flutter now;
Each fairy blossom cowers.
Then up, then up,
Each shakes its yellow cup
And nods
In careless grace once more -
A very flood of sunshine seems
Across the marsh to pour.
__________________
Jen Mackintosh
Wife to Rob, mom to dd 19, ds 16, ds 11, dd 8, and dd 3
Wildflowers and Marbles
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Angie Mc
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In Praise of May (Ascribed to Fionn Mac Cumhaill.)
T. W. Rolleston.
I found this and many lovely poems in Irish Verse an Anthology.
Love,
__________________
Angie Mc
Maimeo to Henry! Dave's wife, mom to Mrs. Devin+Michael Pope, Aiden 20,Ian 17,John Paul 11,Catherine (heaven 6/07)
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Mackfam
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Bumping. Does anyone have any new Autumnal poems to add?
We're all working on:
November
by Alice Cary
The leaves are fading and falling;
The winds are rough and wild;
The birds have ceased their calling--
But let me tell you, my child,
Though day by day, as it closes,
Doth darker and colder grow,
The roots of the bright red roses
Will keep alive in the snow.
And when the winter is over,
The boughs will get new leaves,
The quail come back to the clover,
And the swallow back to the eaves.
The robin will wear on his bosom
A vest that is bright and new,
And the loveliest wayside blossom
Will shine with the sun and dew.
The leaves today are whirling;
The brooks are all dry and dumb--
But let me tell you, my darling,
The spring will be sure to come.
There must be rough, cold weather,
And winds and rains so wild;
Not all good things together
Come to us here, my child.
So, when some dear joy loses
Its beauteous summer glow,
Think how the roots of the roses
Are kept alive in the snow.
******************************************************
My 9th grader is working on:
The Holy Rosary
by Pope Leo XIII
Accept, mighty Maid, we beseech thee,
This prayer with its fragrance of flowers;
With one soul we seek thus to reach thee
And hail thee, God's Mother and ours.
Thy heart is made glad by our praying;
Thy bounty is generous and wise;
Thy hands are enriched for conveying
What God's tender Mercy supplies.
We kneel at thy shrines in the churches;
Oh, gently look down from above,
And welcome the heart that then searches
For worthy expressions of love.
Let others present precious caskets
Of gems, or heap altars with gold;
Slight prayer-beads shall serve us for baskets
To bring thee the garland they hold.
With violets lowly we fashion
This wreath, and with these are combined
Red roses--our faith in the Passion
With Chastity's lilies entwined.
Our minds, as the mysteries vary,
Are active; our hands play their part;
And always thy name, Holy Mary,
Oft-uttered, rejoices the heart.
Be with us; we trust thee to guide us
Through life, and when laboring breath
At the last seeks thine aid, be beside us
To help at the hour of our death.
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.
Do consider reading some Marian Poetry for the month of October!
__________________
Jen Mackintosh
Wife to Rob, mom to dd 19, ds 16, ds 11, dd 8, and dd 3
Wildflowers and Marbles
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SuzanneG
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We all memorized this one a couple years ago, and it's become a favorite and one everyone remembers:
Song of the Pilgrims
~By Nancy Sue Krenrich
Across the rolling, wind-swept sea
For months we've sailed along,
I see a land that's new to me
Against the blue horizon.
Oh, beautiful land of freedom born,
I've come across the sea
To reap your fruits and build my home,
And make my people free.
Thanksgiving
The year has turned its circle,
The seasons come and go.
The harvest all is gathered in
And chilly north winds blow.
Orchards have shared their treasures,
The fields, their yellow grain,
So open wide the doorway~
Thanksgiving comes again!
~Old Rhyme
November
November is a spinner
Spinning in the mist,
Weaving such a lovely web
Of gold and amethyst.
In among the shadows
She spins till close of day,
Then quietly she folds her hands
And puts her work away.
~Margaret Rose
And, Emily Dickinson is our poet-for-the-term, so here's an Autumn one by here:
Nature XXVII, Autumn
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.
This one is about a month late, but a great October poem for next year:
An Autumn Morning
~Anonymous
It seems like a dream
In the garden today;
The trees once so green,
With rich colors are gay.
The oak is aglow
With a warm, crimson blush;
The maple leaves show
A deep purple flush.
The elm tree with bold
Yellow patches is bright,
And with pale gleaming gold
The beech seems alight.
The big chestnut trees
Are all russet and brown,
And everywhere leaves
One by one flutter down.
And all the leaves seem
To be dressed up so gay,
That it seems like a dream
In the garden today.
__________________
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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Oh, nice ones, Suzanne. Jen, I didn't see your post until now. That rosary poem is great for the older student. 
So, here is my contribution thinking of Thanksgiving. This one always made me laugh.
The Turkey Shot Out of the Oven
~by Jack Prelutsky
The turkey shot out of the oven
and rocketed into the air,
it knocked every plate off the table
and partly demolished a chair.
It ricocheted into a corner
and burst with a deafening boom,
then splattered all over the kitchen,
completely obscuring the room.
It stuck to the walls and the windows,
it totally coated the floor,
there was turkey attached to the ceiling,
where there'd never been turkey before.
It blanketed every appliance,
It smeared every saucer and bowl,
there wasn't a way I could stop it,
that turkey was out of control.
I scraped and I scrubbed with displeasure,
and thought with chagrin as I mopped,
that I'd never again stuff a turkey
with popcorn that hadn't been popped.
__________________
Mary M. in Denver
Our Domestic Church
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Mackfam
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 I love that Jack Prelutsky poem, Mary!!! I'm glad you added it here!!!
__________________
Jen Mackintosh
Wife to Rob, mom to dd 19, ds 16, ds 11, dd 8, and dd 3
Wildflowers and Marbles
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4Real Forums : Living Literature
Topic: Seasonal Poems
