Pet Portraits - Animal Poetry

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

Lucy Gray or Solitude

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:

And, when I crossed the wild,

I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on the wide moor,

- The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,

The hare upon the green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

'Tonight will be a stormy night -

You to the town must go;

And take a lantern, Child, to light

Your mother through the snow.'

'That father! will I gladly do:

Tis scarcely afternoon -

The minster-clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the moon!'

At this the Father raised his hook,

And snapped a faggot-band;

He plied his work; - and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:

With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powdery snow,

That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:

She wandered up and down;

And many a hill did Lucy climb:

But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor

And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.

They wept - and, turning homeward, cried,

"In heaven we all shall meet;"

- When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge

They tracked the footmarks small;

And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed:

The marks were still the same;

They tracked them on, nor ever lost;

And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank

Those footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none!

- Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

and never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

Sir Walter Scott

Coronach

He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, reappearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,

But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest,

But our flower was in flushing,

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corrie,

Sage counsel in cumber,

Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!

Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,

Like the bubble on the fountain,

Thou art gone, and for ever!

Sir Walter Scott

Sound, Sound the Clarion

(from Old Mortality)

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!

To all the sensual world proclaim,

One crowded hour of glorious life

Is worth an age without a name.

William Savage Landor 1775 - 1864

On his 75th Birthday

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;

Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art;

I warmed both hands before the fire of life;

It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Thomas Moore 1779 - 1852

The Minstrel Boy

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him;

His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.-

"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,

"Though all the world betrays thee,

One  sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell! - but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;

The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

for he tore its chords asunder;

And said, "No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

They shall never sound in slavery."

Alfred Lord Tennyson - 1809 - 1892

Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830 - 1894

Song

When I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head,

Nor shady cypress tree:

Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet:

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,

I shall not feel the rain;

I shall not hear the nightingale

Sing on as if in pain:

And dreaming through the twilight

That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

And haply may forget. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830 - 1894

Remember

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you planned;

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

John Masefield 1878 - 1967

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and white sail's shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Frances Clark 1946 - Copyright

(All Rights Reserved)

The Rent Man

Through the dirty, floral curtains,

Passed the dustbins on the right,

The worn-down mother looks to see

If the he's anywhere in sight.

She has no money to pay him

And her tired eyes watch in fear

For signs of the Rent Man coming

Or the sound of his steps getting near.

Creeping back to the kitchen,

She slumps down onto the floor.

She hears him now, on the doorstep,

But still jumps when he bangs on the door.

Please go away, she silently pleads,

As he knocks on her door in vain.

"I know you're there," he calls. "Open up."

And her baby starts crying again.

"You owe three weeks." He shouts again.

"Don't think that I'll stop trying."

The desolate woman quietly shakes,

To the sound of her young child's crying.

Unknown Author

Remember Me

Remember me as you pass by.

As you are now, so once was I.

As I am now, so will you be.

Prepare yourself to follow me.

The Countess of Dufferin

The Irish Emigrant

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat, side by side,

That bright May morning long ago

When first you were my bride.

The corn was springing fresh and green

And the lark sang loud and high,

The red was on your lip, Mary,

The love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,

The day is bright as then,

The lark's loud song is in my ear,

The corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

Your breath warm on my cheek,

And I still keep list'ning for the words

You never more may speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

The little Church stands near -

The Church where we were wed, Mary -

I see the spire from here;

But the graveyard lies between, Mary -

My step might break your rest -

Where you, my darling, lie asleep

With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary -

The poor make no new friend -

But, oh, they love the better still

The few our Father sends.

And you were all I had, Mary,

There's nothing left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was a good brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,

When trust in God had left my soul,

And half my strength was gone.

There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow,

I bless you, Mary, for that same,

Though you can't hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break;

When the hunger pain was gnawing there

You hid it for my sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore.

Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,

Where grief can't reach you more.

I'm bidding you a long farewell,

My Mary - kind and true!

But I'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm going to.

They say there's bread and work for all,

And the sun shines always there;

But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

And when amid those grand old woods

I sit and shut my eyes,

My heart will travel back again

To where my Mary lies;

I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat, side by side,

And the springing corn and bright May morn,

When first you were my bride.

An extract from a plaque found in Old Saint Paul's Church, Baltimore. 

Dated 1692

Desiderata

(Things to be desired)

Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly and listen to others.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself to others, you may become vain and bitter,

for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,

gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself,

you are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and stars;

You have a right to be here.

And, whether it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore, be at peace with God.

With all it's sham, drudgery and broken dreams,

it is still a beautiful world.

Be careful.

Strive to be happy.