TRUE LOVE
Anon

True love is a sacred flame
That burns eternally,
And none can dim its special glow
Or change its destiny.

True love speaks in tender tones
And hears with gentle ear,
True love gives with open heart
And true love conquers fear.

True love makes no harsh demands
It neither rules nor binds,
And true love holds with gentle hands
The hearts that it entwines.

-oo0oo-

TODAY'S POEM IS THE LAST TO BE PUBLISHED ON THIS SITE.

"POETRY FOR PLEASURE" IS NOW A DAILY FEATURE ON MY 80 PLUS BLOG
http://80plus.blogspot.com

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MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE
Robert Burns (1759-1796)

O, my love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
My love is like a melody
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonny lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love!
And fare thee weel, awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
Though it were ten thousand mile.

-oo0oo-

These poems are also being shown daily on the 80 plus site
http://80plus.blogspot.com

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ALL IN THE DOWNS
Tom Hood (The Younger) 1835-1874

I would I had something to do - or to think!
Or something to read, or to write!
I am rapidly verging on Lunacy’s brink,
Or I shall be dead before night.

In my ears has been ringing and droning all day,
Without ever a stop or a change,
That poem of Tennyson’s - heart-cheering lay! -
Of the Moated Monotonous Grange!

The stripes in the carpet and paper alike
I have counted, and counted all through.
And now I’ve a fervid ambition to strike
Out some path of wild pleasure that’s new.

They say if a number you count, and re-count,
That the time imperceptibly goes: -
Ah, I wish - how I wish! - I’d ne’er learnt the amount
Of my aggregate fingers and toes.

“Enjoyment is fleeting,” the proverbs all say,
“Even that, which it feeds upon, fails.”
I’ve arrived at the truth of the saying today,
By devouring the whole of my nails.

I have numbered the minutes, so heavy and slow,
Till of that dissipation I tire.
And as for exciting amusements - you know
One can’t ALWAYS be stirring the fire!

-oo0oo

The poems on this site are also appearing on the 80 plus blog
http://80plus.blogspot.com

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THE ISLE OF CAPRI
Jimmy Kennedy (1902-1984)

‘Twas on the Isle of Capri that I found her
Beneath the shade of an old walnut tree,
Oh, I can still see the flowers blooming round her
Where we met on the Isle of Capri.

She was as sweet as a rose at the dawning
But somehow fate hadn’t meant her for me,
And though I sailed with the tide in the morning
Still my heart’s on the Isle of Capri.

Summertime was nearly over,
Blue Italian sky above,
I said “Lady, I’m a rover,
Can you spare a sweet word of love?”

She whispered softly “It’s best not to linger,”
Then as I kissed her hand I could see
She wore a plain golden ring on her finger,
‘Twas goodbye on the Isle of Capri.

-oo0oo-

TWO POEMS
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

SWEET GARDEN-ORCHARD

Sweet Garden-orchard! of all spots that are
The loveliest surely man hath ever found.
Farewell! we leave thee to heaven's peaceful care.
Thee and the cottage which thou dost surround -

Dear Spot! whom we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own -

O happy Garden! loved for hours of sleep,
O quiet Garden! loved for waking hours.
For soft half-slumbers that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers.

-oo0oo-

TO A BUTTERFLY

I’ve watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! Indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! - not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

-oo0oo-

ADLESTROP
Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

Yes, I remember Adlestrop -
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop - only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

-o0o-

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle—
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea—
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

-oo0oo-

THERE WAS A LITTLE WOMAN
Anon

There was a little woman, as I've heard say,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
She went to market, her eggs for to sell,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.
She went to market all on a market day,
And she fell asleep upon the king's highway;
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.

And there came a pedlar whose name was Stout,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
He cut her petticoats all round about,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
He cut her petticoats up to her knees,
Which made the little woman to shiver and freeze,
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.

When the little woman began to awake,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
She began to shiver, and she began to shake,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
She began to shake, and she began to cry,
Lawk-a-mercy on me! this is none of I,
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.

If it be I, as I suppose it be,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
I've a little dog at home, and he knows me;
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
If it be I, he will wag his little tail,
If it be not I, he will bark and rail,
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.

And when the little woman went home in the dark,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
Her little dog he did begin to bark,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
He began to bark, and she began to cry,
Lawk-a-mercy on me! this is none of I,
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.

-oo0oo-

UPHILL
Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830–1894)

Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

-oo0oo-

THE MOUNTAINS OF MOURNE
Percy French (1854-1920)

Oh Mary, this London's a wonderful sight
With the people here working by day and by night,
They don't sow potatoes nor barley nor wheat,
But there's gangs of them digging for gold in the street;
At least when I asked them that's what I was told,
So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I believe that when writing a wish you expressed,
As to how the fine ladies of London were dressed;
Well, if you believe me, when asked to a ball,
They don't wear a top on their dresses at all;
Oh, I've seen them myself, and you couldn't in truth
Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath;
Don't be starting them fashions now, Mary Macree,
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I've seen England's king from the top of a bus,
I never knew him, though he means to know us;
And though by the Saxon we once were oppressed,
Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest;
And now that he's visited Erin's green shore,
We'll be much better friends than we've heretofore;
When we've got all we want, we're as quiet as can be,
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

You remember young Peter O'Loughlin of course,
Well, now he is here at the head of the force;
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand
And he stopped the whole street with one wave of his hand;
And there we stood talking of days that are gone,
While the whole population of London looked on,
But for all these great powers he's wishful like me
To be back where dark Moume sweeps down to the sea.

There's beautiful girls here - Oh, never you mind,
With beautiful shapes Nature never designed,
And lovely complexions, all roses and cream,
But O'Loughlin remarked with regard to the same,
That, if at those roses you venture to sip,
The colours might all come away on your lip,
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting for me
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea

-oo0oo-

THE VISUAL IMAGE SITE
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DO NOT STAND AT MY GRAVE AND WEEP
Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004)

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

-oo0oo-

THE SLAVE'S DREAM
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain-road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!

-oo0oo-

I REMEMBER IT WELL
Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Lowe

We met at nine,
We met at eight,
I was on time,
No, you were late,
Ah, yes, I remember it well;

We dined with friends,
We dined alone,
A tenor sang,
A baritone,
Ah, yes, I remember it well;

That dazzling April moon,
There was none that night,
And the month was June,
That's right, that's right,
It warms my heart to know that you
Remember still the way you do,
Ah, yes, I remember it well.

How often I've thought of that Friday - Monday - night
When we had our last rendezvous,
And somehow I foolishly wondered if you might
By some chance be thinking of it, too?

That carriage ride,
You walked me home,
You lost a glove,
It was a comb,
Ah, yes, I remember it well;

That brilliant sky,
We had some rain,
Those Russian songs
From sunny Spain,
Ah, yes, I remember it well;

You wore a gown of gold,
I was all in blue,
Am I getting old?
Oh, no, not you.
How strong you were,
How young and gay,
A prince of love in every way,
Ah, yes, I remember it well.
Ah, yes, I remember it well.

-oo0oo-

HAVE YOU SEEN BUT A BRIGHT LILY GROW?
Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

-oo0oo-

BALLADE OF AUTUMN
Andrew Lang (1844 - 1912)

We built a castle in the air,
In summer weather, you and I,
The wind and sun were in your hair,
Gold hair against a sapphire sky:
When autumn came, with leaves that fly
Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh,
My Love returns no more again!

The windy lights of autumn flare:
I watch the moonlit sails go by;
I marvel how men toil and fare,
The weary business that they ply!
Their voyaging is vanity,
And fairy gold is all their gain,
And all the winds of winter cry,
"My Love returns no more again!"

Here, in my Castle of Despair,
I sit alone with memory;
The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,
To keep the outcast company.
The brooding owl he hoots hard by,
The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,
The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,
My Love returns no more again!

-oo0oo-

THE BATH
Harry Graham (1874-1936)

Broad is the gate and wide the path
That leads man to his daily bath;

But e’er you spend the shining hour
With plunge and spray, with sluice and show’r,

With all that teaches you to dread
The bath as little as your bed,

Remember, whereso’er you be,
To shut the door and turn the key.

I had a friend - my friend no more!
Who failed to bolt the bathroom door;

An aunt of his, I'm sad to say,
Walked in, as half-submerged he lay;

But did not notice nephew John,
And turned the boiling water on!

He had no time or even scope
To camouflage himself with soap,

But gave a yell and flung aside
The sponge ‘neath which he sought to hide!

It fell to earth, I know not where;
He beat his breast in his despair

And then, like Venus from the sea,
Sprang into view and tried to flee.

His aunt fell fainting to the ground;
Alas! They never brought her round!

She died, intestate, in her prime,
The victim of another’s crime;

And John can never quite forget
How, by a breach of etiquette,

He lost, at one fell swoop (or plunge)
His aunt, his honour, and his sponge!

-oo0oo-

THE SKYLARK
James Hogg (1770-1835)

Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

-oo0oo-