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by
Isabel Clark Paintings
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Assorted Poems
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.
William Wordsworth 1770-1850
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
Footsteps
One night a man had a dream that he was walking along the
beach with the Lord.
Across the sky flashed scenes from his life. For each scene, he noticed two sets
of footprints in the sand; one belonging to him, the other belonging to the
Lord.
When the last scene of his life flashed before him,
he looked back at the footprints in the sand.
He noticed that many times along the path of his life there was only one set of footprints,
and that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times in his life.
This really bothered him and he questioned the Lord about it.
"Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all
the way.
But during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of
footprints.
I don't understand why, when I needed you most, you would leave me."
The Lord replied, "My precious, precious child. I love you, and I would
never
leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set
of
footprints, it was then that I carried you."
Author Unknown at the moment
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."
Thomas Moore 1779 - 1852
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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson - 1809 - 1892
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.
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
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.
John Masefield 1878 - 1967
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.
Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953
The Rent Man
Through the dirty, floral curtains,
Passed the dustbins on the right,
The worn-down mother looks to see
If 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.
F. Clark 1946
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.
Author Unknown
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 friends -
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.
The Countess of Dufferin
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.
An extract from a plaque found in Old Saint Paul's Church, Baltimore dated 1692
"Don't Quit"
When
things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high
and you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.
Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt
But you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems afar,
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit.
It's when things go wrong that you mustn't quit.
(Author Unknown)
When Earth's Last Picture is Painted
When Earth's last
picture is painted
And the tubes are twisted and dried
When the oldest colors have faded
And the youngest critic has died
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an aeon or two
'Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew
And those that were good shall be happy
They'll sit in a golden chair
They'll splash at a ten league canvas
With brushes of comet's hair
They'll find real saints to draw from
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul
They'll work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all.
And only the Master shall praise us.
And only the Master shall blame.
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it.
For the God of things as they are!
Rudyard Kipling
Ozymandias
I MET a traveller from an antique
land,
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
by
Isabel Clark Paintings
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