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Saturday, 15 October 2011


‎"Who knows the joys of friendship,
The trust, security, and mutual tenderness,
The double joys, where each is glad for both." 

-Nicholas Rowe


‎"When true friends meet in adverse hour,
'Tis like a sunbeam through a shower;
A watery ray an instant seen,
The darkly closing clouds between." 

-Sir Walter Scott

Thursday, 8 September 2011

The caption underneath read:
"i found this old newspaper clipping in a poetry book that i got at a flea market, i also found a daisy and a love letter"

Thursday, 1 September 2011

Snowdrops - Mary Vivien


I like to think
      That, long ago,
     There fell to earth
               Some flakes of snow
           Which loved this cold, 
            Grey world of ours
          So much, they stayed
                As snowdrop flowers.

                                                                                                                            Mary Vivien   

I'd Choose to be a Daisy

I'd Choose to be a Daisy

I'd choose to be a daisy,
If I might be a flower;
Closing my petals softly
At twilight's quiet hour;
And waking in the morning,
When falls the early dew,
To welcome Heaven's bright sunshine,
And Heaven's bright tear-drops too.

I'd choose to be a skylark,
If I might be a bird;
My song should be the loudest
The sun has ever heard;
I'd wander through the cloudland,
Far, far above the moon,
And reach right up to heaven,
Where it is always noon.

And yet I think I'd rather
Be changed into a lamb,
And in the fields spend pleasant days
A-playing by my dam.
But then, you see, I cannot be
A flower, or bird or lamb.
And why? Because I'm made to be
The little child I am!

Sunday, 21 August 2011

To Autumn - John Keats. 1795–1821

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-eaves run; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,         5
  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,  10
  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;  15
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
  Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
    Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
  Steady thy laden head across a brook;  20
  Or by a cider-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 barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,  25
  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;  30
  Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
  The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; 
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

— William Morris (The Well at the World's End: volume I)

"With the arrogance of youth, I determined to do no less than to transform the world with Beauty. If I have succeeded in some small way, if only in one small corner of the world, amongst the men and women I love, then I shall count myself blessed, and blessed, and blessed, and the work goes on."

— William Morris

"A good way to rid one's self of a sense of discomfort is to do something. That uneasy, dissatisfied feeling is actual force vibrating out of order; it may be turned to practical account by giving proper expression to its creative character."

Wednesday, 17 August 2011

My Heart and I - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

ENOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the pen,
As if such colours could not fly.
We walked too straight for fortune's end,
We loved too true to keep a friend ;
At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I !
We seem of no use in the world ;
Our fancies hang grey and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently ;
Our voice which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep; our tears are only wet :
What do we here, my heart and I ?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
It was not thus in that old time
When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime
To watch the sunset from the sky.
`Dear love, you're looking tired,' he said;
I, smiling at him, shook my head :
'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains ? My heart and I ?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out :
Disdain them, break them, throw them by
And if before the days grew rough
We once were loved, used, -- well enough,
I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Nobody knows this little Rose - Emily Dickinson

Nobody knows this little Rose --
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it --
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey --
On its breast to lie --
Only a Bird will wonder --
Only a Breeze will sigh --
Ah Little Rose -- how easy
For such as thee to die!

Tuesday, 16 August 2011

Where the Sidewalk Ends - Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Patience - Amy Lowell

Be patient with you?
When the stooping sky
Leans down upon the hills
And tenderly, as one who soothing stills
An anguish, gathers earth to lie
Embraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled men
Feel patience then?
Be patient with you?
When the snow-girt earth
Cracks to let through a spurt
Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt
A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worth
To eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men
Feel patience then?
Be patient with you?
When pain's iron bars
Their rivets tighten, stern
To bend and break their victims; as they turn,
Hopeless, there stand the purple jars
Of night to spill oblivion. Do these men
Feel patience then?
Be patient with you?
You! My sun and moon!
My basketful of flowers!
My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours,
Windless and still, of afternoon!
You are my world and I your citizen.
What meaning can have patience then?

Petals - Amy Lowell

Life is a stream
On which we strew
Petal by petal the flower of our heart;
The end lost in dream,
They float past our view,
We only watch their glad, early start.
Freighted with hope,
Crimsoned with joy,
We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;
Their widening scope,
Their distant employ,
We never shall know. And the stream as it flows
Sweeps them away,
Each one is gone
Ever beyond into infinite ways.
We alone stay
While years hurry on,
The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

O Do Not Love Too Long - William Butler Yeats

Sweetheart, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.

All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.

But O, in a minute she changed -
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.

Sonnet 14 - If thou must love me, let it be for nought - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
'I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'—
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,—
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

There is Another Sky - Emily Dickinson

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

Monday, 23 May 2011


Now fancy paints that bygone day

When you were here, my fair -

The whole lake rang with rapid skates

In the windless, winter air.


You leaned to me, I leaned to you,

Our course was smooth as flight -

We steered - a heel-touch to the left,

A heel-touch to the right.


We swung our way through flying men,

Your hand lay fast in mine,

We saw the shifting crowd dispart,

The level ice-reach shine.


I swear by yon swan-travelled lake,

By yon calm hill above,

I swear had we been drowned that day

We had been drowned in love.


Robert Louis Stevenson, 1850-94

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

March: An Ode - Algernon C. Swinburne

"Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and fell,
and the splendor of winter had passed out of sight,
The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger
than dreams that fulfill us in sleep with delight;
The breath of the mouths of the winds had hardened on tree-tops
and branches that glittered and swayed
Such wonders and glories of blossom like snow
or of frost that outlightens all flowers till it fade
That the sea was not lovelier than here was the land,
nor the night than the day, nor the day than the night,
Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring:
such mirth had the madness and might in thee made,
March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms
that enkindle the season they smite."

XLVIII - Emily Dickinson

“March is the month of expectation,
The things we do not know,
The Persons of Prognostication
Are coming now.
We try to sham becoming firmness,
But pompous joy
Betrays us, as his first betrothal
Betrays a boy.”

Monday, 28 February 2011

Pride and Prejudice (Chapter 1) - Jane Austen

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.”

William Shakespeare’s Sonnet XXI

“So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven’s air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.”
.soft, white feather

. floats down

. towards the floor

. squishing back

. and forth

. in a strange

. zigzag pattern

. before coming

. to a halt upon the ground.

I Capture the Castle - Dodie Smith

“There is only one page left to write on. I will fill it with words of only one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.”

Mansfield Park - Jane Austen

“If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out.”

Regrets - Anonymous

“Regrets are just mistakes you dwell on.

Don’t dwell.


Forgive yourself.

Move on.”

* * *

Evening Solace - Charlotte Brontë (1816-1855)

“The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;—
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.
But there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart’s best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back—a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others’ sufferings seem.
Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie!

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress—
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven
Seeking a life and world to come.”

Jane Eyre (Jane to Mr. Rochester-Ch. 23) Charlotte Brontë

“Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you — and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you.”

North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell

“One word more. You look as if you thought it tainted you to be
loved by me. You cannot avoid it. Nay, I, if I would, cannot
cleanse you from it. But I would not, if I could. I have never
loved any woman before: my life has been too busy, my thoughts
too much absorbed with other things. Now I love, and will love.
But do not be afraid of too much expression on my part.”

My Cousin Rachel (Chapter 14) - Daphne Du Maurier

“‘I don’t know what’s come over you,’ she said; ‘you are losing your sense of humour.’ And she patted me on the shoulder and went upstairs. That was the infuriating thing about a woman. Always the last word. Leaving one to grapple with ill-temper, and she herself serene. A woman, it seemed, was never in the wrong. Or if she was, she twisted the fault to her advantage, making it seem otherwise.”

North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell

“He shrank from hearing Margaret’s very name mentioned; he, while he blamed her — while he was jealous of her — while he renounced her — he loved her sorely, in spite of himself.”

Piano - D.H. Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling


And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as

she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside

And hymns in the cozy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst, into clamour

With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, and I weep like a child for

the past.