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Thread: A Little Poetry.

  1. #1
    Moderator Hirlau's Avatar
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    Default A Little Poetry.

    Hey Guys,

    Here are a few poems that were cut out of the local newspaper by my grandmother in the late 40's.
    Please add any poems that you want.

    Thanks for looking,,,,,


    Name:  Birds & Men by Edgar Guest 1946.jpg
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    Name:  Quote From Bruce Barton.jpg
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  3. #2
    Senior Moderator JimmyHAD's Avatar
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    My favorite Edgar Guest poem ;

    Home

    By Edgar Albert Guest

    It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home,
    A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam
    Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind,
    An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind.
    It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be,
    How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury;
    It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king,
    Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.

    Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
    Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it;
    Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then
    Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men;
    And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part
    With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart:
    The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
    Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door.

    Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh
    An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh;
    An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come,
    An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb.
    Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried,
    Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified;
    An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories
    O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye can’t escape from these.

    Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,
    An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day;
    Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year
    Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear
    Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run
    The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun;
    Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome:
    It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.
    Hirlau and xiaotuzi like this.
    Be careful how you treat people on your way up, you may meet them again on your way back down.

  4. #3
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    Walt Whitman upon the death of Abraham Lincoln ;

    O Captain! My Captain!

    O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

    The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

    The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

    While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

    But O heart! heart! heart!

    O the bleeding drops of red,

    Where on the deck my Captain lies,

    Fallen cold and dead.



    O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

    Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

    For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

    For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

    Here Captain! dear father!

    This arm beneath your head!

    It is some dream that on the deck,

    You’ve fallen cold and dead.



    My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

    My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

    The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

    From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

    Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

    But I with mournful tread,

    Walk the deck my Captain lies,

    Fallen cold and dead.
    Be careful how you treat people on your way up, you may meet them again on your way back down.

  5. #4
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    2 by Robert Frost ;

    Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening


    By Robert Frost

    Whose woods these are I think I know.
    His house is in the village though;
    He will not see me stopping here
    To watch his woods fill up with snow.

    My little horse must think it queer
    To stop without a farmhouse near
    Between the woods and frozen lake
    The darkest evening of the year.

    He gives his harness bells a shake
    To ask if there is some mistake.
    The only other sound’s the sweep
    Of easy wind and downy flake.

    The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
    But I have promises to keep,
    And miles to go before I sleep,
    And miles to go before I sleep.

    Mending Wall


    By Robert Frost

    Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
    That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
    And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
    And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
    The work of hunters is another thing:
    I have come after them and made repair
    Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
    But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
    To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
    No one has seen them made or heard them made,
    But at spring mending-time we find them there.
    I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
    And on a day we meet to walk the line
    And set the wall between us once again.
    We keep the wall between us as we go.
    To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
    And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
    We have to use a spell to make them balance:
    "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
    We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
    Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
    One on a side. It comes to little more:
    There where it is we do not need the wall:
    He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
    My apple trees will never get across
    And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
    He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
    Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
    If I could put a notion in his head:
    "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
    Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
    Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
    What I was walling in or walling out,
    And to whom I was like to give offence.
    Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
    That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
    But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
    He said it for himself. I see him there
    Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
    In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
    He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
    Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
    He will not go behind his father's saying,
    And he likes having thought of it so well
    He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."
    Hirlau likes this.
    Be careful how you treat people on your way up, you may meet them again on your way back down.

  6. #5
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    2 of my all time favorites by William Butler Yeats ;

    The Lake Isle of Innisfree

    By William Butler Yeats

    I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
    And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
    Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
    And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

    And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
    Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
    There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
    And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

    I will arise and go now, for always night and day
    I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
    While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
    I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

    Sailing to Byzantium


    By William Butler Yeats
    I

    That is no country for old men. The young
    In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
    —Those dying generations—at their song,
    The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
    Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
    Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
    Caught in that sensual music all neglect
    Monuments of unageing intellect.


    II

    An aged man is but a paltry thing,
    A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
    Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
    For every tatter in its mortal dress,
    Nor is there singing school but studying
    Monuments of its own magnificence;
    And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
    To the holy city of Byzantium.


    III

    O sages standing in God's holy fire
    As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
    Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
    And be the singing-masters of my soul.
    Consume my heart away; sick with desire
    And fastened to a dying animal
    It knows not what it is; and gather me
    Into the artifice of eternity.


    IV

    Once out of nature I shall never take
    My bodily form from any natural thing,
    But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
    Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
    To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
    Or set upon a golden bough to sing
    To lords and ladies of Byzantium
    Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
    Hirlau likes this.
    Be careful how you treat people on your way up, you may meet them again on your way back down.

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    The Promise Kept
    By: Bruce Obermeyer

    Their son was only two weeks old; their daughter's years were three
    When duty called this pilot to the war across the sea.
    "Let's just pretend you're only going on a business trip.
    Each day we'll write about the things we've done and then we'll slip
    a note into an envelope and put it in the mail.
    You send me yours; I'll send you mine, I promise, without fail."
    He walked away with pounding heart while fighting back the tears
    with "Come home soon, I love you, Daddy" ringing in his ears.
    They kept that promise, sealed with love some 30 years ago.
    They sent him tapes and photographs so he could watch them grow.
    They're married now with children of their own who, at the Wall,
    ask "Was my Grandpa brave?" and Grandma says, "Bravest of all."

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