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Dodie's Dream World - Complete Chaos! xxx
Classic Poems

Dodies Dream World - Classic Poems

You will find many of Tafadzwa poems on Poetry Hunter,
just write his name in your browser, or follow the link at the end of this poem.

A Beautiful HeartFlickering Heart

One day a young man was standing in the middle of the town
proclaiming that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley.
A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect.
There was not a mark or a flaw in it.
Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen.
The young man was very proud and boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart.

Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said,
"Why your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine."
The crowd and the young man looked at the old man's heart.
It was beating strongly ... but it was full of scars ...
it had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in ...
but they didn't fit quite right and there were several jagged edges.
In fact ... in some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing.
The people stared ... how can he say his heart is more beautiful ... they thought?

The young man looked at the old man's heart ... and saw its state and laughed.
"You must be joking," he said. "Compare your heart with mine ...
mine is perfect and yours is a mess of scars and tears."
"Yes" ... said the old man ... "yours is perfect looking but ...
I would never trade with you.
You see ... every scar represents a person to whom I have given my love ...
I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them ...
and often they give me a piece of their heart
which fits into the empty place in my heart ...
but because the pieces aren't exact ...
I have some rough edges ... which I cherish ...
because they remind me of the love we shared.

Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart away ...
and the other person hasn't returned a piece of his heart to me.
These are the empty gouges ... giving love is taking a chance.
Although these gouges are painful ...
they stay open ... reminding me of the love I have for these people too ...
and I hope someday they may return and fill the space I have waiting.
So now do you see what true beauty is?"

The young man stood silently with tears running down his cheeks.
He walked up to the old man ... reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart ...
and ripped a piece out.
He offered it to the old man with trembling hands.
The old man took his offering ... placed it in his heart ...
and then took a piece from his old scarred heart ...
and placed it in the wound in the young man's heart.
It fit ... but not perfectly ... as there were some jagged edges.
The young man looked at his heart ...
not perfect anymore but more beautiful than ever ...
since love from the old man's heart flowed into his.
They embraced and walked away side by side.

From the pen of  Tafadzwa MhondiwaMugari

Just back arrow click to return to Dodies Classic Poems
CLASSIC POEMS  Dodies Dream WorldAllsorts from Cecily Fox Smith

Cicely Fox Smith 1882-1954,

"It takes all sorts to make a world, an' the same to make a crew;
It takes the good an' middlin' an' the rotten bad uns too;
The same's there are on land," says Bill, "you meet 'em all at sea . . .
The freaks an' fads an' crooks an' cads an' ornery folks like me."

"It takes a man for every job — the skippers an' the mates,
The chap as gives the orders an' the chap as chips the plates —
It takes the brass-bound 'prentices (an' ruddy plagues they be)
An' chaps as shirk an' chaps as work — just ornery chaps like me."

"It takes the stiffs an' deadbeats an' decent shellbacks too,
The chaps as always pull their weight an' them as never do,
The sort the Lord as made 'em knows what bloomin' use they be,
An' crazy folks, an' musical blokes . . . an' ornery chaps like me."

"It takes a deal o' fancy breeds — the Dagoes an' the Dutch,
The Lascars an' calashees an' the seedyboys an' such;
It takes the greasers an' the Chinks, the Jap an' Portugee,
The blacks an' yellers an' 'arf-bred fellers . . . an' ornery folks like me."

"It takes all sorts to make a world an' the same to make a crew,
It takes more kinds o' people than there's creeters in the Zoo;
You meet 'em all ashore," says Bill, "an' you find 'em all at sea . . .
But do me proud if most of the crowd ain't ornery chaps like me!"

Editor notes

Cicely Fox SmithFrom ROVINGS: Sea Songs & Ballads, edited by Cicely Fox Smith, published by Elkin Mathews, London, UK, © 1921, pp. 51-52. First published in PUNCH magazine, Volume 159, July 21, 1920, p. 46.

Here we have a vivid picture of how an old sailor might have described you and your messmates aboard one of those tall sailing ships at the close of the 19th century. The crew of a ship was not exactly a "melting pot" but if you learned your work and "pulled your weight with a will" you earned the respect of the old shellbacks regardless of where you came from. Of course, if you were the son of a prominent shipping family, you got a head start but you still needed to demonstrate capability to earn respect and promotion.

The header graphic by nautical artist Gordon Grant shows some of these sailors.

Charley Noble

Thankyou so much for all your good works "ALLPOETRY" May you continue to share these wonderful works with the World. Dodie. xxx

Dodies Dream World - Classic Poems

An extract from Chapter IX of

Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll

  At that moment the door was flung open, and a shrill voice was heard singing :-

To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said
"I've a sceptre in hand, I've a crown on my head;,
Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be
Come and dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and Me ! "
And hundreds of voices joined in the chorus :-

Then fill up the glasses as quick as you can,
And sprinkle the table with buttons and bran:
Put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea--
And welcome Queen Alice with thirty-times-three!

Then followed a confused noise of cheering, and Alice thought to herself,
"Thirty times three makes ninety. I wonder if any one's counting ?"
In a minute there was silence again, and the same shrill voice sang another verse :-
"O Looking-Glass creatures," quoth Alice, "draw near !
'Tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear:
'Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea
Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and Me!"

Then came the chorus again :-
Then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink,
Or anything else that is pleasant to drink:
Mix sand with the cider, and wool with the wine--
And welcome Queen Alice with ninety-times-nine!

" Ninety times nine !" Alice repeated in despair. "Oh, that'll never be done !"

Many people have read "Alice in Wonderland" but if you have never read "Through the Looking Glass" you are missing another fantastic story by the wonderful Lewis Carroll. He wrote it way back in 1865, my book as you may guess is a very old hardback, and was published  by William Clowes and Sons. It is in a wonderful condition mind, and has six beautiful sketches in the Alice in Wonderland half, but only three in Through the Looking Glass.



This poem about the Crimean War (1853 - 1856) I found in my useful knowledge reading book 1873.And given the date of the book and the Date of the Crimean War, together with the line "Oh Britannia, Queen of the Ocean," I am logically guessing we have the right battle.There is no author to ask, just another ANON, but here is is anyway;

The Army's Return

See our soldiers now returning,

Crown'd with laurels bravely won;

Ev'ry thought with home is burning,

War is over, peace begun.

Rousing ev'ry patriot feeling,

While our heart its prayer doth seal,

Hear the noble anthem pealing

For our Queen and country's weal.

Britain's standard proudly waving,

Borne by Britain's valiant sons,

Though still many a bosom heaving

With the thought of absent ones.

Laid in glory they are lying,

Honour sits upon their graves;

Unto ev'ry teat replying,

"Britons never shall be slaves."

Oh Brittania ! Queen of Ocean,

Praise the God who guards they shore;

Him who still preserves our nation,

Let our grateful hearts adore.

Then shall He whose mighty power

Hath so long our bulwark been,

All His richest blessing shower

On our country and our Queen.

I think it is a little patriotic but very  stirring also.

The Crimean War 1853 - 56

The Crimean War

 October 1853–February 1856), war fought mainly on the Crimean Peninsula between the Russians and the British, French, and Ottoman Turkish, with support, from January 1855, by the army of Sardinia-Piedmont. The war arose from the conflict of great powers in the Middle East and was more directly caused by Russian demands to exercise protection over the Orthodox subjects of the Ottoman sultan. Another major factor was the dispute between Russia and France over the privileges of the Russian Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches in the holy places in Palestine.

The Outcome was an Allied victory, with the Treaty of Paris in 1856. It is also famous for the works of Florence Nightingale and Mary Seacole, who pioneered modern nursing practices while caring for wounded British soldiers.


Dodie would like to introduce you to Adam Mitchell Bernard Bond, I found him

children while searching for a Tinker for Japan. I do hope you like it.

by Adam Mitchell Bernard Bond on 22 December 2009


The Tinker’s Pot

There once was a Tin­ker who made a small pot
He banged on his cop­per, a sim­ple thing wrought.

He had no pre­ten­sions of glory and fame,
He had no great titles append­ing his name.

He lived in a wag­gon with naught but his horse,
Yet never was lonely and felt no remorse:

For the cleric who draped him­self richly in red,
And King who had pil­lows of silk for his head,

And the noble who trum­peted horns on the field,
And the mer­chant who gauged all the world by its yield,

Had noth­ing on him who just sat ‘neath a tree,A Copper Kettle
Pluck­ing a flower and prais­ing the bee,

Who sat by his fire of bram­bles and gorse,
Who stroked the long face of his nag­gin’ old horse,

Who looked to the Heav­ens for God’s face to see,
Who looked in the hedge for a faerie’s bowery,

Who ate naught but beans and bacon and beer,
Who sat ‘neath the star-​ridden skies with­out fear,

Who banged on his cop­per and sim­ple things wrought,
The Tin­ker who loved just to make a small pot.

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Dodies Dream-World

Vixi duellis nuper idoneus, Et militavi non sine gloria

shares with you Henry Reed

Born in 1914 in Birmingham, , England on February 22ndand educated there ending up at Birmingham University, where he achieved his M.A. He was called up in 1941 and went to the Foreign Office from 1942 - 46. After his return to civvy street he became a full-time writer, but always maintained he was a slow worker.  He also worked as a freelance writer for the BBC Features Department, from 1946-1980 and made many broadcasts on books and films and enjoyed writing radio scripts on extended themes, e.g. Moby Dick. He was very fond of films, theatre and opera and for entertainment he was known to play the piano badly and for long stretches at a time.
He died on December 8th in 1986 and left some wonderful works behind. as this one listed here.... with Lessons of War, which was dedicated to Alan Michell , with these words first written by Horace:
 Vixi puellis nuper idoneus
 Et militavi non sine gloria

In which he uses the Latin (duellis-battles) instead of Horaces' (puellis-girls) to make the translation.
"I have lived recently suitable for battles, and fought not without glory."

This verse was written in 1946 as part of 
Lessons of War: 1. Naming of Parts from  A Map of Verona (Jonathan Cape, Ltd )

Many of his works are titled in any of the wikipedia

"Naming of Parts" from  YouTube.com:

Lessons of War

To Alan Michell

Vixi duellis noper idoneus
Et militavi non sine gloria

To-day we have Naming of Part
1. Naming of Parts

Today we have naming of parts.     Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing.    But to-day,

Today we have Naming of parts.     Japonica
Glistens like coral in all the neighbouring gardens,
And to-day we have naming the parts.

This is the lower sling swivel.     And this
Is the upper sling swivel, use you will see,
When you are given your slings     And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got.     The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb.     And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger.   You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb.     The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt.     The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you can see.      We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards :   We call this
Easing the spring.     And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring :    it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb; like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece,and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got ; and the almond blossom
Silent in all of thegardens and the bees going backwards and forwards
For to-day we have naming of parts
                                                           The End

War yet all around us the Japonica is blooming?

I like to read within the Japonica, that the soldier can see all around him, in the gardens fresh, bright amongst the branches of deep green. peace, tranquility amongst the fallen and the dying.
"  Japonica, glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens,
The branches
Hold in the gardens, their silent, eloquent gestures,
The blossoms are fragile and moitionless.
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flower:
and the almond blossom
 Silent in all of the gardens,
 and the bees going backwards and forwards. "

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Build a Bonfire

Build a bonfire, build a bonfire,
Put the teachers on the top;
Put the prefects in the middle,
And we'll burn the bloody lot.



The DoveI had a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:
O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving;
Sweet little red feet! Why should you die -
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! Why?
You lived alone in the forest tree,
Why, pretty thing ! would you not live with me?
Kissed you oft, and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

                                                             John Keats.

An Abacus! you must be joking!
My young son asks me:
Must I learn mathematics?

What is the use, I feel like saying.
That two pieces of bread are more than one's about all you'll end up wi
Mathmatics and French
My young son asks me:
Must I learn French?

What is the use, I feel like saying.
This State's collapsing, and if you just rub your belly with your hand
and groan, you'll be understood with little trouble.
That old apple still works wonders
My young son asks me:
Must I learn history?

What is the use, I feel like saying.
Learn to stick your head in the earth, and maybe you'll still survive.

Yes, learn mathematics, I tell him.
Learn your French, learn your history!

Bertolt Brecht
                         Nothing will change


I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over canopied with lucious woodbine,
With sweet musk roses, and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania, sometime of the night,
Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.
                                                             William Shakespeare.

Dodies Dream World brings you
W.B. Yeats (1865–1939).  William Butler Yeats

From - The Wind Among the Reeds.  1899.

The Cap and Bells

The Jester walked in the garden:
The garden had fallen still;
He bade his soul rise upward
And stand on her window-sill.

It rose in a straight blue garment,
When owls began to call:
It had grown wise-tongued by thinking
Of a quiet and light footfall;

But the young queen would not listen;
She rose in her pale night gown;
She drew in the heavy casement
And pushed the latches down.

He bade his heart go to her,
When the owls called out no more;
In a red and quivering garment
It sang to her through the door.

It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming,
Of a flutter of flower-like hair;
But she took up her fan from the table
And waved it off on the air.

‘I have cap and bells’ he pondered,
‘I will send them to her and die;
And when the morning whitened

He left them where she went by.

She laid them upon her bosom,
Under a cloud of her hair,
And her red lips sang them a lov
e song:
Till stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window,
And the heart and the soul came through
To her right hand came the red one,
To her left hand came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets,
A chattering wise and sweet,
And her hair was a folded flower
And the quiet of love in her feet.

Caps and Bells

Dodies Dream World brings you
Classic Poems by Classic Poets

 D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). 
From New Poems.  1916.

D H Lawrence 1885 - 1930
I, The man with the red scarf,
Will give thee what I have, this last week’s earnings.
Take them, and buy thee a silver ring
And wed me, to ease my yearnings.

For the rest, when thou art wedded
I’ll wet my brow for thee
With sweat, I’ll enter a house for thy sake,
Thou shalt shut doors on me.

There are several new poems added to the CLASSIC POEMS at


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 Snow of Winter.
By Wilfred Owen

Snow of winter
heaven's splinter
sting the soul
lest we forget
scent of summer
river running
love's bright laughter
ever after.

Cold bees of January
build your nests
in frozen trees
glittering statues
with spiked diamond leaves.
Soon Spring will come
and your molten honey
will run over all the land
bringing sweetness to dry earth
recalling birds from distant lands
with the bright green
promise of rebirth.

Snow of winter
stardust falling
all the world is caught
in the dream of
your fine white powder
entranced, but do not linger
such beauty is perilous in excess
to frail mortality and flesh
we do not have the strength to bear it
but must tear ourselves away
from the gorgon stare of eternity
or else are turned to brittle stone
and snapped as easily as a twig
beneath the foot of some dumb beast
searching for some hidden feast.

Subtle song of secret spring
even in the dead of coldest February night
your invisible bells call to my soul
and all the blustery rains of March
and mischievous April
cannot carry their melody away
but only make me yearn yet
stronger for the day
when the Green Lad steps lightly
over the hill
a pot of gold in one hand
and a sackful of jewels in the other,
freely distributing his wealth and colour
or else plays quietly on his flute,
coaxing to life the shy and dormant flowers
and proclaiming the coming of his hour.

Snow of winter
heaven's splinter
sting the soul
lest we forget
times that have fled
and times yet to follow,
days like bright sparrows
and weeks like high swallows.

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Tonight I watched an old programme of "Who wants to be a Millionaire," on the television
and this question was: Which of these four
arts did "Lysippous" find a career in?
So I typed "Lysippous " into the browser and two answers came on the screen. The first
telling me that he was a sculptor and the second telling me that there is a website called called; and I quote;
"The November 3rd Club." and being totally nosey I popped along to have a look at what it
was all about. Imagine how surprised I was to find that it is a place for the written word,
both in poetry and verse etc.
I have to admit to not reading through everything but I did
glance through the pages and thought I might introduce them to all the people who look
here on "Dodies Dream World."
and "Seligor's Castle."
I have chosen this little piece about what I hope Mr Wheeler himself was stating in verse. 
And that was the young, and old who take part in the "suicide bombings around the world
in these sad days. It is a sad reflection that he leaves us with but one that is very, very real.

A Peace PipeA Peace Pipe



It doesn't really matter where or who!!

It is an old dream which returns.

How innocent and guilty are thrown together
at some unexpected, yet not unplanned moment.

I am the tourist, anxious to rediscover Italy
in the manner of Henry James,
or spend a summer in the dry dust of Ephesus

near Aphrodite's temple, listening to nightingales.

I was taught to be fearless.
Who could imagine people who harm for the sake of harm itself? 

Suddenly, I am an object of great value,

a bronze cast by the hand of Lysippous,

an idea worthy of the contemplation
of ten thousand fevered imaginations.  I am purpose.

I am network news, international if killed at the right time. 
No malice, just timing.
When the grenade rolls near
my feet,
I have just finished a glass of wine,
  or a demitasse of espresso,
or made a final offer to the rug merchant
on a carpet for my study.

My blood sprays up into the disordered marketplace
where a young man dips
his finger into a widening pool,

  writes the name of God on the paving stones.

A Peace PipeA Peace Pipe

I hope Mr Wheeler doesn't object to my adding his work to my Classic Poems page but if I have offended  The 3rd November Club in any way, just email myself and I will remove it straight away. Seligor of Seligor's castle aka Dodie Milnes Simm at dottido@hotmail.co.uk

The death toll from suicide bomb attack at a restaurant in northern city of Kirkuk on

Thursday rose to 47 and some 93 others injured, a local police source said.

no names, could be anywhere, just destruction.

A child who was wounded in a bomb attack receives treatment in a hospital in Kirkuk,
250 km (155 miles) north of Baghdad December 11, 2008.
The death toll from suicide bomb attack at a restaurant in Kirkuk on Thursday rose to
47 and some 93 others injured, a local police source said. [Xinhua/Reuters]


Tyger ! Tyger !
Tyger Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire in thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art?
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand, and what dread feet?

Tyger! Tyger ! burning brightWhat the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Tiger in forest (detail of painting by Rousseau)


       Thomas Hood,
One of the most lovable of English Poets, was equally
      great in comic and serious verse.  Only a powerful poet whose heart
had bled for the poor could have written these  moving
and burning verses. It is well to remember in reading them that
 their author could make us laugh as few others have ever done,
        and that it is usually those who see the comic side of life who can best
understand and most suitably express its serious and tender side.

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work — work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"Work — work — work,
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work — work — work,
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch — stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work — work — work!
My labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shattered roof — this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work — work — work!
From weary chime to chime, 
Work — work — work,
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work — work — work,
In the dull December light,
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright —
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet —
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet;
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,  
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No bless'd leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!" 

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —

Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

Thomas Hood

Thomas Hood (1799-1845)

"maybe not this time ..... I wonder!"
It is not often that I come across an old nursery rhyme that I have unheard of before and then I find that it could be a singing nursery rhyme taken from an adult song of the day, I do believe we hear the children singing them today.

This is the rhyme below, I found it in one of the old books, so know that it
was probably written before the 1900's.

King Pippin built a fine new hall
    Pastry and pie-crust were the wall;
Windows made of black pudding and white
    Slates were pancakes - you ne'er saw the like.

Then when I looked for a picture on google I found this poetical satire and it says, it was possible written around 1830/40 which is half a century older than I thought. here is the
Little Rhyme called by me King Pippin



sung with unbounded applause by S-r-T. D. L - r,

Bart. at a late whig Dinner. 
I sing of KING PIPPIN, the chief of his race,
The joy of the garden, the pride of the place—
The pride of the place—not forgetting the tree—
And of all our Whig Apples, King Pippin for me !

                        Sing down down, down derry down.

He's just such a Pippin as one might conceive
To hang at the sign of The Adam and Eve;
And i' faith he might pass, if you saw him up there,
Both for the first Apple and primitive Pair !

                           Sing down down, down derry down.


It's surprising to think how we Whig Apples swim '.
Yet the Oxenford Rennet is nothing to Him ;
And our two Nonpareils, tho' of pretty fair growth,
Must own that King Pippin's as big as them both—
Sing down down, down derry down.


In my walks from Newhaven to far Fisher row,
I have met with a Crab, or a Codling or so—
Yet I thought the whole district could hardly produce
Common apples enough to make sauce for its goose-
Sing down down, down derry down.

But a Pippin like this!—I'd be tempted to swear
By my grandmother Maggy,* that all was not fair —
There must have been forcing - and yet it is strange
That forcing itself will not do at the G—e !

                  Sing down down, down derry down.

But howe'er they have rear'd him, no man can disguise,
He's a Pippin of most preternatural size;
And if Newton had sat where he fell from on high,
Gravitation must still have been " all in my eye"—

Sing down down, down derry down.


Both the sage and his system had then been laid low,
And science had never recovered the blow;
How fortunate then , both for system and sage,
That PIPPY appears in a different age!

             Sing down down, down derry down.


There's a curious maxim of late taken root,
That the tree may be known, as it were, by its fruit—
And surely King Pippin an answer must be
To all who would seek to disparage the tree,

Singing down down, down derry down.

Oh ! call him not fozy, though thus overgrown—
He's a flavour, as well as a size , quite his own-
And whether you boil him, or whether yon bake,
He's Pippin no mortal can ever mistake-

             Sing down down, down, derry down.


Horticultural meetings are now quite the go,
And when Pippin appears at the ensuing show
The Ghost of old D—n must certainly rise
To make him a speech, and present him the prize!
Sing down down, down derry down.


But I'm sure he's thin-skinn'd, as most good apples are,
And my wit may have carried me rather too far—
He's certainly too good an apple to roast,
So I now will conclude, and King Pippin's my toast—
Sing down down, down derry down.

*wha wadna be in love wi' bonny Maggy Lauder-

               A PIPER met her," &c.

Very, very strange. Unfortunately there were two T.D. L---r Bart.,

on the web links I have found so far, one a Whig in the uk and another in the States. Here is a puzzle that even the Greak Wikipaedia hasn't found out.

"Who was King Pippin?

About the wonderful picture below; the one time royal forest of Sherwood, the legenary home of Robin Hood. It comprised 100,000 acres of lush woodland. Out of this in the seventeeth century was formed Thoresby Park of 2,000 acres, and Clumber with an average of 3,400; yet there are still many unbroken miles of beautiful woodlands and the venerable oaks, of which the Major Oak near Edwinstowe is the mightiest.
The Major Oak, Sherwood

Sherwood by The Amazing Alfred Noyes (who else!)
[This well-known early 20th century poem captures the magic of the Robin Hood legend. In addition to this ditty, Noyes also produced a play about Robin Hood.]
    Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?
    Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake,
    Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn,
    Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.

    Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves
    Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves,
    Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,
    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

    Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June:
    All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon,
    Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist
    Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.

    Merry, merry England is waking as of old,
    With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold:
    For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray
    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

    Love is in the greenwood building him a house
    Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs:
    Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies,
    And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.

    Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep!
    Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?
    Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay,
    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

    Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,
    Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,
    Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,
    And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.

    Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together
    With quarter-staff and drinking-can and grey goose-feather.
    The dead are coming back again, the years are rolled away
    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

    Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows.
    All the heart of England his in every rose
    Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap,
    Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?

    Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old
    And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold
    Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep,
    Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?

    Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen
    All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men--
    Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May
    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day--

    Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash
    Rings the Follow! Follow! and the boughs begin to crash,
    The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly,
    And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.

    Robin! Robin! Robin! All his merry thieves
    Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves,
    Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,
    In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. 

Alfred Noyes (1880–1958), English poet.

He was born in Wolverhampton, England, the son of Alfred and Amelia Adams Noyes.
He attended Exeter College, Oxford, leaving before he had earned a degree.

In 1907, he married Garnett Daniels, who died in 1926. Noyes taught English literature at Princeton University from 1914 until 1923. Noyes later converted to Roman Catholicism and wrote about his conversion in The Unknown God (1934).

Noyes later married Mary Angela Mayne Weld-Blundell, who had first married into the old recusant CatholicWeld-Blundell family.
They settled at Lisle Combe, near Ventnor, Isle of Wight and had three children: Hugh, Veronica, and Margaret.
His younger daughter married Michael Nolan (later Lord Nolan) in 1953.
Alfred Noyes died at the age of 77.
His grave is at Freshwater, Isle of Wight.

A wonderful web site that will tell you all
about the Major Oak is here


This afternoon I took time out to watch  "Doctor's" one of the very few soaps! I do watch, mainly because it is always on whilst having my lunch.
It was a strange episode, made even more strange by the classic piece of poetry that was spoken during the end credits.

The Poem's called

and was written by one of England's wonderful Metaphysical Poets.

His name   ANDREW MARVELL. 1621 - 1678 living during the
Cromwell reformation, both before and after the execution of Charles I. 



HOW wisely Nature did decree,
With the same eyes to weep and see ;
That, having viewed the object vain,
They might be ready to complain !
And, since the self-deluding sight
In a false angle takes each height,
These tears, which better measure all,
Like watery lines and plummets fall.

Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh
Within the scales of either eye,
And then paid out in equal poise,
Are the true price of all my joys.
What in the world most fair appears,
Yea, even laughter, turns to tears ;
And all the jewels which we prize
Melt in these pendants of the eyes. 

I have through every garden been,
Amongst the red, the white, the green,
And yet from all the flowers I saw,
No honey, but these tears could draw.
So the all-seeing sun each day
Distils the world with chymic ray;
But finds the essence only showers,
Which straight in pity back he hours.

Yet happy they whom grief doth bless,
That weep the more, and see the less ;
And, to preserve their sight more true,
Bathe still their eyes in their own dew.
So Magdalen in tears more wise
Dissolved those captivating eyes,
Whose liquid chains could flowing meet
To fetter her Redeemer's feet.

Not full sails hasting loaden home,
Nor the chaste lady's pregnant womb,
Nor Cynthia teeming shows so fair
As two eyes swollen with weeping are.
The sparkling glance that shoots desire,
Drenched in these waves, does lose its fire;
Yea oft the Thunderer pity takes,
And here the hissing lightning slakes.

The incense was to Heaven dear,
Not as a perfume, but a tear ;
And stars shew lovely in the night,
But as they seem the tears of light.
Open then, mine eyes, your double sluice,
And practise so your noblest use ;
For others too can see, or sleep,
But only human eyes can weep.

Now, like two clouds dissolving, drop,
And at each tear in distance stop ;
Now, like two fountains, trickle down;
Now, like two floods, o'erturn and drown :
Thus let your streams o'erflow your springs,
Till eyes and tears be the same things;
And each the other's difference bears,
These weeping eyes, those seeing tears.
Titian. Penitent Mary Magdalen

Magdala, lascivos sic quum dimisit amantes

  Fervidaque in castas lumina solvit aquas
Haesit in irriguo lachrymarum compede Christus,
  Et tenuit sacros uda catena pedes.

(Footnote in 1681 edition.)
Titian. Penitent Mary Magdalen. c.1560.
The Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg.

Young girl picking flowers.

A young girl picking flowers
does not count the hours
- to her the passing minutes
have no end or limit...

But in the bank and in the church
the minutes and the hours lurch
and 'though he tries, the priest or clerk
cannot make time flow in reverse.

At bus-stops and train stations
throughout Time's censused nations,
young children skip and pass between
the prison bars of Time's regime;

a young boy has no notion

of life's grim forward motion
but gaily plays with golden things

within the court of deathless Kings.

Yet Time is father to the man
and holds life's key and masterplan
- or so we trust and so we hope,
else all men's lives are but a joke.

But what grown man cannot but dream
of freedom from Time's dull regime?
and fondly he can still recall
the wooden toy and golden ball...

What fortune can such treasure buy?
Let merchant risk his soul to try

- his toil and effort will not yield
a day's release from Time's grey fields.

Yet, penniless, the children play
and own the world and all the day.
The boy that climbs the chestnut tree
partakes of some great Mystery
- and the young girl with her flowers
is Queen of all the passing hours!

The Magic of Words


Tubal Cain

also known as
Tôbalkin the Vulcan.

King of Ur.
 Hero of the Good Land

    OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might
       In the days when earth was young:
    By the fierce red light of his furnace bright
       The strokes of his hammer rung;
    And he lifted high his brawny hand
       On the iron glowing clear,
    Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers,
       As he fashion'd the sword and spear.
    And he sang - "Hurrah for my handiwork!
       Hurrah for the spear and sword!
    Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
                                              For he shall be king and lord!'

    To Tubal Cain came many a one,
       As he wrought by his roaring fire,
    And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade
       As the crown of his desire; 
    And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
       Till they shouted loud for glee,
    And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
       And spoils of the forest free.
    And they sang - "Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
       Who hath given us strength anew!
    Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
       And hurrah for the metal true!"


    But a sudden change came o'er his heart
       Ere the setting of the sun,
    And Tubal Cain was fill'd with pain
       For the evil he had done;
    He saw that men, with rage and hate,
       Made war upon their kind,
    That the land was red with the blood they shed
       In their lust for carnage, blind.
    And he said - "Alas! that ever I made,
       Or that skill of mine should plan,
    The spear and the sword for men whose joy
       Is to slay their fellow-man!"

    Tubal Cain

    And for many a day old Tubal Cain
       Sat brooding o'er his woe;
    And his hand forebore to smite the ore,
       And his furnace smoulder'd low.
    But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
       And a bright courageous eye,
    And bared his strong right arm for work,
       While the quick flames mounted high.
    And he sang - "Hurrah for my handiwork!"
       And the red sparks lit the air;
    "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;"
       And he fashion'd the first ploughshare!

                                   And men, taught wisdom from the past,
                                In friendship join'd their hands,
    Jubal - Tubal CainHung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
       And plough'd the willing lands;
    And sang - "Hurrah for Tubal Cain!
       Our stanch good friend is he;
    And for the ploughshare and the plough
       To him our praise shall be.
    But while Oppression lifts its head,
       Or a tyrant would be lord,
    Though we may thank him for the plough,
       We'll never forget the sword!"

    Charles Mackay

    Charles Mackay (27 March 1814 – 24 December 1889) was a Scottish poet, journalist, and song writer.

    He was born in Perth, Scotland. His mother died shortly after his birth and his father was by turns a naval officer and a foot soldier. He was educated at the Caledonian Asylum, London, and at Brussels, but spent much of his early life in France. Coming to London in 1834, he engaged in journalism, working for the Morning Chronicle from 1835–1844 and then became Editor of The Glasgow Argus. He moved to the Illustrated London News in 1848 becoming Editor in 1852.

This is the poem of the Lady of Shallott, but have any of you ever heard the song, it is sung by a beautiful Canadian lady called Loreena McKennitt' I shall add the playlist a little bit down this page.

Hello welcome to the Classic Poetry



On either side the river lie long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky; and through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot; and up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever by the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd, slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd the shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot: but who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand? or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early, in among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly from the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot; and by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day a magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say, a curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot. she knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily, and little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear that hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear. there she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot; there the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls, and the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, an abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot; and sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two. She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights to weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights a funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot; or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed. "I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, he rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, and flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield, that sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy. the bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung, and as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to
Camelot. As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright, some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd his coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom, she made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom, she saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot. out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side; "the curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining, the pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining. heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot; down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat, around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance -- with a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot. and at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; the broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white that loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light -- Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot: and as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among, they heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly, and her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. for ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side, singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, by garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by, dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot. out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame, around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here? and in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer; and they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot; but Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott

John Atkinson

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 This is a classic verse for the children everywhere

How would Willie like to go to the land of  Thus and So?

Everything is proper there: All the children comb their hair
Smoother than the fur of cats or the nap of high silk hats;
Every face is clean and white as a lily washed in light;
Never vaguest soil or speck found on forehead, throat or neck;
Every little crumpled ear, in and out as pure and clear
As the cherry blossom's blow in the land of Thus and So.

 Little boys that never fall down the stairs or cry at all,
doing nothing to repent, watchful and obedient;
Never hungry or in haste,tidy shoestrings always laced:
Never button rudely torn from its fellows all unworn;
Knickerbockers always new, ribbon tied and collar too;
Little watches, worn like men, only always half past ten,
Just precisely right you know, for the land of Thus and So!

And the little babies there give no one the slightest care:
Nurse has not a thing to do but be happy and say Boo!
While mamma just nods, and knows nothing but to doze and doze;

Never litter round the grate; never lunch or dinner late;
Never any household din,peals without or rings within,
Baby coos or laughing calls, on the stairs or through the halls.
Just great hushes to and fro, pace the land of Thus and So.

Oh, the land of Thus and So! Isn't it delightful though?
"Yes" lisped Willie, answering me, somewhat slow, and doubtfully,
 "Must be awful nice, but I'd rather wait till by and by
'fore I go there,   maybe when I be dead, I'll go there then.
But    " the troubled little face, closer pressed in my embrace:
Let's don't never ever go, To the land of Thus and So!"

How would he like to go to the land of  Thus and So?
Everything is proper there: All the children comb their hair
Smoother than the fur of cats or the nap of high silk hats;

“You must not pass over in silence the mountains called by the Welsh Eryri, but by the British Snowdon, or the mountains of Snow, which... seem to rear their lofty summits even to the clouds”

   I Nature!
I, NATURE, give to you to be yours for ever and ever, the right to the free enjoyment of this world. I give to you the years that are before you, and the world that is about you.

I give to you the Sun by day and the Moon and stars by night, with the power to wake as the Earth rolls into the light of the sun, and power to sleep when the night comes.

I give to you the beauty of the Earth in the golden hour of dawn, with the vision of the Sun as it climbs above the hills, with the glow of fire across the meadow and the sparkle on the river that runs past. The sight of the new stirring of the life of the world, the sound of all moving things that praise their Maker, the feeling that uplifts the heart as the light breaks on another day, are yours.

I give you the eager hope of spring, with the right to see the slow disrobing of the winter earth and the slow unveiling of her secret treasury. I give you the untold glory of a summer's day, with the touch of his hand in every lane and the fire of the Sun on every rose.  I give you the eternal promise of autumn, with the faith of all growing things in your life that will come again. I give to you the full glory of the changing year and  perfect trust in the ways that have never failed upon the Earth.

I give to you the leaping joy of spring, the glittering dance of summer, the rustling of the leaves in winter, these I give to you. I give you the ceaseless wonder of night and day and all the seasons as they pass.

I give you the song that has been in the world since the birds began to sing, the joyous song of the lark and the plaintive music of the nightingale; the beauty that has been on Earth since flowers began to peep; the silvery sky since the stars began to shine.

I give you understanding of the voices dumb things - the neigh of a horse that a rider loves, the bark of the dog that has been man's friend throughout the passing of time, and the purring of the cat as she sleeps on the hearth. I also give you the music of the day to stir your soul, and the stillness of the night in which you can fill with your deepest thoughts.

I give you the gentle breeze that kisses the face of a child, and the wind that tosses the ship at sea: I give you tenderness and strength. I give you charity that comforts the sufferer and the pity that softens the life of the poor. I give you the wisdom of health and the power to build up in your body a holl temple for your soul. I give you the power to think and know and understand, the power to love books and all beautiful things. I give you the power to win the love of little children and the power to hold your head high amongst man.

I give you the waters of the Earth, with the right to listen to the whisper of the stream as it rises in the hills, to the chatter of the river as it gathers and widens, and to the shout of the cataract as it splashes through the rocks. I give you the beauty of the moving sea when it kisses the Sun, and the vision of the liquid peaks that rise and fall. I give you the slowly creeping waves that have never been still since the seas were made, and the rocks they have ground into golden sands.

I give you the Past, with its heritage of good and ill. I give you the Present with the opportunity that knows no bounds  I give you the Future with the years that never end and know no sorrow.

I give you the long, long thought of youth and the memories of the years. I give you the love of true things, the love of pure things, and the companionship of liberty. I give you the scorn of all things ignoble, and the hate of all things evil. I give you the strength to march against all these things until they are destroyed.
And I leave you with the thought that little children yet shall see the day dawn that no man knows.
Powerful Words from a Powerful Being



John Byam Liston Shaw - Goblin Market

Christina Rossetti, actually wrote the words for
One of eleven paintings on themes from the poetry of Christina Rossetti.
Exhibited at Dowdeswell's Gallery, London in 1899 Thoughts suggested by some Passages from British Poets - Cabinet Pictures

Goblin Market

Christina Rossetti

by Christina Rosetti

  MORNING and evening maids heard the goblins cry:
 "Come buy our orchard fruits,come buy, come buy:

Apples and quinces, lemons and oranges, plump unpeck'd cherries, melons and raspberries, bloom-down-cheek'd peaches, swart-headed mulberries, wild free-born cranberries, crab-apples, dewberries, pine-apples, blackberries, apricots, strawberries; -
All ripe together in summer weather, - morns that pass by, fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy:

Our grapes fresh from the vine, pomegranates full and fine, dates and sharp bullaces, rare pears and greengages, damsons and bilberries, taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries, bright-fire-like barberries, figs to fill your mouth, citrons from the South, sweet to tongue and sound to eye; Come buy, come buy."

Evening by evening among the brookside rushes, Laura bow'd her head to hear, Lizzie veil'd her blushes:
Crouching close together in the cooling weather, with clasping arms and cautioning lips, with tingling cheeks and finger tips. "Lie close," Laura said, pricking up her golden head:
"We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits: who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry thirsty roots?"

"Come buy," call the goblins hobbling down the glen.

"Oh," cried Lizzie, "Laura, Laura, you should not peep at goblin men."
Lizzie cover'd up her eyes, cover'd close lest they should look; Laura rear'd her glossy head, and whisper'd like the restless brook:
 "Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket, one bears a plate, one lugs a golden dish of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow whose grapes are so luscious; how warm the wind must blow through those fruit bushes."
"No," said Lizzie, "No, no, no; their offers should not charm us, their evil gifts would harm us."
She thrust a dimpled finger in each ear, shut eyes and ran: curious Laura chose to linger wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat's face, one whisk'd a tail, one tramp'd at a rat's pace, one crawl'd like a snail, one like a wombat prowl'd obtuse and furry, one like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves in the pleasant weather.

 Laura stretch'd her gleaming neck like a rush-imbedded swan, like a lily from the beck, like a moonlit poplar branch, like a vessel at the launch when its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen turn'd and troop'd the goblin men, with their shrill repeated cry,  "Come buy, come buy."

When they reach'd where Laura was they stood stock still upon the moss, leering at each other, brother with queer brother; signalling each other, brother with sly brother. one set his basket down, one rear'd his plate; one began to weave a crown of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav'd the golden weight of dish and fruit to offer her: "Come buy, come buy," was still their cry.

Laura stared but did not stir, long'd but had no money:  The whisk-tail'd merchant bade her taste in tones as smooth as honey, the cat-faced purr'd, the rat-faced spoke a word of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly;" -  One whistled like a bird.

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: "Good folk, I have no coin; to take were to purloin:  I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, and all my gold is on the furze that shakes in windy weather above the rusty heather."
"You have much gold upon your head,"
They answer'd all together: "Buy from us with a golden curl."
She clipp'd a precious golden lock, she dropp'd a tear more rare than pearl, then suck'd their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, stronger than man-rejoicing wine, clearer than water flow'd that juice; she never tasted such before, how should it cloy with length of use?
She suck'd and suck'd and suck'd the more, fruits which that unknown orchard bore; She suck'd until her lips were sore; then flung the emptied rinds away but gather'd up one kernel stone, and knew not was it night or day as she turn'd home alone.

Lizzie met her at the gate full of wise upbraidings:

          "Dear, you should not stay so late, twilight is not good for maidens; should not loiter in the glen in the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, how she met them in the moonlight, took their gifts both choice and many, ate their fruits and wore their flowers pluck'd from bowers where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the noonlight she pined and pined away; sought them by night and day, found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; then fell with the first snow, while to this day no grass will grow where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago that never blow. You should not loiter so."
          "Nay, hush," said Laura: "Nay, hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, yet my mouth waters still; to-morrow night I will buy more;" and kiss'd her: "Have done with sorrow; I'll bring you plums to-morrow fresh on their mother twigs, cherries worth getting; you cannot think what figs my teeth have met in, what melons icy-cold piled on a dish of gold too huge for me to hold, what peaches with a velvet nap, pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink with lilies at the brink,and sugar-sweet their sap."

Goblin Market

The Goblin Market 1913/14
           Golden head by golden head, like two pigeons in one nest folded in each other's wings, they lay down in their curtain'd bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, like two flakes of new-fall'n snow, like two wands of ivory tipp'd with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars gaz'd in at them, wind sang to them lullaby, lumbering owls forbore to fly, not a bat flapp'd to and fro round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast lock'd together in one nest.

            Early in the morning when the first cock crow'd his warning, neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch'd in honey, milk'd the cows, air'd and set to rights the house, kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, cakes for dainty mouths to eat, next churn'd butter, whipp'd up cream, fed their poultry, sat and sew'd; talk'd as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, one content, one sick in part; one warbling for the mere bright day's delight,one longing for the night.

             At length slow evening came: They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep; Lizzie pluck'd purple and rich golden flags, then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. No wilful squirrel wags, the beasts and birds are fast asleep."But Laura loiter'd still among the rushes and said the bank was steep.

And said the hour was early still the dew not fall'n, the wind not chill; listening ever, but not catching the customary cry, "Come buy, come buy," with its iterated jingle
of sugar-baited words:  Not for all her watching  once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds that used to tramp along the glen,in groups or single, of brisk fruit-merchant men.

              Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: you should not loiter longer at this brook: come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, each glowworm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather though this is summer weather, put out the lights and drench us through; then if we lost our way what should we do?"

Laura turn'd cold as stone, to find her sister heard that cry alone, that goblin cry,
"Come buy our fruits, come buy." 
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?

Must she no more such succous pasture find, gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life droop'd from the root:
She said not one word in her heart's sore ache; but peering thro' the dimness, nought discerning, trudg'd home, her pitcher dripping all the way; so crept to bed, and lay silent till Lizzie slept; then sat up in a passionate yearning, and gnash'd her teeth for baulk'd desire, and wept as if her heart would break.

                    Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain in sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry:
"Come buy, come buy;" -
She never spied the goblin men hawking their fruits along the glen: but when the noon wax'd bright her hair grew thin and grey; she dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn her fire away.

 One day remembering her kernel-stone she set it by a wall that faced the south; dew'd it with tears, hoped for a root, watch'd for a waxing shoot, but there came none; It never saw the sun, it never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth she dream'd of melons, as a traveller sees false waves in desert drouth with shade of leaf-crown'd trees, and burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

She no more swept the house, tended the fowls or cows, fetch'd honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, brought water from the brook:  But sat down listless in the chimney-nook and would not eat.

Tender Lizzie could not bear to watch her sister's cankerous care yet not to share.
She night and morning caught the goblins' cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits, come buy, come buy;" -
Beside the brook, along the glen, she heard the tramp of goblin men, the yoke and stir
Poor Laura could not hear; long'd to buy fruit to comfort her, but fear'd to pay too dear.
She thought of Jeanie in her grave, who should have been a bride; but who for joys brides hope to have fell sick and died in her gay prime, in earliest winter time with the first glazing rime, with the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.

     Till Laura dwindling seem'd knocking at Death's door:  Then Lizzie weigh'd no more
better and worse; but put a silver penny in her purse, kiss'd Laura, cross'd the heath with clumps of furze at twilight, halted by the brook: and for the first time in her life began to listen and look.

                    Laugh'd every goblin when they spied her peeping: came towards her hobbling, flying, running, leaping, puffing and blowing, chuckling, clapping, crowing,
clucking and gobbling, mopping and mowing, full of airs and graces, pulling wry faces, demure grimaces, cat-like and rat-like,ratel- and wombat-like, snail-paced in a hurry, parrot-voiced and whistler, helter skelter, hurry skurry, chattering like magpies,
fluttering like pigeons, gliding like fishes, - 
hugg'd her and kiss'd her:  squeez'd and caress'd her:  stretch'd up their dishes, panniers, and plates:

"Look at our apples russet and dun, bob at our cherries,bite at our peaches, citrons and dates, grapes for the asking, pears red with basking out in the sun, plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, pomegranates, figs." -

 "Good folk," said Lizzie, mindful of Jeanie:  "Give me much and many: - held out her apron, toss'd them her penny.

"Nay, take a seat with us, honour and eat with us,"  they answer'd grinning: "Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early,warm and dew-pearly, wakeful and starry:

Such fruits as these no man can carry: half their bloom would fly, half their dew would dry, half their flavour would pass by.

Sit down and feast with us, be welcome guest with us,cheer you and rest with us." -
"Thank you," said Lizzie: "But one waits at home alone for me:
So without further parleying, if you will not sell me any of your fruits though much and many, give me back my silver penny I toss'd you for a fee." -
They began to scratch their pates, no longer wagging, purring, but visibly demurring,
grunting and snarling.
One call'd her proud, cross-grain'd, uncivil;Their tones wax'd loud, their look were evil. Lashing their tails they trod and hustled her, elbow'd and jostled her, claw'd with their nails, barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, tore her gown and soil'd her stocking,
twitch'd her hair out by the roots, stamp'd upon her tender feet, held her hands and squeez'd their fruits against her mouth to make her eat.

White and golden Lizzie stood, like a lily in a flood, -
Like a rock of blue-vein'd stone lash'd by tides obstreperously, -
Like a beacon left alone in a hoary roaring sea, sending up a golden fire, -
Like a fruit-crown'd orange-tree white with blossoms honey-sweet sore beset by wasp and bee, -  Like a royal virgin town topp'd with gilded dome and spire close beleaguer'd by a fleet
mad to tug her standard down.
One may lead a horse to water, twenty cannot make him drink.
       Though the goblins cuff'd and caught her, coax'd and fought her, bullied and besought her, scratch'd her, pinch'd her black as ink, kick'd and knock'd her, maul'd and mock'd her, Lizzie utter'd not a word; would not open lip from lip lest they should cram a mouthful in:  But laugh'd in heart to feel the drip of juice that syrup'd all her face, and lodg'd in dimples of her chin, and streak'd her neck which quaked like curd.

At last the evil people, worn out by her resistance, flung back her penny, kick'd their fruit along whichever road they took, not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writh'd into the ground, some div'd into the brook with ring and ripple, some scudded on the gale without a sound, some vanish'd in the distance.

 In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore thro' the furze, threaded copse and dingle, and heard her penny jingle bouncing in her purse, - Its bounce was music to her ear.

She ran and ran as if she fear'd some goblin man  dogg'd her with gibe or curse or something worse: But not one goblin scurried after, nor was she prick'd by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced that urged her home quite out of breath with haste and inward laughter. 
She cried, "Laura," up the garden,
"Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, hug me, kiss me, suck my juices squeez'd from goblin fruits for you, goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen and had to do with goblin merchant men."

Goblin Market Laura started from her chair, flung her arms up in the air, clutch'd her hair: "Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted for my sake the fruit forbidden?    Must your light like mine be hidden, your young life like mine be wasted, undone in mine undoing, and ruin'd in my ruin, thirsty, canker'd, goblin-ridden?" -

She clung about her sister, kiss'd and kiss'd and kiss'd her:
Tears once again refresh'd her shrunken eyes, dropping like rain after long sultry drought; shaking with aguish fear, and pain, she kiss'd and kiss'd her with a hungry mouth.
Her lips began to scorch, that juice was wormwood to her tongue, she loath'd the feast:
Writhing as one possess'd she leap'd and sung, rent all her robe, and wrung her hands in lamentable haste, and beat her breast.
Her locks stream'd like the torch borne by a racer at full speed,or like the mane of horses in their flight, or like an eagle when she stems the light straight toward the sun, or like a caged thing freed, or like a flying flag when armies run.
     Swift fire spread through her veins, knock'd at her heart, met the fire smouldering there  and overbore its lesser flame; she gorged on bitterness without a name:
    Ah! fool, to choose such part of soul-consuming care!
    Sense fail'd in the mortal strife: like the watch-tower of a town which an earthquake shatters down, like a lightning-stricken mast, like a wind-uprooted tree spun about,
    Like a foam-topp'd waterspout  cast down headlong in the sea, she fell at last;
    Pleasure past and anguish past, is it death or is it life?
    Life out of death.
    That night long Lizzie watch'd by her, counted her pulse's flagging stir, felt for her breath, held water to her lips, and cool'd her face with tears and fanning leaves:
    But when the first birds chirp'd about their eaves, and early reapers plodded to the place of golden sheaves, and dew-wet grass bow'd in the morning winds so brisk to pass, and new buds with new day open'd of cup-like lilies on the stream,
    Laura awoke as from a dream, laugh'd in the innocent old way, hugg'd Lizzie but not twice or thrice; her gleaming locks show'd not one thread of grey, her breath was sweet as May and light danced in her eyes.

    Days, weeks, months, years afterwards, when both were wives with children of their own; their mother-hearts beset with fears, their lives bound up in tender lives;
    Laura would call the little ones and tell them of her early prime, those pleasant days long gone of not-returning time:
    Would talk about the haunted glen, the wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, their fruits like honey to the throat but poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town):
    Would tell them how her sister stood in deadly peril to do her good, and win the fiery antidote:  then joining hands to little hands  would bid them cling together, 
You can use these keys to unlock the poetry within
    "For there is no friend like a sister in calm or stormy weather; to cheer one on the tedious way, to fetch one if one goes astray, to lift one if one totters down, to strengthen whilst one stands."

    Christina Rossetti

    Not quite in the tiny single lines I always see it published I'm afraid, but I have tried very hard to make it make sense. It works for me, I am also watching the Pre-Rhaphealite series that is on BBC 2, a bit dashed good also.

Henry Vaughan - A Vision

I saw Eternity the other night
Like a great Ring of pure and endless light
All calm as it was bright;
And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,
Driven by the spheres,
Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world
And all her train were hurled.
The doting Lover in his quaintest strain
Did there complain;
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,
Wit's sour delights;
With gloves and knots, the silly snares of pleasure;
Yet his dear treasure
All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour
Upon a flower.

The darksome Statesman hung with weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight fog, moved there so slow
He did nor stay nor go;

Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses, scowl
Upon his soul,
And clouds of crying witnesses without
Pursued him with one shout.
Yet digged the mole, and, lest his ways be found,
Worked under ground,
Where he did clutch his prey; but One did see
That policy.
Churches and altars fed him, perjuries
Were gnats and flies;
It rained about him blood and tears, but he
Drank them as free.

The fearful Miser on a heap of rust
Sat pining all his life there, did scarce trust
His own hands with the dust;
Yet would not place one piece above, but lives
In fear of thieves.
Thousands there were as frantic as himself,
And hugged each one his pelf.
The downright Epicure placed heaven in sense
And scorned pretence;

While others, slipped into a wide excess,
Said little less;
The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares enslave,
Who think them brave;
And poor despisèd Truth sat counting by
Their victory.

Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,
And sing and weep, soared up into the Ring;
But most would use no wing.
'Oh, fools,' said I, 'thus to prefer dark night
Before true light,
To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
Because it shows the way,
The way which from this dead and dark abode
Leaps up to God,
A way where you might tread the sun, and be
More bright than he.'

But as I did their madness so discuss,
One whispered thus,
This Ring the Bridegroom did for none provide

But for his Bride.

One doesn't hear so much of Henry Vaughan and yet
he wrote some amazing poetry.
He was around an awful long time ago.
(1621 - 1695) And he came from my beautiful Wales,
which of course makes him one of the best.
Not only was he a Welsh Poet he was also a Doctor.

He took his literary inspiration from his native environment and chose the descriptive name "Silurist," derived from his homage to the Silures, the Celtic tribe of pre-Roman south Wales which strongly resisted the Romans. This name is a reflection of the deep love Vaughan felt towards the Welsh mountains of his home in what is now part of the Brecon Beacons National Park and the River Usk valley where he spent most of his early life and professional life.

By 1647 Henry Vaughan, with his wife and children, had chosen life in the country. This is the setting in which Vaughan wrote Olor Iscanus, the (Swan of Usk). However, this collection was not published until 1651, more than three years after it was written. It is believed that there was great crisis in Vaughan's life between the authorship and publication of Olor Iscanus. During these years, his grandfather William Vaughan died and he was evicted from his living in Llansantffraed. Vaughan later decried the publication, having "long ago condemned these poems to obscurity".

Olor Iscanus is filled with odd words and similes that beg for attention despite its dark and morbid cognitive appeal. This work is founded on crises felt in Vaughan's homeland, Brecknockshire. During the Civil War, there was never a major battle fought on the ground of Brecknockshire, but the effects of the war were deeply felt by Vaughan and his surrounding community. The Puritan Parliament visited misfortune on the community, ejecting many of their foes, the Anglicans and Royalists. This was an obvious source of misfortune for Vaughan, who also lost his home at that time.

I am pleased to say there is a goodly lot of stories about this Welsh Poet. A lot of it in what I call the famous Wikipedia, which I use so much in my research.

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