[JustAmy]

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

-- Dylan Thomas

[JustAmy]

On Christopher Columbus' Ship

If I had been a tiny mouse
on Christoper Columbus' ship,
I would have sailed across the sea
on a very dangerous trip.
I would have heard the thunder boom
and seen the scary lightning flash.
I would have felt each giant wave
give tiny me a giant splash.
If I had been his small wet pet
in Christopher Columbus' hand.
I would have reached America
the beautiful and dry new land.

-Sandra Liatsos

[Mama_Bear]

So sorry, Amy, that I have not been able to spend any time here lately. (I'm sure people are wondering why on earth my name is posted at the top of the thread, since I am never here, LOL). I will try to do better. :-)

Here's a pretty poem for your pretty thread.

To A Butterfly (second) by William Wordsworth

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

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

Written in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.

[MeekOneGOP]

Mornin', everybody ! Happy Monday !

Have a cup while you FReep !

[The Mayor]

[Victoria Delsoul]

Morning everyone! Have a great day all.

See you later.

A Lover's Complaint

A reverend man that graz'd his cattle nigh-
Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew
Of court, of city, and had let go by
The swiftest hours, observed as they flew-
Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew;
And, privileged by age, desires to know
In brief the grounds and motives of her woe.
So slides he down upon his grained bat,
And comely-distant sits he by her side;
When he again desires her, being sat,
Her grievance with his hearing to divide:
If that from him there may be aught applied
Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,
'Tis promis'd in the charity of age.

'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold
The injury of many a blasting hour,
Let it not tell your judgment I am old;
Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power:
I might as yet have been a spreading flower,
Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied
Love to myself and to no love beside.

'But woe is me! too early I attended
A youthful suit, it was to gain my grace,
Of one by nature's outwards so commended,
That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face.
Love lack'd a dwelling, and made him her place;
And when in his fair parts she did abide,
She was new lodg'd and newly deified.
'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls,
And every light occasion of the wind
Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls.
What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find:
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind,
For on his visage was in little drawn
What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn.

[Temple Owl]

A good crisp autumn morning to all you poetry lovers.

[Calpernia]

Good Morning to Potpourri!

[Billie]

Good morning, P & P! Have just perused the previous thread and it's just full of pretty poems and graphics from everyone! This is such a wonderful and welcome addition to FR!

[deadhead]

May your neighbors respect you,
Troubles neglect you,
The angels protect you,
And Heaven accept you.
~~Irish Blessing~~

Hi Amy and all :-)