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Thread: A poem a day

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    Spring
    - Poem by Charles Duke of Orleans


    The year has changed his mantle cold
    Of wind, of rain, of bitter air;
    And he goes clad in cloth of gold,
    Of laughing suns and season fair;
    No bird or beast of wood or wold
    But doth with cry or song declare
    The year lays down his mantle cold.
    All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled,
    The pleasant summer livery wear,
    With silver studs on broidered vair;
    The world puts off its raiment old,
    The year lays down his mantle cold.
    Charles Duke of Orleans
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- In order to write about life, you must first live it.
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  2. #677
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    All That's Past
    - Poem by Walter de la Mare


    Very old are the woods;
    And the buds that break
    Out of the brier's boughs,
    When March winds wake,
    So old with their beauty are--
    Oh, no man knows
    Through what wild centuries
    Roves back the rose.
    Very old are the brooks;
    And the rills that rise
    Where snow sleeps cold beneath
    The azure skies
    Sing such a history
    Of come and gone,
    Their every drop is as wise
    As Solomon.

    Very old are we men;
    Our dreams are tales
    Told in dim Eden
    By Eve's nightingales;
    We wake and whisper awhile,
    But, the day gone by,
    Silence and sleep like fields
    Of amaranth lie.
    Walter de la Mare

    ************************************************** *********
    Biography of Walter de la Mare
    Walter de la Mare poet

    Sir Walter de la Mare was born in Charlton, Kent, in the south of England, of well-to-do parents. His father, James Edward Delamaere, was an official of the Bank of England. His mother, Lucy Sophia (Browning) Delamare, was related to the poet Robert Browning. He was educated in London at St. Paul's Cathedral Choir School, which he left at age 16. From 1890 to 1908 he worked in London in the accounting department of the Anglo-American Oil Company. His career as a writer started from about 1895 and he continued to publish to the end of his life. His first published story, 'Kismet' (1895), appeared in the Sketch under the pseudonym Walter Ramal.

    In 1908 de la Mare was awarded a yearly government pension of 100, and he devoted himself entirely to writing. He retired to Taplow in Buckinghamshire, where he lived with his wife, Constance Elfrida Ingpen, and four children. His son Richard became chairman of Faber & Faber, and published several of his father's books. In 1915 he became of of the legatees of his fellow poet Rupert Brooke. De la Mare received the CH in 1948, and the OM in 1953. He died at Twickenham, near London, on June 22, 1958. De la Mare is buried in St Paul's Cathedral.

    His first stories and poems De la Mare wrote for periodicals, among others for The Sketch, and published in 1902 a collection of poetry, SONGS OF CHILDHOOD, under the name Walter Ramal. It attracted little notice. Subsequently De la Mare published many volumes of poetry for both adults and children. In 1904 appeared under his own name the prose romance HENRY BROCKEN, in which the young hero encounters writers form the past.

    THE RETURN (1910) was an eerie story of spirit possession. Arthur Lawford suspects that an eighteenth-century pirate, Nicholas Sabathier, is seizing control of his personality. "'Here lie ye bones of one, Nicholas Sabathier,' he began murmuring again - 'merely bones, mind you; brains and heart are quite another story. And it's pretty certain the fellow had some kind of brains. Besides, poor devil, he killed himself. That seems to hint at brains..."

    De la Mare's first successful book was The Listeners; the title poem is one of his most anthologized pieces. In the work supernatural presence haunts the solitary Traveller, the typical speaker of his poems: "Is there anybody there? said the Traveller, / Knocking on the moonlit door; / And his horse in the silence champed the grasses / Of the forest's ferny floor.... / But no one descended to the Traveller; / No head from the leaf-fringed sill / Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, / Where he stood perplexed and still." In 1923 he produced a collection of other people's poetry, COME HITHER. In his poems de la Mare has described the English sea and coast, the secret and hidden world of nature.

    His favorite themes, childhood, death, dreams, commonplace objects and events, de la Mare examined with a touch of mystery and often with an undercurrent of melancholy. His novels have been reprinted many times in horror collections because of their sense of wonder, and also hidden malevolence. However, De la Mare did not have the morbid atmosphere of Poe, but his dreamlike visions had much similarities with Blake.

    This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Walter de la Mare; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
    Walter de la Mare Poems

    The Listeners
    "Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grass Of the forest's ferny floor;
    Silver
    Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon; This way, and that, she peers, and sees Silver fruit upon silver trees;
    Some One
    Some one came knocking At my wee, small door; Someone came knocking; I'm sure-sure-sure;
    Music
    When music sounds, gone is the earth I know, And all her lovely things even lovelier grow; Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies.
    Arabia
    Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon;
    Nicholas Nye
    Thistle and darnell and dock grew there, And a bush, in the corner, of may, On the orchard wall I used to sprawl In the blazing heat of the day;
    All That's Past
    Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the brier's boughs, When March winds wake,
    A Song Of Enchantment
    A song of Enchantment I sang me there, In a green-green wood, by waters fair, Just as the words came up to me I sang it under the wild wood tree.
    An Epitaph
    Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country.
    Alone
    The abode of the nightingale is bare, Flowered frost congeals in the gelid air, The fox howls from his frozen lair: Alas, my loved one is gone,
    AUTUMN (November)
    There is a wind where the rose was, Cold rain where sweet grass was, And clouds like sheep Stream o'er the steep
    The Ghost
    Peace in thy hands, Peace in thine eyes, Peace on thy brow; Flower of a moment in the eternal hour,
    Bones
    Said Mr. Smith, I really cannot Tell you, Dr. Jones The most peculiar pain Im in I think its in my bones.
    Snow
    No breath of wind, No gleam of sun Still the white snow Whirls softly down
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- In order to write about life, you must first live it.
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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