Today's - Poem Of The Day

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

No Foe Shall Gather Our Harvest
-- by Dame Mary Gilmore

Sons of the mountains of Scotland,
Welshmen of coomb and defile,
Breed of the moors of England,
Children of Erin's green isle,
We stand four square to the tempest,
Whatever the battering hail-
No foe shall gather our harvest,
Or sit on our stockyard rail.

Our women shall walk in honour,
Our children shall know no chain,
This land, that is ours forever,
The invader shall strike at in vain.
Anzac!...Tobruk!...and Kokoda!...
Could ever the old blood fail?
No foe shall gather our harvest,
Or sit on our stockyard rail.

So hail-fellow-met we muster,
And hail-fellow-met fall in,
Wherever the guns may thunder,
Or the rocketing air-mail spin!
Born of the soil and the whirlwind,
Though death itself be the gale-
No foe shall gather our harvest
Or sit on our stockyard rail.

We are the sons of Australia,
of the men who fashioned the land;
We are the sons of the women
Who walked with them hand in hand;
And we swear by the dead who bore us,
By the heroes who blazed the trail,
No foe shall gather our harvest,
Or sit on our stockyard rail.

by Dame Mary Gilmore


****************************************

The First Thrush
by Dame Mary Gilmore
Though leaves have fallen long since,
The wagtails flirt and flit,
Glad in the morning sun;
While, on the knotted quince,
The dewdrops, pearled on it,
Bead to a little run. . . .

Soft as a breathing air
There came a lovely sound
Out of the branches bare;
So rich it was, and round,
Sense stood, in listening bound,
Stilled to its sweetness there!
It was the thrush's note,

That seemed as though his heart
On some loved thing did dote;
As though he yearned apart,
Knowing some hidden smart,
Pain in the long sweet rote.

There, as the spider hung
Grey-breasted 'gainst the brown
Skin of the quince, he sung
A song that o'er the town,
Rose up as though to crown
The tree-tops whence it sprung.

And now, it seems to me,
That long full breath he drew,
Like perfume shed on air,
Still dwells within the tree,
Though long ago he flew,
And left it naked there.
by Dame Mary Gilmore

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

On a Drop of Dew
-- By Andrew Marvell (1621–1678)

SEE how the orient dew
Shed from the bosom of the Morn
Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where ’twas born, 5
Round in its self incloses:
And in its little globe’s extent
Frames, as it can, its native element.
How it the purple flow’r does slight,
Scarce touching where it lyes, 10
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphear.
Restless it roules, and unsecure, 15
Trembling, lest it grow impure;
Till the warm sun pitty its pain
And to the skies exhale it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray,
Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 20
(Could it within the humane flow’r be seen)
Rememb’ring still its former height,
Shuns the sweat leaves and blossoms green,
And, recollecting its own light,
Does in its pure and circling thoughts express 25
The greater heaven in an heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
(So the world-excluding round)
Yet receiving in the day. 30
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easie hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend;
Moving but on a point below, 35
It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna’s sacred dew destil,
White and intire, though congeal’d and chill;
Congeal’d on Earth; but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of th’ almighty sun.
--- By Andrew Marvell

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Alone

by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1875)



From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were -- I have not seen
As others saw -- I could not bring
My passions from a common spring --
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow -- I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone --
And all I lov'd -- I lov'd alone --
Then -- in my childhood -- in the dawn
Of a most stormy life -- was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still --
From the torrent, or the fountain --
From the red cliff of the mountain --
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold --
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by --
From the thunder, and the storm --
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view --


[Poe wrote this poem in the autograph album of Lucy Holmes, later Lucy Holmes Balderston. The poem was never printed during Poe's lifetime. It was first published by E. L. Didier in Scribner's Monthly for September of 1875, in the form of a facsimile. The facsimile, however, included the addition of a title and date not on the original manuscript. That title was "Alone," which has remained. Doubts about its authenticity, in part inspired by this manipulation, have since been calmed. The poem is now seen as one of Poe's most revealing works.]

- quoted from

http://www.eapoe.org/works/poems/alonea.htm

************************************************** ************
To The River

by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1829)



Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty -- the unhidden heart --
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;

But when within thy wave she looks --
Which glistens then, and trembles --
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in my heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies --
The heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats [1865-1939] is one of Irelands most revered poets and playwrights. His work has been widely circulated
and anthologized. As poetry and as song a number of his poems have been recorded and also used on radio, TV and films.


After Long Silence


Speech after long silence; it is right,
All other lovers being estranged or dead,
Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,
The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,
That we descant and yet again descant
Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:
Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young
We loved each other and were ignorant.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

by William Butler Yeats


********************************

A Woman Homer Sung

IF any man drew near
When I was young,
I thought, "He holds her dear,'
And shook with hate and fear.
But O! 'twas bitter wrong
If he could pass her by
With an indifferent eye.
Whereon I wrote and wrought,
And now, being grey,
I dream that I have brought
To such a pitch my thought
That coming time can say,
"He shadowed in a glass
What thing her body was.'
For she had fiery blood
When I was young,
And trod so sweetly proud
As 'twere upon a cloud,
A woman Homer sung,
That life and letters seem
But an heroic dream.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

by William Butler Yeats

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Member and post notes and photos about your poem like Winged Warrior.

Related imageImage result for edgar allan poe

Listen to poem:
...inspired by and in dedication to ~ Victor Buhagiar, Robert Lindley (my mentors) and the rest of the PoetrySoup Family...thank you for your kindness and support...

A Tribute To Edgar Allan Poe... by ^WW^ Winged Warrior
July.30.2019

A Winged Warrior 360 Reversible...


-Ravens and Castles-

Morbid castles cobwebbed upon haunting hills,
Horrid crawling cadavers of blood bring spills…
Ravens cawing carousingly amidst nocturnal nights,
Cravens surrounding lunatics of fanatical frights…

Wizards and wands wandering of sunken dungeons,
Lizards lashing longing of fecal flies flying luncheons…
Spiders savoring creatures cocooning of appetites,
Writers writing of winding roads amongst candlelights…

Ghostly apparitions attending of masters chambered,
Mostly hauntings of dead relatives dismembered…
Thunder & lightening resonating through humid halls,
Under feeling of spells and incantations bouncing walls…

Pivoting pendulums balancing upon lethal life and death,
Riveting raging rivers calming anticipating final breath…
Wearing witches and warlocks of demons delirious dancing,
Swearing sentinels before crimson maddening moon trancing.

Background music by...
Dark Magic Music-'Salems Secrets'
Peter Gundry Composer




Backward read...



-Castles and Ravens-

Hills haunting upon cobwebbed castles morbid,
Spills bring blood of cadavers crawling horrid…
Nights nocturnal amidst carousingly cawing ravens,
Frights fanatical of lunatics surrounding cravens…

Dungeons sunken of wandering wands and Wizards,
Luncheons flying flies fecal of longing lashing lizards…
Appetites of cocooning creatures savoring spiders,
Candlelights amongst roads winding of writing writers…

Chambered masters of attending apparitions ghostly,
Dismembered relative’s dead of hauntings mostly…
Halls humid through resonating lightening & thunder,
Walls bouncing incantations and spells of feeling under…

Death and life lethal upon balancing pendulums pivoting,
Breath final anticipating calming rivers raging riveting…
Dancing delirious demons of warlocks and witches wearing,
Trancing moon maddening crimson before sentinels swearing.


Background music by...
'The Sealed Kingdom'
Adrian Von Ziegler Composer


Copyright © Winged Warrior | Year Posted 2019

*******************************************

Just found this new poem by my friend Winged Warrior, and the nod given to Victor and myself due to our dark poetry, we present often there at our home poetry site.
A truly amazing and well crafted reversible poem!
And a fantastic tribute to Edgar Allen Poe... -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Venus of the Louvre
BY EMMA LAZARUS

Down the long hall she glistens like a star,
The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone,
Yet none the less immortal, breathing on.
Time's brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar.
When first the enthralled enchantress from afar
Dazzled mine eyes, I saw not her alone,
Serenely poised on her world-worshipped throne,
As when she guided once her dove-drawn car,—
But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew,
Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love.
Here Heine wept! Here still he weeps anew,
Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move,
While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain,
For vanished Hellas and Hebraic pain.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

De Profundis
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

Oh why is heaven built so far,
Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Beyond my range.

I never watch the scatter'd fire
Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
And all in vain:

For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope.

*******************************
"Many in aftertimes will say of you"
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

Vien dietro a me e lascia dir le genti. – Dante
Contando i casi della vita nostra. – Petrarca


Many in aftertimes will say of you
‘He loved her’ – while of me what will they say?
Not that I loved you more than just in play,
For fashion’s sake as idle women do.
Even let them prate; who know not what we knew
Of love and parting in exceeding pain.
Of parting hopeless here to meet again,
Hopeless on earth, and heaven is out of view.
But by my heart of love laid bare to you.
My love that you can make not void nor vain,
Love that foregoes you but to claim anew
Beyond this passage of the gate of death,
I charge you at the Judgment make it plain
My love of you was life and not a breath.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

https://www.bartleby.com/236/18.html

14. Eternitie
By Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

O YEARES! and Age! Farewell
Behold I go,
Where I do know
Infinitie to dwell.

And these mine eyes shall see 5
All times, how they
Are lost i’ th’ Sea
Of vast Eternitie.

Where never Moone shall sway
The Starres; but she, 10
And Night, shall be
Drown’d in one endlesse Day.

**************************

15. Christ and Our Selves
By Francis Quarles (1592–1644)

I WISH a greater knowledge, then t’attaine
The knowledge of my selfe: A greater Gaine
Then to augment my selfe; A greater Treasure
Then to enjoy my selfe: A greater Pleasure
Then to content my selfe; How slight, and vaine 5
Is all selfe-Knowledge, Pleasure, Treasure, Gaine;
Vnlesse my better knowledge could retrive
My Christ; unles my better Gaine could thrive
In Christ; unles my better Wealth grow rich
In Christ; unles my better Pleasure pitch 10
On Christ; Or else my Knowledge will proclaime
To my owne heart how ignorant I am:
Or else my Gaine, so ill improv’d, will shame
My Trade, and shew how much declin’d I am;
Or else my Treasure will but blurre my name 15
With Bankrupt, and divulge how poore I am;
Or else my Pleasures, that so much inflame
My Thoughts, will blabb how full of sores I am:
Lord, keepe me from my Selfe; ’Tis best for me,
Never to owne my Selfe, if not in Thee.
****************************************

16. My beloved is mine, and I am his; He feedeth among the lilies
By Francis Quarles (1592–1644)

EV’N like two little bank-dividing brooks,
That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
And having rang’d and search’d a thousand nooks,
Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
Where in a greater current they conjoin: 5
So I my best-beloved’s am; so he is mine.

Ev’n so we met; and after long pursuit,
Ev’n so we joyn’d; we both became entire;
No need for either to renew a suit,
For I was flax and he was flames of fire: 10
Our firm-united souls did more than twine;
So I my best-beloved’s am; so he is mine.

If all those glitt’ring Monarchs that command
The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land, 15
I would not change my fortunes for them all:
Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
The world’s but theirs; but my beloved’s mine.

Nay, more; If the fair Thespian Ladies all
Should heap together their diviner treasure: 20
That treasure should be deem’d a price too small
To buy a minute’s lease of half my pleasure;
’Tis not the sacred wealth of all the nine
Can buy my heart from him, or his, from being mine.

Nor Time, nor Place, nor Chance, nor Death can bow 25
My least desires unto the least remove;
He’s firmly mine by oath; I his by vow;
He’s mine by faith; and I am his by love;
He’s mine by water; I am his by wine,
Thus I my best-beloved’s am; thus he is mine. 30

He is my Altar; I, his Holy Place;
I am his guest; and he, my living food;
I’m his by penitence; he mine by grace;
I’m his by purchase; he is mine, by blood;
He’s my supporting elm; and I his vine; 35
Thus I my best beloved’s am; thus he is mine.

He gives me wealth; I give him all my vows:
I give him songs; he gives me length of dayes;
With wreaths of grace he crowns my conqu’ring brows,
And I his temples with a crown of Praise, 40
Which he accepts as an everlasting signe,
That I my best-beloved’s am; that he is mine.
**********************************************
18. Affliction
By George Herbert (1593–1633)

MY heart did heave, and there came forth ‘O God!’
By that I knew that Thou wast in the grief,
To guide and govern it to my relief,
Making a scepter of the rod:
Hadst Thou not had Thy part, 5
Sure the unruly sigh had broke my heart.

But since Thy breath gave me both life and shape,
Thou know’st my tallies; and when there ’s assign’d
So much breath to a sigh, what’s then behinde?
Or if some yeares with it escape, 10
The sigh then onely is
A gale to bring me sooner to my blisse.

Thy life on earth was grief, and Thou art still
Constant unto it, making it to be
A point of honour now to grieve in me, 15
And in Thy members suffer ill.
They who lament one crosse,
Thou dying dayly, praise Thee to Thy losse.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Lost and Found
By George Mac Donald (1824–1905)

I MISSED him when the sun began to bend;
I found him not when I had lost his rim;
With many tears I went in search of him,
Climbing high mountains which did still ascend,
And gave me echoes when I called my friend; 5
Through cities vast and charnel-houses grim,
And high cathedrals where the light was dim,
Through books and arts and works without an end,
But found him not—the friend whom I had lost.
And yet I found him—as I found the lark, 10
A sound in fields I heard but could not mark;
I found him nearest when I missed him most;
I found him in my heart, a life in frost,
A light I knew not till my soul was dark.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Lines Written In Early Spring
by William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

[LongTermGuy]

Lines Written In Early Spring
by William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Today a fine poem by Edgar Allan Poe this is not dark and somber.-Tyr


To The River

by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1829)

Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty -- the unhidden heart --
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;

But when within thy wave she looks --
Which glistens then, and trembles --
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in my heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies --
The heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

To the Poet Before Battle
BY IVOR GURNEY
Now, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes;
Thy lovely things must all be laid away;
And thou, as others, must face the riven day
Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums,
Or bugles' strident cry. When mere noise numbs
The sense of being, the sick soul doth sway,
Remember thy great craft's honour, that they may say
Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs
Of praise the little versemen joyed to take
Shall be forgotten; then they must know we are,
For all our skill in words, equal in might
And strong of mettle as those we honoured; make
The name of poet terrible in just war,
And like a crown of honour upon the fight

*******************************
Ballad of the Three Spectres
BY IVOR GURNEY
As I went up by Ovillers
In mud and water cold to the knee,
There went three jeering, fleering spectres,
That walked abreast and talked of me.

The first said, ‘Here’s a right brave soldier
That walks the dark unfearingly;
Soon he’ll come back on a fine stretcher,
And laughing for a nice Blighty.’

The second, ‘Read his face, old comrade,
No kind of lucky chance I see;
One day he’ll freeze in mud to the marrow,
Then look his last on Picardie.’

Though bitter the word of these first twain
Curses the third spat venomously;
‘He’ll stay untouched till the war’s last dawning
Then live one hour of agony.’

Liars the first two were. Behold me
At sloping arms by one – two – three;
Waiting the time I shall discover
Whether the third spake verity.

**********************************
First Time In [“After the dread tales ... ”]
BY IVOR GURNEY
After the dread tales and red yarns of the Line
Anything might have come to us; but the divine
Afterglow brought us up to a Welsh colony
Hiding in sandbag ditches, whispering consolatory
Soft foreign things. Then we were taken in
To low huts candle-lit, shaded close by slitten
Oilsheets, and there but boys gave us kind welcome,
So that we looked out as from the edge of home,
Sang us Welsh things, and changed all former notions
To human hopeful things. And the next day's guns
Nor any Line-pangs ever quite could blot out
That strangely beautiful entry to war's rout;
Candles they gave us, precious and shared over-rations—
Ulysses found little more in his wanderings without doubt.
'David of the White Rock', the 'Slumber Song' so soft, and that
Beautiful tune to which roguish words by Welsh pit boys
Are sung—but never more beautiful than here under the guns' noise.

************************************************** *****

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poe...rney#tab-poems

Ivor Gurney
1890–1937
Image of Ivor Gurney
Photograph: BBC
Poet and composer Ivor Bertie Gurney was born in Gloucester, England. Though his father was a tailor, Gurney’s godfather was Alfred Hunter Cheesman, a local vicar and bachelor who encouraged him in his artistic and creative pursuits. Gurney read widely in Cheesman’s library and eventually won a scholarship to the Royal College of Music, though his studies were interrupted by the outbreak of World War I. Initially rejected by the army for poor eyesight, Gurney joined the 2nd/5th Gloucesters in 1917 and served in France. He was twice wounded, the second time by gas. He returned to the Royal College of Music to study with Ralph Vaughn Williams, but his behavior became increasingly erratic and he left the school again. Gurney’s moods had always been extreme—he suffered from manic-depression—and he had a nervous breakdown even before the war. Though he went through a period of intense creativity in the late 1910s, his mental state had deteriorated by 1921 and he was institutionalized in 1922. He spent the rest of his life in institutions and died, of tuberculosis, in the City of London Mental Hospital in 1937. Gurney continued to write both songs and poetry during his years in asylums. The composers Gerald Finzi and Howard Ferguson, as well as Gurney’s close friend the musicologist Marion Scott, began collecting Gurney’s work soon after his death.

Best known for his musical compositions, Gurney wrote a prodigious number of songs—around 300—as well as numerous chamber and instrumental works. He often set poems to music, including works by Hilaire Belloc, Will Harvey, and many Elizabethan poets. Gurney began writing poetry in earnest during World War I, sending pages to England to be typed by Scott. Gurney’s first collection of poetry, Severn and Somme (1917), reflects his war experiences and love of the Gloucester countryside, as does his second volume War’s Embers (1919). Gurney’s later poetry continues to treat these themes, as well as details his descent into madness. Gurney’s work has enjoyed a renaissance and numerous collections and reissues have appeared over the years, including Best Poems and the Book of Five Makings (1995), Seven & Somme and War’s Embers (1997), 80 Poems or So (1997), Rewards of Wonder: Poems of London, Cotswold and France (2000), and Collected Poems (2004). Gurney’s letters were edited by Anthony Boden and published as Stars in a Dark Night: The Letters from Ivor Gurney to the Chapman Family (2004). Biographies of Gurney include: Michael Hurd’s The Ordeal of Ivor Gurney (1978; reprint 2008) and Ivor Gurney and Marion Scott: Song of Pain and Beauty (2008), by Pamela Blevins.

[LongTermGuy]

`Here's a virtual clip of the tragic brilliant composer and poet Ivor Gurney from Gloucestershire England reading his celebrated world war one poem "De profundis" from the Latin of Psalm 130 found in the Bible meaning "Out of the depths of misery".

...First published in his 1917 collection of poems "Severn and Somme" Ivor Gurney managed to physically survive the horrors of WW1, but ...................

Ivor Gurney "De profundis" - "Out of the depths of misery" Poem

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Kore
by Frederick Manning

Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,
And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms,
And all the tawny, and the crimson leaves.
Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms,
Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist,
And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.

With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes,
And eye-lids heavy with the coming sleep,
With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs,
She passed, as shadows pass, among the sheep;
While the earth dreamed, and only I was ware
Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.

The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams;
There was no sound amid the sacred boughs.
Nor any mournful music in her streams:
Only I saw the shadow on her brows,
Only I knew her for the yearly slain,
And wept, and weep until she come again.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes