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Loving It

I love it when you look at me,
I love it when you smile at me,
I love it when you lay with me,
I love it when you touch me,
I love it when you tell me I'm yours,
I love it when you tell me you love me,
I love it when you hold my hand,
I love it when you tell me I'm beautiful,
I love it when you say my name,
I love it when you kiss me,
I love it when you walk with me,
I love it that I'm yours

poem by Yawni Walton
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Written Upon A Blank Leaf In

WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign!
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort
To reverend watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline,
He found the longest summer day too short,
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook--
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,
The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree;
And the fresh meads--where flowed, from every nook
Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety!

poem by William Wordsworth
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Nessmuk

I hail thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone
Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry!
True forester thou art, and still to be,
Even in happier fields than thou hast known.
Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown
Of groves delectable--'preserves' for thee--
Ranged but by friends of thine--I name thee three:--

First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown
With changeless laurel; next, in Lincoln-green,
Gold-belted, bowed and bugled, Robin Hood;
And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene:
These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise,
Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise
To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Because You're Beautiful

Because you’re Beautiful
This poem’s addressed
To you
Because you’re beautiful
No matter what
You do
Because you’re beautiful
The sun rises
Every day
Because you’re beautiful
The mist shrouds a
Dreamy day
Because you’re beautiful
A blossom blooms and holds
Its scent
Because you’re beautiful
Songs sung in your heart
Are meant
Because you’re beautiful
Reflections shine

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poem by Travis Walton
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Len Webster's 'The Editor

She pushes pen to paper nightly
says she loves to keep alive her diary
watches television and takes her drinks
with a Norman male

when day dawns in half-deserted streets
she rises tired and restless from her dreams
her mind turns toward the hours ahead
to subbing pages

she is the editor of the periodical
ORDER BY SUBSCRIPTION IT'S THE ONLY WAY
she lays out pages and acts as PRO
to visiting MPs

i know her still the same childlike eyes
which probed among my inmost thoughts
in an atmosphere of anticipation
many years ago

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poem by Len Webster
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My Garden

My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooks
And fragrance is over it all;
For sweet is the smell of my old, old books
In their places against the wall.

Here is a folio that's grim with age
And yellow and green with mould;
There's the breath of the sea on every page
And the hint of a stanch ship's hold.

And here is a treasure from France la belle
Exhaleth a faint perfume
Of wedded lily and asphodel
In a garden of song abloom.

And this wee little book of Puritan mien
And rude, conspicuous print
Hath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen,
Or, may be, of peppermint.

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poem by Eugene Field
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On The Death Of William Cartwright

I cannot keep my purpose, but must give
Sorrow and Verse their way; nor will I grieve
Longer in silence; no, that poor, poor part
Of natures legacy, Verse void of Art,
And undissembled teares, CARTWRIGHT shall have
Fixt on his Hearse; and wept into his grave.
Muses I need you not; for, Grief and I
Can in your absence weave an Elegy:
Which we will do; and often inter-weave
Sad Looks, and Sighs; the ground-work must receive
Such Characters, or be adjudg'd unfit
For my Friends shroud; others have shew'd their Wit,
Learning, and Language fitly; for these be
Debts due to his great Merits: but for me,
My aymes are like my self, humble and low,
Too mean to speak his praise, too mean to show
The World what it hath lost in losing thee,
Whose Words and Deeds were perfect Harmony.
But now 'tis lost; lost in the silent Grave,
Lost to us Mortals, lost, 'till we shall have

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poem by Izaak Walton
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The Liberty-Bell

With pomp attendant, and in garlands drest,
I journey from my sacred home once more;
Not this time to the new, triumphant West,
But to a land more dear to me of yore:
A land in memory sweet as the perfume
Of twining jasmine and magnolia bloom.

Though old and broken, for that memory's sake—
The memory of honored things gone by,
I will forget my length of years, and make
This pilgrimage unto her Southern sky,
So Georgia's children, too, my face may know,
And wreathe me proudly with their mistletoe.

Their fathers knew me, and in that great hour
When in the Hall of Freedom, since my home,
They signed the Charter, born of love and power,
That made them one, I, from the lofty dome

Above them, loudly rang the brave command,

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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Part 10 of Trout Fishing in America

WITNESS FOR TROUT FISHING

IN AMERICA PEACE

In San Francisco around Easter time last year, they had a

trout fishing in America peace parade. They had thousands

of red stickers printed and they pasted them on their small

foreign cars, and on means of national communication like

telephone poles.

The stickers had WITNESS FOR TROUT FISHING IN AM-

ERICA PEACE printed on them.

Then this group of college- and high-school-trained Com-

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poem by Richard Brautigan
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Advent Sunday

Awake--again the Gospel-trump is blown -
From year to year it swells with louder tone,
From year to year the signs of wrath
Are gathering round the Judge's path,
Strange words fulfilled, and mighty works achieved,
And truth in all the world both hated and believed.

Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town,
Sworn liegemen of the Cross and thorny crown?
Up from your beds of sloth for shame,
Speed to the eastern mount like flame,
Nor wonder, should ye find your King in tears,
E'en with the loud Hosanna ringing in His ears.

Alas! no need to rouse them: long ago
They are gone forth to swell Messiah's show:
With glittering robes and garlands sweet
They strew the ground beneath His feet:
All but your hearts are there--O doomed to prove
The arrows winged in Heaven for Faith that will not love!

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poem by John Keble
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