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In The Downhill Of Life

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
May my lot no less fortunate be
Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
Look forward with hope for tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
With a barn for the use of the flail;
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
Nor what honours may wait him tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured by a neighbouring hill;

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poem by William Collins
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In the Downhill of Life

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
May my lot no less fortunate be
Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
Look forward with hope for tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
With a barn for the use of the flail;
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
Nor what honours may wait him tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured by a neighbouring hill;

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poem by William Taylor Collins
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That V.C.

'Twas in the days of front attack;
This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it --
That every "front" has got a back.
And French was just the man to turn it.
A wounded soldier on the ground
Was lying hid behind a hummock;
He proved the good old proverb sound --
An army travels on its stomach.

He lay as flat as any fish;
His nose had worn a little furrow;
He only had one frantic wish,
That like an ant-bear he could burrow.

The bullets whistled into space,
The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,
The fout-point-seven supplied the bass --
You'd think the devil's band was playing.

A valiant comrade crawling near

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Outside Our Silent Parasols

Your departure made shadows
inside this steel gray curtain
prancing with every step
like the flames of the sunset
swallowed inside the clouds
draping the unweaving of light

The rain plummets down
trying to furrow the distance
between heaven and earth
while veiling the complacence
festooned with false pretense

Because the obsidian eyes
casted downwards like the rain
is caught in a ponderous downpour
filling the empty basin I held
like a thirsty tree, writhing in time

And as I waded through little oasis

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poem by Norman Santos
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Ode To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

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poem by John Keats
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To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

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poem by John Keats
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Boom-boom, Lonely-hearts are in Gloom Hums a Red Flamingo

Eek! On the moonless sky, grey clouds are ashen and sober;
Trees are swaying helter-skelter with leaves tousled and sere
As west wind drives the minute nature in a conspirative plot,
voodooed by an autumn night, a lonesome pine in an orphic thought.
Jibber, jabber joo! Wig, wiggly woo in lonely flu - boo hoo!
Boom-boom, Lonely-hearts are in gloom hums a red flamingo.

Gee! In a deserted and isolated lonesome valley, I met my ally;
while Ploughing a lonely furrow, I caught him - a nervous Nelly;
His soul is a tattered cloud and his heart is a battered sea
As tender sapling in him is not watered, oh, I met him in me.
Jibber, jabber joo! Wig, wiggly woo in lonely flu - boo hoo!
Boom-boom, Lonely-hearts are in gloom hums a red flamingo.

hardy-har-har! My whole world went black with air looked black,
Sun looked black; I laid in bed and stared at room walls dark,
Outside I still always appear bright with a mask, Ooh-la-la
Hoodooed by single crow I remain in a pitch dark inside, blah!
Jibber, jabber joo! Wig, wiggly woo in lonely flu - boo hoo!
Boom-boom, Lonely-hearts are in gloom hums a red flamingo.

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poem by Harindhar Reddy
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Daedalus And Icarus

Daedalus says:

Go on sonny but remember that you are walking and not flying
the wings are just an ornament and you are stepping on a meadow
that warm gust is just the humid earth of summer
and that cold one is a brook
the sky is full of leaves and small animals

Icarus says:

The eyes like two stones return straight to earth
and see a farmer who knocks asunder oily till
a grub which wiggles in a furrow
bad grub which cuts the bond of a plant with the earth

Daedalus says:

Sonny this is not true The Cosmos is merely light
and earth is a bowl of shadows Look as here colors play
dust rises from above the sea smoke rises to the sky

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poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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To the same (Mr. L-----) III

Dear brother, to these happy shades repair,
And leave, Oh leave the city's noxious air:
I'll try description, friend---methinks I see
'Twill influence your curiosity.

Before our door a meadow flies the eye,
Circled by hills, whose summits croud the sky;
The silver lily there exalts her head,
And op'ning roses balmy odours spread,
While golden tulips flame beneath the shade.
In short, not Iris with her painted bow,
Nor varied tints an evening fun can show,
Can the gay colours of the flow'rs exceed,
Whose glowing leaves diversify this mead:
And when the blooms of Flora disappear,
The weighty fruits adorn the satiate year:
Here vivid cherries bloom in scarlet pride,
And purple plums blush by the cherries side;
The sable berries bend the pliant vines,
And smiling apples glow in crimson rinds;

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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Howard At Atlanta

RIGHT in the track where Sherman
Ploughed his red furrow,
Out of the narrow cabin,
Up from the cellar's burrow,
Gathered the little black people,
With freedom newly dowered,
Where, beside their Northern teacher,
Stood the soldier, Howard.
He listened and heard the children
Of the poor and long-enslavëd
Reading the words of Jesus,
Singing the songs of David.
Behold! —the dumb lips speaking,
The blind eyes seeing!
Bones of the Prophet's vision
Warmed into being!
Transformed he saw them passing
Their new life's portal!
Almost it seemed the mortal
Put on the immortal.

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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