Poems

A page of some of my favourite poems and a couple of mine thrown in too. I don't profess to be a great poet or anything and I don't really like poems that rhyme, I just like to put interesting words together, especially words about colour and nature.

And see the peaceful trees extend
Their myriad leaves in leisured dance,
They bear weight of sky and cloud
Upon the fountain of their veins

Kathleen Raine


The Autumnal Moon

The western sun withdraws the shortened day,
And humid evening, gliding o'er the sky
In her chill progress, to the ground condensed
The vapours throws. Where creeping waters ooze,
Where marshes stagnate and where rivers wind,
Cluster the rolling fogs and swim along
The dusky mantled lawn. Meanwhile the moon
full-orbed and breaking through the scattered clouds,
Shrews her broad visage in the crimsoned east.
Turned to the sun direct, her spotted disc,
(Where mountains rise, umbrageous dales descend,
And oceans roll, as optic tube describes)
A smaller earth, gives all its blaze again,
Void of its flame and sheds a softer day.
Now through the passing cloud she seems to stoop,
Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime.
Wide the pale deluge floats and streaming mild
O'er the skied mountain to the shadowy vale,
While rocks and floods reflect the quivering gleam,
The whole air whitens with a boundless tide
Of silver radiance, trembling round the world.

James Thomson


A Tale of Acadie

This is the forest primeval.
The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss and in garments green,
in distinct in the twilight, stand like druids
of Eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar,
with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns,
the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean speaks,
and in accents disconsolate
answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval,
but where are the hearts that
beneath it leapt like the roe,
when he hears in the woodland
the voice of the huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village.
The home of Acadian farmers,
men whose lives glided on like rivers
that water the woodlands,
darkened by shadows of earth,
but reflecting an image of heaven?

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Green Alchemy 

The forest breathes,
organic light processing.
Ten thousand leaf voltaics
power transformation of elements.
Natures' factories in minutiae,
marvels of cellulose construction,
This green alchemy
that fills the sky with
the molecules of life.




Spring eruption, the vital sap
courses through the hedgerow boughs.
They burst with youth,
in lime green showers and then
the pinkest blossoms spray
And hides many secret mossy nests.
This bountiful nature with
new cells dividing, regenerating,

It begins again.


Winter Colours

Shades of raw umber and sienna,
Blend into chromatic scales of
muted pastel grey,
Forming a myriad of wintry tones.
Skeletal birch of caput mortuum,
spike skies of glacial cerulean.
To paint a winters' palette.


Spring Flowers

Along the blushing borders bright with dew,
And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,
Fair-handed spring unbosoms every grace:
Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first;
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And Polyanthus of unnumbered dyes;
The yellow wallflower,stained with iron brown,
And lavish stock that scents the garden round:
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed,
Anemonies, Auriculas, enriched
With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;
And full Ranunculas of glowing red.
Then comes the tulip race, where beauty plays
Her idle freaks :from family diffused .
To family, as flies the father-dust,
The varied colours run; and while they break
On the charmed eye,the exulting florist marks,
With secret pride,the wonders of his hand.
No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud,
First-born of spring,to summer's musky tribes:
Nor hyacinths,deep-purpled; nor jonquils,
Of potent fragrance; nor Narcissus fair,
As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still;
Nor broad carnations, nor spotted pinks;
Nor,showered from every bush, the Damask-rose;
Infinite numbers, delicacies,smells,
With hues on hues expression cannot paint,
The breathe of Nature, and her endless bloom.

James Thomson 1700-1748

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