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Author Topic: What about poems?  (Read 2121 times)
SEEYA
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Poke a meek dog enough times.........!


« on: December 21, 2011, 12:50:10 PM »

Here is a poem, I keep on my hard drive. I read it when I get to feeling self important.

The Fool's Prayer
   by Edward Rowland Sill

The royal feast was done; the King
   Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
   Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
   And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile,
   Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
   Upon the monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord
   Be Merciful to me, a fool."

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
   From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,
   Be Merciful to me, a fool."

" Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
   Of truth and light, O Lord, we stay;
'Tis by our follies that so long
   We hold the earth from heaven away."

"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
   Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard,well-meaning hands we thrust
   Among the heart-strings of a friend."

" The ill-timed truth we might have kept -
   Who knows how shrap it piered and stung?
The word we had not sense to say -
   Who knows how grandly it had rung?"

"Our faults no tenderness should ask,
   The chastening stripes must cleans them all;
But for our blunders - oh, in shame
   Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes.
   Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
   Be merciful to me, a fool!"

The room was hushed; in silence rose
   The King, and sought his garden cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
   "Be Merciful to Me, A Fool!"

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Live long and prosper!
SEEYA
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Poke a meek dog enough times.........!


« Reply #1 on: December 21, 2011, 10:47:59 PM »

Another good one - humor, with a moral  

The Calf-Path
by Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911)

One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail, as all calves do.

Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bellwether sheep
Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bellwethers always do.

And from that day, o’er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made,
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because ’twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed — do not laugh —
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding wood-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,
That bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet.
The road became a village street,
And this, before men were aware,
A city’s crowded thoroughfare,
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed that zigzag calf about,
And o’er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They follow still his crooked way,
And lose one hundred years a day,
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.

They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move;
But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah, many things this tale might teach —
But I am not ordained to preach.
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kathyp
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« Reply #2 on: December 22, 2011, 01:03:26 AM »

ray, i'm impressed.  not to many  men these days will fess up to liking poetry.  my father had many poems memorized and quotes from them often.  he has an amazing memory for the stuff.  i always struggled with I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree  grin
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.....The greatest changes occur in their country without their cooperation. They are not even aware of precisely what has taken place. They suspect it; they have heard of the event by chance. More than that, they are unconcerned with the fortunes of their village, the safety of their streets, the fate of their church and its vestry. They think that such things have nothing to do with them, that they belong to a powerful stranger called “the government.” They enjoy these goods as tenants, without a sense of ownership, and never give a thought to how they might be improved.....

 Alexis de Tocqueville
SEEYA
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Poke a meek dog enough times.........!


« Reply #3 on: December 22, 2011, 09:11:31 AM »

IMO flat statements result in debates but poetry is either enjoyed or ignored.


 TREES
Written by Joyce Kilmer,

I THINK that I shall never see   
A poem lovely as a tree.   
  
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest   
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;   
  
A tree that looks at God all day,            5
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;   
  
A tree that may in summer wear   
A nest of robins in her hair;   
  
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;   
Who intimately lives with rain.     10
  
Poems are made by fools like me,   
But only God can make a tree.   
 
« Last Edit: December 22, 2011, 09:23:27 AM by ray » Logged

Live long and prosper!
kathyp
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« Reply #4 on: December 22, 2011, 09:23:11 AM »

OMG...nasty flash back to JH lit.   Cry
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.....The greatest changes occur in their country without their cooperation. They are not even aware of precisely what has taken place. They suspect it; they have heard of the event by chance. More than that, they are unconcerned with the fortunes of their village, the safety of their streets, the fate of their church and its vestry. They think that such things have nothing to do with them, that they belong to a powerful stranger called “the government.” They enjoy these goods as tenants, without a sense of ownership, and never give a thought to how they might be improved.....

 Alexis de Tocqueville
BlueBee
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« Reply #5 on: December 22, 2011, 02:04:15 PM »

Not much for poems here,
but I do like those last two Ray! 
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hardwood
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Alysian Apiaries youtube.com/MrBeedude


« Reply #6 on: December 23, 2011, 08:28:50 AM »

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Some poems rhyme
But this one doesn't

Scott
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"In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American...There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn't an American at all. We have room for but one flag, the American flag...We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language...And we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the American people."

Theodore Roosevelt 1907
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