Menopause Matters Forum
General Discussion => This 'n' That => Topic started by: ladyjane on October 05, 2010, 08:04:55 AM
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Reading "Remember" got me thinking of my favourite poem
Heres one of mine - http://charon.sfsu.edu/tennyson/tennlady.html
and
Winter
When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
William Shakespeare
(http://i78.photobucket.com/albums/j87/ladyjane123/1267217076n8xI2RL.jpg)
ladyjane x
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Nothing as evocative for me , this will be read at my funeral.
Warning
by Jenny Joseph
WHEN I AM AN OLD WOMAN I SHALL WEAR PURPLE
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Taken from the book
When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple
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This was read at my mum's funeral, I found it tucked away in her drawer so I think it meant something to her. It still makes me cry.
The life that I have is all that I have
And the life that I have is yours.
The love that I have of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours.
A sleep I shall have
A rest I shall have,
Yet death will be but a pause,
For the peace of my years in the long green grass
Will be yours and yours and yours.
- Leo Marks
I know it was the call sign for the spy "Violetta" during the war.
ladyjane x
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Here's one I like
Moonlight, Summer Moonlight
by Emily Bronte
'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The silent time of midnight
Shines sweetly everywhere,
But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.
Thought you might like to know that on Friday at 9pm bbc1, there is going to be a dramatisation of a poem called Song of Lunch by Christopher Reid. It has Alan Rickman & Emma Thompson in it. Never seen something like this before, so I'm going to record it.
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Violette's life story was told in "Carve Her Name With Pride)
Mum had written a name next to the poem and we traced it after she died and there was a story there from during the war.
It was also strange that the week of her funeral they showed the film on TV. Just coincidence I know but poignant.
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Comforting too, Ladyjane, I would think. :hug:
I like this one. It is by Robert Louis Stevenson and I used to read it when I was a child. It would give me a shiver but it is only as an adult that I think the true meaning comes to light. It is the very last poem in his book "A Child's Garden of Verses.
To Any Reader.
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear; he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
and this one by W.B. Yeats...
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light
I would spread the cloths under your feet;
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Taz x
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Really enjoyed these posts as I've always loved poetry. I am fond of "The Lady of Shallot" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson,( Too long to quote!) and some of the poems by Christina Rosetti. My most treasured book is a copy of the Oxford book of English Verse that my late father bought me many years ago.
Margaret :)
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I did this one for "o" level and remembered loving it.
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And Death Shall Have No Dominion
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And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
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"The Tiger" by William Blake was drummed into us at O Grade standard, as was MacBeth by one of the best English teachers I ever had. If I'd had him for H Grade I might just have passed rather than just failing. That was in the days when we in Scotland got what they called Compensatory O Grades when we just failed H Grade.
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If you have trouble with decision-making and procrastination and are pulled by the needs of others, you may find this poem helpful.
The Journey
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting their bad advice -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with it's stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do -
determined to save
the only life that you could save.
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I have posted this before Pammie - nice to hear that someone else knows it. I carry it at all times in my handbag but I still haven't quite got to leaving the voices behind. I have most of her poems.
Taz x
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Walking Away
C. Day Lewis
It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day -
A sunny day with leaves just turning,
The touch-lines new-ruled - since I watched you play
Your first game of football, then, like a satellite
Wrenched from it's orbit, go drifting away
Behind a scatter of boys. I can see
You walking away from me towards the school
With the pathos a a half-fledged thing set free
Into a wilderness, the gait of one
Who finds no path where the path should be.
That hesitant figure, eddying away
Like a winged seed loosened from it's parent stem,
Has something I never quite grasp to convey
About nature's give-and-take - the small, the scorching
Ordeals which fire one's irresolute clay.
I have had worse partings, but none that so
Gnaws at my mind still. Perhaps it is roughly
Saying what God alone could perfectly show -
How selfhood begins with a walking away,
And love is proved in the letting go.
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On a lighter note I love this one.
SUMMER WITH MONIKA
ten milk bottles standing in the hall
ten milk bottles up against the wall
next door neighbour thinks we're dead
hasn't heard a sound, he said
doesn't know we've been in bed
the ten whole days since we were wed
no-one knows and no-one sees
we lovers doing as we please
but people stop and point at these
ten milk bottles a-turning into cheese
ten milk bottles standing day and night
ten different thicknesses and
different shades of white
persistent carol singers without a note to utter
silent carol singers a-turning into butter
now she's run out of passion
and there's not much left in me
so maybe we'll get up and make a cup of tea
and then people can stop wondering
what they're waiting for
those ten milk bottles a queuing at our door
those ten milk bottles a queuing at our door.
Taz x
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We haven't posted in this for a while. My mum's September poem.. again... for those who haven't read it
Blackberry Time
September when the level fields
Lay golden in the sun
When frantic growing days are past
And harvest's all but done
When cottage gardens glow with light
Their borders jewelled fires
When swallows, softly murmurous, mass
Along convenient wires
When lighted windows early shine
As nights draw gently in
When bonfires flicker, ruby bright
Air shivers on the skin
When morning cobwebs misted shine
With pearl and silver bands
When Winter waits behind the hedge
And rubs his chilly hands.
Taz (I so love that last line ;D)
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This is a wonderful thread - I found it via the How to shed weight thread!! A few of these poems brought tears to my eyes. I keep a small library of poems and prose for my own use. This is one that I am currently very fond of.
ITHAKA
by Constantine P. Cavafy
As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon-don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon-you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbours you're seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind-
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you're old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
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My hands were busy through the day,
I didn't have much time to play
The little games you asked me to,
I didn't have much time for you.
I'd wash your clothes; I'd sew and cook,
But when you'd bring your picture book
And ask me, please, to share your fun,
I'd say, "A little later, son."
I'd tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers, turn out the light,
Then tiptoe softly to the door,
I wish I'd stayed a minute more.
For life is short, and years rush past,
A little boy grows up so fast,
No longer is he at your side,
His precious secrets to confide.
The picture books are put away,
There are no children's games to play,
No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear,
That all belongs to yesteryear.
My hands once busy, now lie still,
The days are long and hard to fill,
I wish I might go back and do,
The little things you asked me to.
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I have forgotten about this lovely thread, I was ladyjane then, will have to post another favourite as silverlady x
Loved both the new poems.
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(http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT4bakbOKgJOxT21JO1Sm9RvIyVGgPekRqFRxB9HopzGA7pU8WWsw)
Kubla Khan
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1798
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In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves:
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 't would win me
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Have always loved this.
silverlady x
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More! More! 8)
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(http://i78.photobucket.com/albums/j87/ladyjane123/QUIENE11.jpg)
Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti,
This poem is too long to post, so looked for a youtube.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zBSLDxPWWYE
silverlady x
(http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSRX6jxfWTva4QW7S87epljzpIR_a8S3rDs2ZqLSVDuhT7Qrge03w)
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A Christmas Cat poem from.. my mum.
THE STABLE CAT
(W Girt)
When Christ was born in Bethlehem
So many years ago,
Ox and ass and gentle lambs
Watched there by lantern's glow.
The stable cat would surely be
Crouched curious and shy
Adding her contented purr
To that strange lullaby.
Kits close huddled by her side
Half-hidden in the hay
The stable warmed by mother love
On that first Christmas Day.
Would that love could overflow
So that, on Christmas morn,
All lonely cats could have a home
And none be left forlorn.
But till that happy day, dear friends,
Our plea we hope you'll heed,
Please send a gift that we may give
A hand, to cats in need.
Taz x
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Here's one from our school years.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
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One of my all time favourites. A bit morbid but beautiful...
The Dead by Billy Collins
The dead are always looking down on us, they say,
while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass bottom boats of heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.
They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,
and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a long afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them,
which makes them lift their oars and fall silent
and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.
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Love those poems Taz ans CM. :-* :-*
The more I think about poems the more I remember from school, some that I had to recite and some that the teacher read to us on a lazy afternoon.
silverlady xx
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And another Billy Collins that I can totally relate to!
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
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My favourite at school was this. I think one of the most famous and well known poems.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
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Some lovely poems there. I am not too sure about the Billy Collins one about dead people. It sort of makes me shiver to think that I may one day be rowing a boat forever through eternity! The words are really well put together though.
I like this one - although OH said that I have trodden on his dreams lately - it is "our" poem :(
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams
William Butler Yeats.
Taz x
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Cloths of Heaven
(http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSn34uEOVdX1dViE75jeJLc887sO4hrwk0I47SjmuEggRd3LQhQOQ)
Taz I remember writing that in a card to OH when I first met him, I think I was more romantic then him, I am not sure if he got it! He has trampled on some of my dreams.
silverlady xx
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Mine is,
Daffodils by William Wordsworth
I wondered lonely as a cloud
that floats on high o'er vales and hills
when all at once I saw a crowd
a host, of golden daffodils
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the milky way
they stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced,but they
out- did the sparkling waves in glee.
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company.
I gazed and gazed but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought
For oft,when on my couch I lie
in vacant or in pensive mood
they flash upon that inward eye
which is the bliss of solitude.
And then my heart with pleasure fills
and dances with the daffodils.
My daughter found this in a poetry book she had bought and I felt it most appropriate for my dad, who passed 18 yrs ago, and who loved daffodils.
I have copy of this now in my remembrance box of him.
Dyan X :)
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My mum loved daffodils too.
This poem is not that well known but I think it captures perfectly that real "being in love" feeling. OH found it for me although he is not a poem person.
Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said--
I wist not what, saving one word--Delight.
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Taz x
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Afterthought.
If ever I get to Heaven,
Please, Peter, let there be,
Purring by the golden gates
A cat to welcome me.
By crystal fountain, clear and cool
I'd like a place to stop
To watch a furry, languid paw
Curl out to catch a drop.
If floating angel feathers
Drift gently down from Space
There'll surely be a kitten there
To whirl in frenzied chase.
But if in Heaven's great mansions
For a cat there is no room
Then, Peter, lock the gates again
I'm going straight back home!
Taz x
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:'( oh Taz that is lovely ...........
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She didn't come back though so I expect there was a purring cat to welcome her! I read it at her funeral which was a bit tricky!
Maybe I should start a Cat Poem Thread. I just want to post this one as it has a Christmas theme. My mum's local Cats Protection branch used it a few years ago now as part of their Christmas fundraising drive. (If you don't like cats then you had probably best not read it!)
The Stable Cat.
When Christ was born in Bethlehem
So many years ago
Ox and ass and gentle lambs
Watched there by lantern's glow
The stable cat would surely be
Crouched curious and shy
Adding her contented purr
To that strange lullaby
Kits close-cuddled by her side
Half hidden in the hay,
The stable warmed by mother-love
On that first Christmas Day.
Would that love could overflow
So that on Christmas morn
All lonely cats could have a home
And none be left forlorn
But till that happy day, dear friends,
Our plea we hope you'll heed
Please send a gift that we may give
A hand to cats in need.
Taz x
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Love this thread. Love the cat poem Taz. I miss my 2 kitties so much. And the Elizabeth Barratt Browning "how do I love thee"...and When I am Old I Shall Wear Purple, which I first read on the back of a cafe's loo door in Cork, Ireland ;D
I love Robert Frost's poetry and this one in particular
Robert Frost (1874–1963).
1. The Road Not Taken
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
And this from Walt Whitman
O Me! O Life!
by Walt Whitman
O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill'd with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew'd;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
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(http://www.bettypepper.co.uk/USERIMAGES/thumb_The%20Road%20Less%20Travelled.JPG)
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference
Another favourite poem.
silverlady x
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Where *would* you B without me ;D
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Posted this on shadys thread too,from the film patch Adams,makes me cry every time robin williams recites it to his lost love
Sonnet 17
by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way
because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I nor you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep
it is your eyes that close.
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Maybe we could merge the two threads?
Taz x :D
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I know this is an old thread, but I wanted to add my favourite poem, its "traveller, there is no path" by Antonio Machado:
Everything passes on and everything remains,
But our lot is to pass on,
To go on making paths,
Paths across the sea.
I never sought glory,
Nor to leave my song
In the memory of man;
I love those subtle worlds,
Weightless and graceful,
As bubbles of soap.
I like to watch as they paint themselves
In sunlight and scarlet, floating
Beneath the blue sky, trembling
Suddenly then popping…
I never sought glory.
Traveller, your footprints
Are the path and nothing more;
Traveller, there is no path,
The path is made by walking.
By walking the path is made
And when you look back
You'll see a road
Never to be trodden again.
Traveller, there is no path,
Only trails across the sea…
Some time past in that place
Where today the forests are dressed in barbsimages
A poet was heard to cry
“Traveller, there is no path,
The path is made by walking…â€
Beat by beat, verse by verse…
The poet died far from home.
He lies beneath the dust of a neighbouring land.
As he walked away he was seen to weep.
“Traveller, there is no path,
The path is made by walking…â€
Beat by beat, verse by verse…
When the goldfinch cannot sing,
When the poet is a pilgrim,
When prayer will do us no good.
“Traveller, there is no path,
The path is made by walking…â€
Beat by beat, verse by verse.
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I haven't seen this before. I like it. Thank you.
Taz X :)
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Its beautiful, isn't it?
this bit always brings tears to my eyes, as it is so very true:
"By walking the path is made
And when you look back
You'll see a road
Never to be trodden again"