Online Read Free Novel
  • Home
  • Romance & Love
  • Fantasy
  • Science Fiction
  • Mystery & Detective
  • Thrillers & Crime
  • Actions & Adventure
  • History & Fiction
  • Horror
  • Western
  • Humor

    Bartlett's Poems for Occasions

    Page 5
    Prev Next


      A change of mood

      And saved some part

      Of a day I had rued.

      ROBERT FROST

      AMERICAN (1874-1963)

      Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

      Whose woods these are I think I know.

      His house is in the village though;

      He will not see me stopping here

      To watch his woods fill up with snow.

      My little horse must think it queer

      To stop without a farmhouse near

      Between the woods and frozen lake

      The darkest evening of the year.

      He gives his harness bells a shake

      To ask if there is some mistake.

      The only other sound’s the sweep

      Of easy wind and downy flake.

      The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

      But I have promises to keep,

      And miles to go before I sleep,

      And miles to go before I sleep.

      ROBERT FROST

      AMERICAN (1874-1963)

      January

      The days are short,

      The sun a spark

      Hung thin between

      The dark and dark.

      Fat snowy footsteps

      Track the floor,

      And parkas pile up

      Near the door.

      The river is

      A frozen place

      Held still beneath

      The trees’ black lace.

      The sky is low.

      The wind is gray.

      The radiator

      Purrs all day.

      JOHN UPDIKE

      AMERICAN (B. 1932)

      The Round of the Year

      WITHIN THE LARGER CYCLES OF NATURE ARE THOSE CYCLES OF HUMAN CONSTRUCTION, THE HOLIDAYS AND FESTIVALS THAT ELICIT, AMONG OTHER DECORATIONS, THE WORK of poets. The range of feeling is as wide as the intent of these various occasions, from the bittersweet reflections of the New Year through the intimate merriment of Valentine’s Day, to the uplifting exhortation suited to the Fourth of July, the dark imaginations of Halloween, the celebratory mode of Thanksgiving, and—in the tradition most widely rooted in Europe and America—the jubilant tones of the Christmas season. Somewhat apart from these are those poems that pay tribute to parents and grandparents—whether in the context of Mother’s and Father’s Days or any other family anniversary—as thoroughly unpredictable and varied in their nuances as the relationships they reflect.

      NEW YEAR’S

      Seeing the Year Out

      Want to know what the passing year is like?

      A snake slithering down a hole.

      Half his long scales already hidden,

      How to stop him from getting away?

      Grab his tail and pull, you say?

      Pull all you like—it does no good.

      The children try hard not to doze,

      Chatter back and forth to stay awake,

      But I say let dawn cocks keep still!

      I fear the noise of watch drums pounding.

      We’ve sat so long the lamp’s burned out.

      I get up and look at the slanting Dipper.

      How could I hope next year won’t come?

      My mind shrinks from the failures it may bring.

      I work to hold on to the night

      While I can still brag I’m young.

      SU TUNG-P’O

      CHINESE (1036-1101)

      TRANSLATED BY BURTON WATSON

      The Old Year

      1

      The Old Year’s gone away

      To nothingness and night

      We cannot find him all the day

      Nor hear him in the night

      He left no footstep mark or place

      In either shade or sun

      Tho’ last year he’d a neighbours face

      In this he’s known by none

      2

      All nothing every where

      Mists we on mornings see

      They have more substance when they’re here

      And more of form than he

      He was a friend by every fire

      In every cot and hall

      A guest to every hearts desire

      And now he’s nought at all

      3

      Old papers thrown away

      Or garments cast aside

      E’en the talk of yesterday

      Are things identified

      But time once torn away

      No voices can recall

      The eve of new years day

      Left the old one lost to all

      JOHN CLARE

      ENGLISH (1793-1864)

      Auld Lang Syne

      Should auld acquaintance be forgot

      And never brought to mind?

      Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

      And auld lang syne!

      For auld lang syne my jo,

      For auld lang syne,

      We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,

      For auld lang syne.

      And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!

      And surely I’ll be mine!

      And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,

      For auld lang syne.

      For auld &c.

      We twa hae run about the braes,

      And pou’d the gowans fine;

      But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fitt,

      Sin auld lang syne.

      For auld &c.

      We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,

      Frae morning sun till dine;

      But seas between us braid hae roar’d,

      Sin auld lang syne.

      For auld &c.

      And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!

      And gie’s a hand o’ thine!

      And we’ll tak a right gude-willie-waught,

      For auld lang syne.

      For auld &c.

      ROBERT BURNS

      SCOTTISH (1759-1796)

      Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky

      From In Memoriam

      Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

      The flying cloud, the frosty light:

      The year is dying in the night;

      Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

      Ring out the old, ring in the new,

      Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

      The year is going, let him go;

      Ring out the false, ring in the true.

      Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

      For those that here we see no more;

      Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

      Ring in redress to all mankind.

      Ring out a slowly dying cause,

      And ancient forms of party strife;

      Ring in the nobler modes of life,

      With sweeter manners, purer laws.

      Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

      The faithless coldness of the times;

      Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

      But ring the fuller minstrel in.

      Ring out false pride in place and blood,

      The civic slander and the spite;

      Ring in the love of truth and right,

      Ring in the common love of good.

      Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

      Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

      Ring out the thousand wars of old,

      Ring in the thousand years of peace.

      Ring in the valiant man and free,

      The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

      Ring out the darkness of the land,

      Ring in the Christ that is to be.

      ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

      ENGLISH (1809-1892)

      A Song for New Year’s Eve

      Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay —

      Stay till the good old year,

      So long companion of our way,

      Shakes hands, and leaves us here.

      Oh stay, oh stay,

      One little hour, and then away.

      The year, whose hopes were high and strong,

      Has now no hopes to wake;

      Yet one hour more of jest and song

    &n
    bsp; For his familiar sake.

      Oh stay, oh stay,

      One mirthful hour, and then away.

      The kindly year, his liberal hands

      Have lavished all his store.

      And shall we turn from where he stands,

      Because he gives no more?

      Oh stay, oh stay,

      One grateful hour, and then away.

      Days brightly came and calmly went,

      While yet he was our guest;

      How cheerfully the week was spent!

      How sweet the seventh day’s rest!

      Oh stay, oh stay,

      One golden hour, and then away.

      Dear friends were with us, some who sleep

      Beneath the coffin-lid:

      What pleasant memories we keep

      Of all they said and did!

      Oh stay, oh stay,

      One tender hour, and then away.

      Even while we sing, he smiles his last,

      And leaves our sphere behind.

      The good old year is with the past;

      Oh be the new as kind!

      Oh stay, oh stay,

      One parting strain, and then away.

      WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

      AMERICAN (1794-1878)

      VALENTINE’S DAY

      Saint Valentine’s Day

      Well dost thou, Love, thy solemn Feast to hold

      In vestal February;

      Not rather choosing out some rosy day

      From the rich coronet of the coming May,

      When all things meet to marry!

      O, quick, prævernal Power

      That signall’st punctual through the sleepy mould

      The Snowdrop’s time to flower,

      Fair as the rash oath of virginity

      Which is first-love’s first cry;

      O, Baby Spring,

      That flutter’st sudden ’neath the breast of Earth

      A month before the birth;

      Whence is the peaceful poignancy,

      The joy contrite,

      Sadder than sorrow, sweeter than delight,

      That burthens now the breath of everything,

      Though each one sighs as if to each alone

      The cherish’d pang were known?

      At dusk of dawn, on his dark spray apart,

      With it the Blackbird breaks the young Day’s heart;

      In evening’s hush

      About it talks the heavenly-minded Thrush;

      The hill with like remorse

      Smiles to the Sun’s smile in his westering course;

      The fisher’s drooping skiff

      In yonder sheltering bay;

      The choughs that call about the shining cliff;

      The children, noisy in the setting ray;

      Own the sweet season, each thing as it may;

      Thoughts of strange kindness and forgotten peace

      In me increase;

      And tears arise

      Within my happy, happy Mistress’ eyes,

      And, lo, her lips, averted from my kiss,

      Ask from Love’s bounty, ah, much more than bliss!

      Is’t the sequester’d and exceeding sweet

      Of dear Desire electing his defeat?

      Is’t the waked Earth now to yon purpling cope

      Uttering first-love’s first cry,

      Vainly renouncing, with a Seraph’s sigh,

      Love’s natural hope?

      Fair-meaning Earth, foredoom’d to perjury!

      Behold, all amorous May,

      With roses heap’d upon her laughing brows,

      Avoids thee of thy vows!

      Were it for thee, with her warm bosom near,

      To abide the sharpness of the Seraph’s sphere?

      Forget thy foolish words;

      Go to her summons gay,

      Thy heart with dead, wing’d Innocencies fill’d,

      Ev’n as a nest with birds

      After the old ones by the hawk are kill’d.

      Well dost thou, Love, to celebrate

      The noon of thy soft ecstasy,

      Or e’er it be too late,

      Or e’er the Snowdrop die!

      COVENTRY PATMORE

      ENGLISH (1846-1865)

      St. Valentine’s Day

      To-day, all day, I rode upon the Down,

      With hounds and horsemen, a brave company.

      On this side in its glory lay the sea,

      On that the Sussex Weald, a sea of brown.

      The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,

      And still we galloped on from gorse to gorse.

      And once, when checked, a thrush sang, and my horse

      Pricked his quick ears as to a sound unknown.

      I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even

      Better than all by this, that through my chase

      In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven

      I seemed to see and follow still your face.

      Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,

      My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.

      WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT

      ENGLISH (1840-1922)

      A Very Valentine

      Very fine is my valentine.

      Very fine and very mine.

      Very mine is my valentine very mine and very fine.

      Very fine is my valentine and mine, very fine very mine and mine is my valentine.

      GERTRUDE STEIN

      AMERICAN (1874-1946)

      Happiest February

      Many more happy Valentines.

      How many?

      As the last

      makes no sense.

      As many as many.

      As more rolls out the vines

      Which shade green in the snow

      Of a cold fourteenth

      Of their happiest February.

      LOUIS ZUKOFSKY

      AMERICAN (1904-1978)

      CELEBRATING FAMILY

      With my father

      With my father

      I would watch dawn

      over green fields.

      KOBAYASHI ISSA

      JAPANESE (1763-1827)

      TRANSLATED BY ROBERT HASS

      To Her Father with Some Verses

      Most truly honoured, and as truly dear,

      If worth in me or ought I do appear,

      Who can of right better demand the same

      Than may your worthy self from whom it came?

      The principal might yield a greater sum,

      Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crumb;

      My stock’s so small I know not how to pay,

      My bond remains in force unto this day;

      Yet for part payment take this simple mite,

      Where nothing’s to be had, kings loose their right.

      Such is my debt I may not say forgive,

      But as I can, I’ll pay it while I live;

      Such is my bond, none can discharge but I,

      Yet paying is not paid until I die.

      ANNE BRADSTREET

      AMERICAN (1612-1672)

      A Birthday

      My heart is like a singing bird

      Whose nest is in a watered shoot;

      My heart is like an apple-tree

      Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;

      My heart is like a rainbow shell

      That paddles in a halcyon sea;

      My heart is gladder than all these

      Because my love is come to me.

      Raise me a dais of silk and down;

      Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

      Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

      And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

      Work it in gold and silver grapes,

      In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;

      Because the birthday of my life

      Is come, my love is come to me.

      CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

      ENGLISH (1830-1894)

      To My Mother

      To-day’s your natal day;

      Sweet flowers I bring:

      Mother, accept I pray

      My offering.

      And may you happy live,


      And long us bless;

      Receiving as you give

      Great happiness.

      CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

      ENGLISH (1830-1894)

      To My Mother

      You too, my mother, read my rhymes

      For love of unforgotten times,

      And you may chance to hear once more

      The little feet along the floor.

      ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

      SCOTTISH (1850-1894)

      My grandfather, dead long before I was born

      My grandfather, dead long before I was born,

      died among strangers; and all the verse he wrote

      was lost—

      except for what

      still speaks through me

      as mine.

      CHARLES REZNIKOFF

      AMERICAN (1894-1976)

      Those Winter Sundays

      Sundays too my father got up early

      and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

      then with cracked hands that ached

      from labor in the weekday weather made

      banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

      I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

      When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

      and slowly I would rise and dress,

      fearing the chronic angers of that house,

      Speaking indifferently to him,

      who had driven out the cold

      and polished my good shoes as well.

      What did I know, what did I know

      of love’s austere and lonely offices?

      ROBERT HAYDEN

      AMERICAN (1913-1980)

      Lineage

      My grandmothers were strong.

      They followed plows and bent to toil.

      They moved through fields sowing seed.

      They touched earth and grain grew.

      They were full of sturdiness and singing.

      My grandmothers were strong.

      My grandmothers are full of memories

      Smelling of soap and onions and wet clay

      With veins rolling roughly over quick hands

      They have many clean words to say.

      My grandmothers were strong.

      Why am I not as they?

      MARGARET WALKER

      AMERICAN (1915-1998)

      Mother to Son

      Well, son, I’ll tell you:

      Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

      It’s had tacks in it,

      And splinters,

      And boards torn up,

      And places with no carpet on the floor —

      Bare.

      But all the time

      I’se been a-climbin’ on,

      And reachin’ landin’s,

      And turnin’ corners,

     


    Prev Next
Online Read Free Novel Copyright 2016 - 2025