Poems on Wildlife

[philomath]

It's been a little while since I've posted a poem (got a bit busy) and this topic was on my mind. Please share any of your favorite poems that have to do with wildlife (or animals in general)!

Here's one to start:

To a Mouse By Robert Burns

On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785.

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
’S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss ’t!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward though’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

This poem touched me years ago when I was plowing a field and happened upon meadow voles. It was sad. When I think of it though, I'm also reminded of the hope we have for the restoration of all things!

Romans 8:18-21 "For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. 19 For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God. 20 For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of him who subjected it, in hope 21 that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God."

 

[John Nyberg]

Great idea, Jacob. You know I am always game for another poetry thread

It was nice to read Burns again. This poem is a beautiful expression of compassion towards God’s smaller creatures. I enjoyed your scriptural application as well. What a blessed hope for those in Christ, a day is coming when he will remake our bodies, and our world!

I’ll offer up this piece by Percy Shelley

To a Skylark:
“Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of Heaven,
In the broad day-light
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a Poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden
In a palace-tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aëreal hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.”

 

[Joshua]

T'was, t'was
A wild life
T'was, t'was
Some wild strife
Until, Until, I say Until
T'wasn't.

 

[John Nyberg]

T'was, t'was
A wild life
T'was, t'was
Some wild strife
Until, Until, I say Until
T'wasn't.

Masterful.

 

[Joshua]

Masterful.

T’anks

 

[philomath]

To a Skylark:
“Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of Heaven,
In the broad day-light
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a Poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden
In a palace-tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aëreal hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.”

This is a great poem John, thanks for sharing! It reminds me a little bit of the poem I'll be sharing tonight, specifically how both the author's recognize the seemingly simple joy of animals!

 

[philomath]

The poem I'll share tonight is a work by William Wordsworth.

An interesting connection with Wordsworth in my reading list is his nephew Christopher, who was Bishop of Lincoln in the COE, and held and wrote on historicist views of 2 Thess. 2 and the papacy. I have yet to completely read the work, but it can be found at The Protestant Reformation Society - UK website for those interested in the topic! Something to be noted: Christopher was not Puritan in his leanings, he seems to be in the strain of Old High Churchman in the COE (as opposed to anglo-romanists and tractarians). Anyways, on to the poem by Christopher's uncle William!


The Kitten And Falling Leaves

That way look, my Infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!
See the kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves—-one—-two—-and three—-
From the lofty elder-tree!
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly: one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Faery hither tending,—-
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.
—-But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now—-now one—-
Now they stop and there are none
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again:
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjurer;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!
'Tis a pretty baby-treat;
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet;
Here, for neither Babe nor me,
Other play-mate can I see.
Of the countless living things,
That with stir of feet and wings
(In the sun or under shade,
Upon bough or grassy blade)
And with busy revellings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Made this orchard's narrow space,
And this vale so blithe a place;
Multitudes are swept away
Never more to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in bands
Travelled into distant lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighborhood;
And, among the Kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside.
Where is he that giddy Sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colors bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree;
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out;
Hung—-head pointing towards the ground—-
Fluttered, perched, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound;
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen!
Light of heart and light of limb;
What is now become of Him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime,
They are sobered by this time.
If you look to vale or hill,
If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighboring rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy:
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety ?
Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell
Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every creature;
Whatsoe'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show,
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,—-
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Dora's face;
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!
And I will have my careless season
Spite of melancholy reason,
Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
—-Pleased by any random toy;
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy;
I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss;
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought,
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.

 

[philomath]

Here is another poem by Wordsworth for tonight:

To the Cuckoo

O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!

 

[philomath]

Here is a poem by William Cowper for this morning:

The Snail

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Together.

Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides
Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house, with much
Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own
Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds
The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
(He and his house are so combin'd)
If, finding it, he fails to find
Its master.

 

[philomath]

When reading this poem by Cowper, I couldn't help but chuckle at these lines:

Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house, with much
Displeasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds
The faster.

Something about closely watching a creature as small as a snail brings me a lot of joy. The underlined portions are humorous to me, even moreso since they're very accurate. It's a funny sight to imagine an 18th century man such as Cowper (in a stereotypical powdered wig) poking a snail to see what would happen, and the snail retreating into it's shell "with much displeasure".

 

[philomath]

For tonight, I'll share another poem by Cowper:

Epitaph on a Hare

Here lies, whom hound did ne’er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne’er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman’s hallo’,

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domesticate bounds confined,
Was still a wild jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw,
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins’ russet peel;
And, when his juicy salads failed,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear;
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.

I kept him for his humor’s sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut-shade
He finds his long, last home,
And waits in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more agèd, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney’s box,
Must soon partake his grave.

 

[John Nyberg]

I enjoyed reading Wordsworth’s The Kitten and the Falling Leaves. There is something about short, rhyming couplets that makes for an easy and pleasant read. I really like this section

“Softly, slowly: one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Faery hither tending,—-
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.”

It reminds me of this section in Phantastes by George Macdonald. The fairies are using flower petals to float down a stream. This is from Chapter 3:

“Here, to my great pleasure, all was life and bustle. There was still light enough from the day to see a little; and the pale half-moon, halfway to the zenith, was reviving every moment. The whole garden was like a carnival, with tiny, gaily decorated forms, in groups, assemblies, processions, pairs or trios, moving stately on, running about wildly, or sauntering hither or thither. From the cups or bells of tall flowers, as from balconies, some looked down on the masses below, now bursting with laughter, now grave as owls; but even in their deepest solemnity, seeming only to be waiting for the arrival of the next laugh. Some were launched on a little marshy stream at the bottom, in boats chosen from the heaps of last year’s leaves that lay about, curled and withered. These soon sank with them; whereupon they swam ashore and got others. Those who took fresh rose-leaves for their boats floated the longest; but for these they had to fight; for the fairy of the rose-tree complained bitterly that they were stealing her clothes, and defended her property bravely.”

 

[philomath]

I enjoyed reading Wordsworth’s The Kitten and the Falling Leaves. There is something about short, rhyming couplets that makes for an easy and pleasant read. I really like this section

“Softly, slowly: one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Faery hither tending,—-
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.”

It reminds me of this section in Phantastes by George Macdonald. The fairies are using flower petals to float down a stream. This is from Chapter 3:

“Here, to my great pleasure, all was life and bustle. There was still light enough from the day to see a little; and the pale half-moon, halfway to the zenith, was reviving every moment. The whole garden was like a carnival, with tiny, gaily decorated forms, in groups, assemblies, processions, pairs or trios, moving stately on, running about wildly, or sauntering hither or thither. From the cups or bells of tall flowers, as from balconies, some looked down on the masses below, now bursting with laughter, now grave as owls; but even in their deepest solemnity, seeming only to be waiting for the arrival of the next laugh. Some were launched on a little marshy stream at the bottom, in boats chosen from the heaps of last year’s leaves that lay about, curled and withered. These soon sank with them; whereupon they swam ashore and got others. Those who took fresh rose-leaves for their boats floated the longest; but for these they had to fight; for the fairy of the rose-tree complained bitterly that they were stealing her clothes, and defended her property bravely.”

I really need to get into Macdonald's stuff! I have a general familiarity with his theological positions from others reviewing him, but have yet to get into his works. I've heard his fiction is great. Is Phantastes a good place to start?
[automerge]1783564409[/automerge]
Tonight's poem will be one from Robert Frost. I'd like to do a thread specifically focusing on his poetry at some point in the future. Lord willing I'll start that sometime in mid-late autumn (some of my favorite poems of his are set in fall and winter) unless soomeone else starts one sooner! Anyways, here's tonight's poem:

The Oven Bird

There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.

 

[philomath]

Tonight's poem:

The Darkling Thrush
By Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

 

[philomath]

This morning's poem:

The Owl
By Alfred Lord Tennyson

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

 

[philomath]

Poem for this afternoon:

The Hedgehog
by John Clare

The hedgehog hides beneath the rotten hedge
And makes a great round nest of grass and sedge,
Or in a bush or in a hollow tree;
And many often stoop and say they see
Him roll and fill his prickles full of crabs*
And creep away; and where the magpie dabs
His wing at muddy dyke, in aged root
He makes a nest and fills it full of fruit,
On the hedge bottom hunts for crabs* and sloes
And whistles like a cricket as he goes.
It rolls up like a ball or shapeless hog
When gipsies hunt it with their noisy dog;
I've seen it in their camps — they call it sweet,
Though black and bitter and unsavoury meat.

*crabs are crabapples

 

[John Nyberg]

I really need to get into Macdonald's stuff! I have a general familiarity with his theological positions from others reviewing him, but have yet to get into his works. I've heard his fiction is great. Is Phantastes a good place to start?

Sorry, I’m a little late on the replies lately. The joys of being an HVAC technician during the summertime in the south! But yes Phantastes is a great place to start with Macdonald. His children’s literature is also very enjoyable. After Phantastes I would read Lilith. Just beware that Lilith is a very strange novel, and essentially his case for universal redemption. I think George Macdonald should be required reading, as he laid the groundwork for Tolkien and Lewis. But I am getting off topic… Macdonald was a good poet in his own right. Maybe we can look at his poetry on a different thread.

 

[philomath]

Sorry, I’m a little late on the replies lately. The joys of being an HVAC technician during the summertime in the south! But yes Phantastes is a great place to start with Macdonald. His children’s literature is also very enjoyable. After Phantastes I would read Lilith. Just beware that Lilith is a very strange novel, and essentially his case for universal redemption. I think George Macdonald should be required reading, as he laid the groundwork for Tolkien and Lewis. But I am getting off topic… Macdonald was a good poet in his own right.

No worries at all! Staying busy with good work is a blessing, and I can only imagine how busy it gets this time of year! I'll have to start on Phantastes soon.

Maybe we can look at his poetry on a different thread.

It'd be great to get into more of his poetry!

 

[philomath]

The poem for this morning is a bit odd and doesn't really fit into the theme of the thread, other than perhaps having a walrus and oysters in it. It is a fun (and maybe a tad sad) little poem though, so I thought I'd share it anyways!

The Walrus and the Carpenter from Through the Looking-Glass
By Lewis Carroll

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright—
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done—
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead—
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"0 Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said;
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more and more and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said,
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"o Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

 

[philomath]

Tonight's poem:

Caterpillar ("Brown and furry")
By Christina Rossetti

Brown and furry
Caterpillar in a hurry,
Take your walk
To the shady leaf, or stalk,
Or what not,
Which may be the chosen spot.
No toad spy you,
Hovering bird of prey pass by you;
Spin and die,
To live again a butterfly.

 

[philomath]

Poem for midday:

The Unknown Bird
By Edward Thomas

Three lovely notes he whistled, too soft to be heard
If others sang; but others never sang
In the great beech-wood all that May and June.
No one saw him: I alone could hear him
Though many listened. Was it but four years
Ago? or five? He never came again.

Oftenest when I heard him I was alone,
Nor could I ever make another hear.
La-la-la! he called, seeming far-off—
As if a cock crowed past the edge of the world,
As if the bird or I were in a dream.
Yet that he travelled through the trees and sometimes
Neared me, was plain, though somehow distant still
He sounded. All the proof is—I told men
What I had heard.

I never knew a voice,
Man, beast, or bird, better than this. I told
The naturalists; but neither had they heard
Anything like the notes that did so haunt me,
I had them clear by heart and have them still.
Four years, or five, have made no difference. Then
As now that La-la-la! was bodiless sweet:
Sad more than joyful it was, if I must say
That it was one or other, but if sad
'Twas sad only with joy too, too far off
For me to taste it. But I cannot tell
If truly never anything but fair
The days were when he sang, as now they seem.
This surely I know, that I who listened then,
Happy sometimes, sometimes suffering
A heavy body and a heavy heart,
Now straightway, if I think of it, become
Light as that bird wandering beyond my shore.

 

[philomath]

The poem for tonight is another one by Edward Thomas. It has a bit more to do with an area, yet animals are still a part of it!

The Combe

The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.
Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar;
And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
That most ancient Briton of English beasts.

 

[philomath]

The Owl
By Edward Thomas

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.

And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

 

[philomath]

The poem for tonight is a sad one that focuses on the old practice of badger-baiting. I hadn't heard of it before reading this. My favorite part of this poem is the first couple lines introducing the animal, but the rest is informative and gives insight into the depraved "sport". I'd like to find more poetry on badgers in their natural habitat (they're neat animals) that don't include them being harrassed and harmed, but I'll have to keep looking.

The Badger
By John Clare
The badger grunting on his woodland track
With shaggy hide and sharp nose scrowed with black
Roots in the bushes and the woods, and makes
A great high burrow in the ferns and brakes.
With nose on ground he runs an awkward pace,
And anything will beat him in the race.
The shepherd’s dog will run him to his den
Followed and hooted by the dogs and men.
The woodman when the hunting comes about
Goes round at night to stop the foxes out
And hurrying through the bushes to the chin
Breaks the old holes, and tumbles headlong in.

When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes bye.
He comes and hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox hears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes bye.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where e’er they go;
When badgers fight, then every one’s a foe.
The dogs are clapt and urged to join the fray;
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for bones and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels.
The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, an awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and cackles, groans, and dies.

Some keep a baited badger tame as hog
And tame him till he follows like the dog.
They urge him on like dogs and show fair play.
He beats and scarcely wounded goes away.
Lapt up as if asleep, he scorns to fly
And seizes any dog that ventures nigh.
Clapt like a dog, he never bites the men
But worries dogs and hurries to his den.
They let him out and turn a harrow down
And there he fights the host of all the town.
He licks the patting hand, and tries to play
And never tries to bite or run away,
And runs away from the noise in hollow trees
Burnt by the boys to get a swarm of bees.

 

[Grant Van Leuven]

This is a fun stream! Thanks!

I'm surprised how much I favor the snail poem. I like the "wait for it" for the rhyme at the end of each section yet with a sense of surprise and progress.

I'd like to share a few:


First, from what I put together in part for a Creative Writing class I taught for one of my children's home school network/class days years ago--two tree poems, the first my favorite poem ever which I looked up while visiting the Library of Congress in DC in my early 20s (long time ago--what a place!):

Trees, 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 earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
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.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost

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.

__________________________________

Next, my Haikus I wrote as examples for the class at that time:

“Coronado Island Moments”
Haikus by Grant Van Leuven
During a brief November visit in 2021.

Rippling wavelets race
Tumbling embrace, sandy shore
Foaming, forming one

Battling sunset waves
He finds and guides his surfboard
A young man, my son

Sudsy tides bury my feet
Peninsula and hotel frame the coast
Smelling salty air

Sea and sky greet
Gray waves, white noise, relaxing
Seagulls serenade, I smile
__________________________________

Lastly, several by one of my favorite writers (and my eldest child), Rachel Lemmen, over at Sonder + Salt on Substack.

I have seen an egret crossing, by Rachel Lemmen​

(a poem about two out-of-place egret sightings)​

(originally posted here: https://rachellemmen.substack.com/p/i-have-seen-an-egret-crossing)


I have seen an egret, angelic, loose,

crossing a highway midair,

straight wings lingering, deft, over

—not a stream—

a trail of cars, blinking, going, coming,

gone.

I have seen an egret, alabaster flash, shadow of light,

crossing a potholed street,

ascending through dust, airborne over

—not a stream—

totaled cars, looming trucks, makeshift tents,

on my return from shopping.

I have heard good things come in threes.

So I train my eye to the horizon,

sun filling vision, as the engine hums,

—like water over rocks—

accelerating, watching for the third:

a sign.

A Morning Miracle, by Rachel Lemmen​

(and an update)​

(originally published here: https://rachellemmen.substack.com/p/a-morning-miracle)

Linger in

the effervescent coral

sweeping stardust from

the morning clouds.

It breathes,

filling up to catch your gaze.

A hummingbird shivers over a dewdrop

on the windowpane,

shaking sleep from its wings.

A bee gathers hope and hushed wishes,

remnants of last night’s dreams

tucked between leaves.

The vermilion glow

stretches,

spreads its palms,

fingers the tree tops.

It waits for you to notice.

It will wait a moment longer.

Today, I learn clouds are heavy, by Rachel Lemmen​

(a poem)​

(originally published here: https://rachellemmen.substack.com/p/today-i-learn-clouds-are-heavy)

Today, I learn clouds are heavy—

those gentle,

tender vapors,

covering a multitude of sun.

Today, I learn

a cloud is 1.1 million pounds.

The air is warm, moist.

It might rain.

Tenebrous shadows whisper,

gradually sinking lower,

diffusing the atmosphere,

descending into streets,

darkening doorways.

I think,

how much farther can they fall?

But then,

1.1 million pounds would suffocate anyone.
___________

I also encourage reading her prose, "Sunrise, Sunset," here: https://open.substack.com/pub/rachellemmen/p/sunrise-sunset?utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web) (I liked it so much I quoted it in the conclusion of one of my sermons in a series on Psalm 63 emphasizing its daily rhythm of morning and evening praise).

 

[philomath]

This is a fun stream! Thanks!

I'm surprised how much I favor the snail poem. I like the "wait for it" for the rhyme at the end of each section yet with a sense of surprise and progress.

I'd like to share a few:


First, from what I put together in part for a Creative Writing class I taught for one of my children's home school network/class days years ago--two tree poems, the first my favorite poem ever which I looked up while visiting the Library of Congress in DC in my early 20s (long time ago--what a place!):

Trees, 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 earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
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.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost

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.

__________________________________

Next, my Haikus I wrote as examples for the class at that time:

“Coronado Island Moments”
Haikus by Grant Van Leuven
During a brief November visit in 2021.

Rippling wavelets race
Tumbling embrace, sandy shore
Foaming, forming one

Battling sunset waves
He finds and guides his surfboard
A young man, my son

Sudsy tides bury my feet
Peninsula and hotel frame the coast
Smelling salty air

Sea and sky greet
Gray waves, white noise, relaxing
Seagulls serenade, I smile
__________________________________

Lastly, several by one of my favorite writers (and my eldest child), Rachel Lemmen, over at Sonder + Salt on Substack.

I have seen an egret crossing, by Rachel Lemmen​

(a poem about two out-of-place egret sightings)​

(originally posted here: https://rachellemmen.substack.com/p/i-have-seen-an-egret-crossing)


I have seen an egret, angelic, loose,

crossing a highway midair,

straight wings lingering, deft, over

—not a stream—

a trail of cars, blinking, going, coming,

gone.

I have seen an egret, alabaster flash, shadow of light,

crossing a potholed street,

ascending through dust, airborne over

—not a stream—

totaled cars, looming trucks, makeshift tents,

on my return from shopping.

I have heard good things come in threes.

So I train my eye to the horizon,

sun filling vision, as the engine hums,

—like water over rocks—

accelerating, watching for the third:

a sign.

A Morning Miracle, by Rachel Lemmen​

(and an update)​

(originally published here: https://rachellemmen.substack.com/p/a-morning-miracle)

Linger in

the effervescent coral

sweeping stardust from

the morning clouds.

It breathes,

filling up to catch your gaze.

A hummingbird shivers over a dewdrop

on the windowpane,

shaking sleep from its wings.

A bee gathers hope and hushed wishes,

remnants of last night’s dreams

tucked between leaves.

The vermilion glow

stretches,

spreads its palms,

fingers the tree tops.

It waits for you to notice.

It will wait a moment longer.

Today, I learn clouds are heavy, by Rachel Lemmen​

(a poem)​

(originally published here: https://rachellemmen.substack.com/p/today-i-learn-clouds-are-heavy)

Today, I learn clouds are heavy—

those gentle,

tender vapors,

covering a multitude of sun.

Today, I learn

a cloud is 1.1 million pounds.

The air is warm, moist.

It might rain.

Tenebrous shadows whisper,

gradually sinking lower,

diffusing the atmosphere,

descending into streets,

darkening doorways.

I think,

how much farther can they fall?

But then,

1.1 million pounds would suffocate anyone.
___________

I also encourage reading her prose, "Sunrise, Sunset," here: https://open.substack.com/pub/rachellemmen/p/sunrise-sunset?utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web) (I liked it so much I quoted it in the conclusion of one of my sermons in a series on Psalm 63 emphasizing its daily rhythm of morning and evening praise).

Thanks! The Snail is probably one of my favorite poems that I've come across so far while posting in this thread. A day after I posted it there was a snail on my mailbox when I came home from work which was awesome. I'll have to post a photo of it after a bit.

Thanks for sharing all these poems! Trees and Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening are also some of my favorites.

Your haikus did a great job at helping me imagine the setting of Coronado in November.

I also really enjoyed Rachel's poetry/ writing. I found these lines absolutely beautiful:

A hummingbird shivers over a dewdrop

on the windowpane,

shaking sleep from its wings.

A bee gathers hope and hushed wishes,

remnants of last night’s dreams

tucked between leaves.

I also encourage reading her prose, "Sunrise, Sunset," here: https://open.substack.com/pub/rachellemmen/p/sunrise-sunset?utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web) (I liked it so much I quoted it in the conclusion of one of my sermons in a series on Psalm 63 emphasizing its daily rhythm of morning and evening praise).

"He created the beginning and the end of each day moments of stillness, of slow revelation, so that we can learn to wait in faith, knowing that the sun will rise and set, just as God will always be with His children. Always.

It’s there, slowly rising and setting, intentionally, without hurry.

Perhaps that is the whole point."
[automerge]1784298928[/automerge]

A day after I posted it there was a snail on my mailbox when I came home from work which was awesome. I'll have to post a photo of it after a bit.

 

[John Nyberg]

@Grant Van Leuven

I really enjoyed reading Joyce Kilmer’s poem, what a wonderful piece! Your daughter’s poetry is beautiful, thanks for sharing

 

[philomath]

First Sight of Spring
By John Clare

The hazel-blooms, in threads of crimson hue,
Peep through the swelling buds, foretelling Spring,
Ere yet a white-thorn leaf appears in view,
Or March finds throstles pleased enough to sing.
To the old touchwood tree woodpeckers cling
A moment, and their harsh-toned notes renew ;
In happier mood, the stockdove claps his wing;
The squirrel sputters up the powdered oak,
With tail cocked o’er his head, and ears erect,
Startled to hear the woodman’s understroke;
And with the courage which his fears collect,
He hisses fierce half malice, and half glee —
Leaping from branch to branch about the tree,
In winter’s foliage, moss and lichens, drest.

 

[John Nyberg]

First Sight of Spring
By John Clare

The hazel-blooms, in threads of crimson hue,
Peep through the swelling buds, foretelling Spring,
Ere yet a white-thorn leaf appears in view,
Or March finds throstles pleased enough to sing.
To the old touchwood tree woodpeckers cling
A moment, and their harsh-toned notes renew ;
In happier mood, the stockdove claps his wing;
The squirrel sputters up the powdered oak,
With tail cocked o’er his head, and ears erect,
Startled to hear the woodman’s understroke;
And with the courage which his fears collect,
He hisses fierce half malice, and half glee —
Leaping from branch to branch about the tree,
In winter’s foliage, moss and lichens, drest.

What a great sonnet! Do you know anything about the author? I have not read his work before.

 

[philomath]

Yes! I just found his work recently and only know a little about him. He was a 19th century English poet known for his poems on rural life and nature. I know he was Anglican, but I haven't read much on his faith yet. He had a large family and struggled with physical and mental troubles throughout his life, spending some time in asylums.

I've enjoyed what I've read from him so far, perhaps I'll delve deeper into his works soon!