General Chat

Len I have learnt something from this thread. Had not come across Rachel Carson, but now I have looked her up I can see where you are coming from with your comment ;-)) btw There appears to be two versions of La Belle Dame Sans Merci The original of 1819 is the one Joy has quoted When it was published in 1820 there were a few alterations The first verse reads: Published version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1820 Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. and later in the poem She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gaz'd and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes-- So kiss'd to sleep. Very subtle differences, and it appears nobody knows who made the alterations Dee

Dee My tongue was slightly in my cheek. (I may bite it one day). I also used to know 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci' off by heart. Rachel Carson wrote 'The Silent Spring' which was about pesticides killing off the birds. Most of the poems here are familiar to me. Maybe, in my dotage, I don't dislike poetry as much as I thought I did. len

btw - thanks Sue and Mau for your poems seems we are all getting rather nostalgic, it's nice to look back sometimes isn't it? Dee ;-))

Vivienne, just for you ;-)) There Was A Little Girl There was a little girl, and she had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good she was very, very good, But when she was bad she was horrid. One day she went upstairs, while her parents, unawares, In the kitchen were occupied with meals. And she stood upon her head, on her little truckle-bed, And then began hurraying with her heels. Her mother heard the noise and thought it was the boys, A-kicking up a rumpus in the attic. But when she climbed the stair, and saw Jemima there, She took her and did whip her most emphatic.

Oh how I wish my memory was better. I remember loads of the poems mentioned & quite forgot to put Emmerdale on, I was so engrossed reading them aloud to myself. I remember Wraggle Taggle Gypsies as a song. My mother could remember just about all the poems she learnt at school till the day she died at 84. Her favourites were, The Wreck of the Hesperous, The Highwayman, Hiawartha[sp] & the one she always quoted at me, There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good but when she was bad, she was horrid. One day when her mother,! Oh heck I thought I had remembered it. Something about standing on her head on her little truckle bed. I give up, but thanks for the memories Dee Vivienne

W. H. Davies Leisure WHAT is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare?— No time to stand beneath the boughs, And stare as long as sheep and cows: No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass: No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night: No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance: No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began? A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. Something to reflect on Mau x

Quite by chance today, whilst clearing out a cupboard, I came across a book that my Dad bought for my Mum whilst they were on honeymoon in Bournemouth in February 1945 - The Complete Poems of Rupert Brooke. Mum loved all poetry, but especially Rupert Brooke's poems. The Soldier If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. Rupert Brooke (1887 - 1915) and of course the probably more well known 'Grantchester' which ends........... 'Say, is there Beauty yet to find? And Certainty? and Quiet kind? Deep meadows yet, for to forget The lies, and truths, and pain?...oh! yet Stands the church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?' Sue xx

Christine, unless I am mistaken that was written by W B Yeats Hi Margaret I am gald I found the right one Not sure about the other one, but did find this by Tennyson and quite liked it so thought I would add it any way The Brook I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorpes, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

Dee - you wonderful person - yes indeed it was a cherry tree and this is the poem. I shall copy it so I will never forget it again. Could you solve another mystery / Another poem which caused much laughter and enjoyment started ' Why do you laugh little brook, little brook, why so dappled and grey ? ..... any ideas ?

Thanks for adding those Vonny I love Jabberwocky as well, Dee ;-))

We had excellent English teachers at school. One of the poems I remember from schooldays, I could recite it now almost word for word, is Sea Fever by John Masefield I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel’s kick and wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

Hi Len Did you learn that at school? Or is it a more recent memory? Dee ;-))

Dee, You are very welcome! Lindy :-))

Len - John Keats who wrote it in La Belle Dame Sans Merci. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful--a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew, And sure in language strange she said, 'I love thee true.' She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept, and sighed fill sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed--Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill’s side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried--'La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!' I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill's side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

Odd how phrases trickle into the head. 'The sedge has withered from the lake; and no birds sing' Was that Keats or Rachel Carson ? len

Hi Dorothy You were lucky to have such an inspirational teacher, they seem few and far between these days, too busy having to keep up with admin I fear Dee ;-))

Margaret Could your apple tree in fact have been a cherry tree? Foreign Lands Up into the cherry tree Who should climb but little me? I held the trunk with both my hands And looked abroad in foreign lands. I saw the next door garden lie, Adorned with flowers, before my eye, And many pleasant places more That I had never seen before. I saw the dimpling river pass And be the sky's blue looking-glass; The dusty roads go up and down With people tramping in to town. If I could find a higher tree Farther and farther I should see, To where the grown-up river slips Into the sea among the ships, To where the road on either hand Lead onward into fairy land, Where all the children dine at five, And all the playthings come alive. Robert Louis Stevenson

Apparently when my mother and her siblings were litle they all had to do 'something' for the sunday school anniversary. The sister just a bit younger than my Mum had to learn a poem which, after the first line, she collapsed into convulsive laughter and couldn't carry on. All Mum could remember was 'Up into the apple tree, who should climb but little me,' - has anyone any idea what poem this actually was ?

Thank you Lindy, much appreciated Dee ;-))

The Wraggle Taggle Gipsies (Story in verse) There were three gipsies a-come to my door, And down-stairs ran this a-lady, O ! One sang high, and another sang low, And the other sang, Bonny bonny Biscay, O ! Then she pulled off her silk- finished gown And put on hose of leather, O ! The ragged, ragged rags about our door-- She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O ! It was late last night, when my lord came home, Enquiring for his a-lady, O ! The servant said on every hand : 'She´s gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O !' 'O saddle to me my milk white-steed. Go and fetch me my pony, O ! That I may ride and seek my bridge, Who has gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O !'' O he rode high and he rode low, He rode through woods and copses too, Until he came to an open field, And there he spied his a-lady, O ! ''What makes you leave your house and land, What makes you leave your money O ! What makes you leave your new- wedded lord, To go with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O ! What care I for my house and land, What care I for my money, O ! What care I for my new-wedded lord, I´m off with the wraggle taggle gipsies O ! ''Last night you slept in a goose-feathered bed, With the sheets turned down so bravely, O ! For to-night I shall sleep in a cold open field, Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies O !'' What care I for a goose-feathered be, With the sheet turned down so bravely, O! For to-night I shall sleep in a cold open field, Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies O !''