Our Home

The sunshine is a glorious birth
apparelled in celestial light,
Halo of Heaven for the earth,
Transfigured; every common sight.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own,
The winds come to me from fields of sleep,
Creator nods sagely from lofty throne
blessing a thousand valleys, wide and deep.

Behold the child among his new born blisses
with light upon him from his father's eyes,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
Watched over by Nature's priest, he lies.

A place of thought where we in waiting rest,
Delight and liberty; our simple creed,
Where fledgling hope flutters in every breast,
Where care and thought cater for every need.

Lakes on a starry night; rainbows in water,
Rapids blowing trumpets from the steep,
Yesterday's love; tomorrows lovely daughter,
Thank God, for now, the earth is ours to keep.

Legal Fees.(from the Farmer of Tilsbury Vale)

He dwells in the centre of London's wide town,
On his head near-white curls, on his back near-black gown,
And this small critic wielding his delicate pen
hurries back-to-front progress; grants smiles to old men.

A farmer, his father, whose house far and near
was the boast of the country for excellent cheer,
For thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm,
The genius of plenty preserved him from harm.

Then the small town of Oxford made many demands,
All purses are finite in ill-advised hands,
His eldest son, only son, rustic and raw,
decided he wanted to learn about law.

Then Dad had to borrow and steal to survive,
His fingers as busy as bees in a hive,
He himself, had always been free with his money,
But where is the bee that makes twelve carat honey?

Now nothing in purse and nothing in hand,
Who once had twelve reapers working the land,
For laws are like teats on a Jersey cows udder,
they cant stand alone; they must lean on each other!

The Beggar. (from the Old Cumberland Beggar)

Perched on the low side of a high ledge

I saw the aged beggar on my way,

Him from childhood have I known,

He was old then; and seems not older now, not by a day.

He travels on, a solitary man,

His eyes are fixed forever on the ground,

His staff, his compass on smooth stone or rough

trails with him, wherever the aged beggar takes his round.

And from a bag, all white with flour

he draws his scraps and fragments, meagre dole,

Then scans them with a fixed and serious look

and eats the food in solitude; token, from a not unkindly soul.

The post-boy with his rattling wheels

overtakes the old man in a wooded lane,

Yet goes quieter now, without a curse

on silent horse, no withers, hooves or flaring mane.

She who tends the pitted dairy door

if on the road she spies the aged one,

Lifts her latch to let him pass within

to sup the buttermilk of teat and salt and sun.

The cottage curs no longer bark at him,

Scarcely do his feet disturb the summer dust,

Maids and youths, the vacant and the busy

pass him by, as petulant pride outpaces weary trust.

Hill and dale, little span of earth his close companions,

Scattered leaves or wheel tracks on a quiet lane

grant this man the status of a statesman,

Remembered charities; rejoice that he has come again.

Among the farms and the solitary huts,

where that half-wisdom, half-experience gives

that first mild touch of sympathy and thought

his charter, truth, exemption ever lives.

My neighbour, all mankind though pressed herself,

for this old mendicant, a handful of respite,

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head,

A tongue of fire by day, a star by night.

― حافظ, The Gift /Our Sun.

“The Earth would die if the sun stopped kissing her.”

Hafiz, or Khwajeh Shams al-Din Muhammad Hafez-e Shirazi, a 14th-century Persian mystic and poet.

The eye it cannot choose but see

We cannot bid the ear be still

The redbreast sings from the tall larch

All servants of thy will.

The weed that creeps along the humblest ground

nurtured by twisted roots beneath the clay,

mourns when one kindly growth retires

yet you grant another light of day.

You rule the pomp of light and shade

with all that issues from your glorious fount,

You regulate the motion of our dreams

would that we might sometimes take account.

Ocean and earth compete for your regard,

Your timid day, mingling with the night

stakes claim to favourite child

yet each must in its turn melt from your sight.

Calm as water when the wind is gone your gaze,

no need have you of conscience or to pray,

But gently guide age to his alloted nook

while nurturing fresh blossoms, March or May.

Against or with our wanton will or wish

Our bodies can but feel what they can see

as far south as the south goes or north

and east and west or up or down with thee.

It is a heart, a hard heart that keeps till June

the iron shards of December's ice,

Much it grieves to see what man has made of man,

Robs his brother of a grain of rice.

You season my fireside with heat and friendly chat

of wilderness and wood, blank ocean and mere sky,

If you might doze for forty days of Lent

Forever we would vanish from your quiet eye.

(for Turquoise, friend of Blue)

Your Time is Over.

Lie quiet in your churchyard bed,

For you the stream of fiction ceased to flow

How often joy and sorrow can be wed,

Action is transitory, quick march or slow.

For you the voice of melody was mute

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,

Yet through the darkness gracious openings shoot

to space of open day in Heavens park.

Where light and shade repose and music dwells,

A musical but melancholy chime

the last voice which you heard, the peal of bells,

Silent are the ticking hands of time.

Like glow worms of a summers night

Love's radiance is shadows' loss,

No sound, or ghost of sound, for him or flight

Whose guardian carries but the silent cross.

Behold how fast the churchyard fills,

Yet the only voice which you can hear

is common between banks, by turning mills,

One way ferryman, river murmuring near.

(from 'the White Doe of Rylstone)

The Artist and the Art.

Now that the snows must melt and herbs revive
and rainbow shows aloft its hidden gold,

palette, brush and paint must come alive
in new magnificence vying with the old.

Seeking the bold achievement where he will

with truths holy lamp, source of bright and deep,
spreading dark and light with brush and quill
colours in silence with unfettered sweep.

Spared by fire and blood and turning sands

from death, the memory of the brave and wise,
nor injured more by touch of meddling hands
yet glorious art the power of time defies.

And all forbidden seeds must shed their pods

or enslave whole nations on their native soil
weakness of the great, folly of the gods
must be avoided; purest pigment, holy oil.

A spot of golden sunshine fixed in space

or softly stealing into modest shade,
The drooping mind of absence can erase
names once heard and prayers no longer prayed.

And gallery's sumptuous doors spread wide at morn,

with heart and mind the charmed spectator spies
under soft cerulean sky an ear of corn,
by night bare floors see portraits of the skies.

( from a memorials of a tour in Italy ) 

Ramble at Evening.(from the Cuckoo at Laverna)

Although invisible as Echo's self

often I've heard the nightingale and thrush,

Far off and faint and melting into air,

Cooling throats, sweet dew from hawthorn bush.

From vale to hill, flower after flower has blown

blending within a common English grove,

Embellishing the ground that gave them birth,

savouring earth born joys, sampling her treasure trove.

By unsought means for gracious purposes,

where spring her richest blossoms did display,

and every shape of nature is sustained

strange and familiar, might beguile the day.

Divine affections as with beast and bird

so pure, so fraught with knowledge and delight,

Till dusk descending upon hill and vale

summons the moon, pale candle of the night.

Fear and Faith

A potent wand does sorrow wield,

repentance is a tender sprite,

But if by chance your faith should fail

regard the crescent moon so bright.

Whose voice can stop the nimble clouds

or eye can see the wind?

Which ear can hear the silent song,

whose touch has never sinned?

Whether among the winds we strive

that cuts along the hawthorn fence

in savage wildness, winter's ice,

We must rely on future tense.

The crab, the scorpion and the bull

along with scattered stars,

hidden behind mercury

the red haired face of mars.

Temptation lurks among all words

while white dust sleeps along the lane,

Darklings among the boughs and leaves

account for the crimson stain.

Paths of wickedness and woe,

the noise of danger in your ears,

Some ugly witchcraft might be about,

Perhaps the music of the spheres.

Yet man's heart is a holy place

among the lovely shades of things

Not given to sadness or to gloom,

regal as palaces and kings.

And nature still will find a way

to bring us back to God

by ferry of a flying horse,

no ghost more softly ever trod.

(from Wordsworth's Peter Bell)