Poetry

This poem read by Karen Blixen over Denys Fitch-Hatton's grave in Out of Africa always brings a tear to my eyes:

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.

—A. E. Housman

That was wonderful Harry - Welcome back!! 
It really is great to see you again. We've all missed you a lot.

Those are all great poems.

Lyn - that was a really sad story and I found comfort in that poem too when I lost my Dad.

Stephanie -  it is such a comforting poem, aparantly it is one of the most visited poems on the internet.

I have enjoyed all the poems on here, what a great thread, it has reminded me how much I love poerty.

Welcome back Harry

Lovely poems everyone, keep them coming, I love reading them.

My Daughter

You'll never really know, my dear,
Just how much you mean to me,
A mother's love, buried so deep,
That only my heart can see.

When I sit and really stare at you,
All I can do is grin,
Somewhere down deep inside,
I see myself within.

I'd never change a thing in you,
I thank God that your so fine,
Even when your at your worst,
I'm so proud that you are mine.


I know that I'm not perfect,
It's the best that I can do,
But everyday, I thank the lord,
For a daughter as special as you

Hi, and thank you, POE, Lyn, Andy, Wolf, and Karen (and all those who  expressed interest in my whereabouts!)

Before I and my wife went on our holiday I set up a sprinkler system for my vegetable garden (I grow my own vegies).  I arrange for my daughter to turn on the pump (from rainwater tank) - even marked with paint, the 3/4 turn to prevent over-sprinkling.  On our return from the UK, my beetroot, lettuce, onions, cabbage, and spinach, had thrived so well, that they were ready to pick...that is to say except the onions, which will be ready for Christmas.  However, among the vegies the weeds had also grown at a rapid rate ... which brings me to this poem, which I thought appropriate, and share with you.

A SONG IN THE GARDEN (anon)

I sang a sweet song in the garden

A song that was gentle and low

A song that the experts informed me

Would encourage the flowers to grow

But, Lo, as I walked in the garden

Where the dew of the morning lay glistening

In keeping with Life's disappointments

It was only the weeds that were listening