My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
A SUMMER SOLSTICE SOMERSAULT by John Souter (to be read in a Geordie accent)
"When I were a lad," said Mr Miller, "Every year on this the longest day I'd tumble mesel Head over heels as a celebration, like. I'd take a good long run, then flip ower feet to hands and hands to feet no matter where I were, on the way to school or the pit or going to roll-call or while Masie fed the bairns, every year, a ritual. That day on the Earth's fling around the sun, when I see it were light for longest I'd do a somersault just for fun."
Nobody heeds his reminiscences so he takes his walking frame and makes an arthritic circuit of the common room. Standing in the window he scans an overcast sky contemplating the shortening days and the long night to come.
Then, as he gazes, The dull clouds split. Once again the nimble lad leaps with him to salute the Sun.
Peggy's poems:
A BIRTHDAY by Christina Rossetti
My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot. My heart is like an apple tree Whose bough is bent with thickest 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 fleur de lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.
TEWKESBURY ROAD by John Masefield
It is good to be out on the road And going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village One knows not whither or why; Through the grey light drift of the dust And the keen, cool rush of the air, Under the flying white clouds And the broad blue lift of the sky.
And to halt at the chattering brook In the tall green fern at the brink Where the harebell grows and the gorse And the foxgloves purple and white; Where the sky-eyed delicate deer Troop down to the pools to drink When the stars are mellow and large At the coming on of the night.
Oh, to feel the warmth of the rain And the homely smell of the earth Is a tune for the blood to jig to A joy past power of words. And the blessed green comely meadows Seem all a-ripple with mirth At the lilt of the shifting feet And the dear wild cry of the birds.
And the just man trailed God's shining agent,
over a black mountain, in his giant track,
while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:
"It's not too late, you can still look back
at the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed."
A single glance: a sudden dart of pain
stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . .
Her body flaked into transparent salt,
and her swift legs rooted to the ground.
Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem
too insignificant for our concern?
Yet in my heart I never will deny her,
who suffered death because she chose to turn.
Now, joy is born of parents poor, And pleasure of our richer kind; Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing As sweet a song as joy confined.
Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day And dances by false glare at night; But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves To spread its wings in Nature's light.
Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks Away on blossoms its sweet hour; But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp, That plums and cherries would devour.
Joy's like a Lark that lives alone, Whose ties are very strong, though few; But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams, Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.
Joy from her heart doth sing at home, With little care if others hear; But pleasure then is cold and dumb, And sings and laughs with strangers near.
