There Was No Possibility of Taking A Walk That Day

This is a book of poetry composed during Covid 19 pandemic and all about the Brontes. Each poem has something to do with the Brontes and also experiencing a pandemic. You will find my poem called, "Homebound," in this collection. Available as a paperback book or Kindle versions.

My Library is Growing

Just bought this 1967 Washington Square Press edition of Longfellow's Evangeline. I have been buying and buying old books a lot lately and my library is growing! My goal is to eventually have at least one or multiple copies of my favorites. I also have a penchant for vintage field guides for flowers, birds, and trees. Is anyone at all surprised?

Not Only Does God Create Daily Beauty, But So Can We

Even bookplates can be beautiful.

I read this quote today and it made me think of all the places and things that hold beauty in life.

 “I think everything in life is art. What you do. how you dress. The way you love someone and how you talk. Your smile and your personality. What you believe in, and all your dreams. The way you drink your tea and how you decorate your home. Or party. Or grocery list. The food you make. How your writing looks. 

And the way you feel.” 

-Helena Bonham Carter

What else? A breath in winter, words brought together in a special and meaningful way, a meal presented with care, helping someone, an arrangement of flowers from the garden, plaited hair. Many things are beautiful and not only does God create daily beauty but so can we.

The Bird Feeding Kind

The Spruce dot com

Overnight we had a big storm and are now covered in heavy white snow. I've put out a new bird feeder with lots of fresh birdseed for my little winter kin. I'm the bird feeding kind, after all. The bird watching kind, and the bird wannabee kind, too. The kitties sit by the window and watch the winter show that plays out right at the window. All they must do it sit down in their seats and wait for the show to start.

Bird Feeder

Here is the bird feeder. Here, seeds and crumbs.
Sprinkle them on and see what comes.
One cardinal, one chickadee, one junco, one jay.
Four of my bird friends are eating today.

~ Myra Cohn Livingstone 

Raven Thoughts

"But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."

~Edgar Allan Poe 

Whether read by day or night,

that midnight raven nevermore will take his flight.

~Bookishkind

Gathered Words

 Poe, Austen, Bronte, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Tennyson --

One word is all it takes, their names alone are enough for me.

Yet..., pull the harvest from the shelf...

 ...The gathered words are the ones I like best. ~Bookishkind

But words are things, 

and a small drop of ink, 

falling like dew, 

upon a thought.

~~Lord Byron

Room Windows With Views

The only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.
~E.M. Forster

This is so true, and we do find ourselves on a particular path that not everyone saunters on. Each makes his or her own way, and thank goodness, or the paths would be overcrowded. I love the path I am on, and wouldn't trade it for any other. I've walked with John Keats and Fanny Braun, been in a white tower looking down to Camelot, and looked out of lots of room windows with views. It's been impressive so far, and I cannot wait for more.

Frozen Charlotte

This is a poem about a girl who goes out in the bitter winter cold without a wrap on to keep her warm. Thankfully, we read this in July when frozen is as far away as can be. There are also other frozen Charlotte's, as you will see.

Young Charlotte (Frozen Charlotte)
by Seba Smith

Now, Charlotte lived on the mountainside,
In a bleak and dreary spot;
There was no house for miles around,
Except her father's cot.
And yet on many a wintry night,
Young swains were gathered there;
For her father kept a social board,
And she was very fair.

One New Year's Eve as the sun went down,
Far looked her wishful eye
Out from the frosty window pane
As merry sleighs went by.

In a village fifteen miles away,
Was to be a ball that night;
And though the air was heavy and cold,
Her heart was warm and light.

How brightly beamed her laughing eye,
As a well-known voice was heard;
And driving up to the cottage door,
Her lover's sleigh appeared.

"O, daughter dear," her mother cried,
"This blanket 'round you fold;
It is a dreadful night tonight,
You'll catch your death of cold."

"O, nay! O, nay!" young Charlotte cried,
And she laughed like a gypsy queen;
"To ride in blankets muffled up,
I never would be seen.

"My silken cloak is quite enough,
You know 'tis lined throughout;
Besides I have my silken scarf,
To twine my neck about."

Her bonnet and her gloves were on,
She stepped into the sleigh;
Rode swiftly down the mountain side,
And o'er the hills away.

With muffled face and silent lips,
Five miles at length were passed;
When Charles with few and shivering words,
The silence broke at last.

"Such a dreadful night I never saw,
The reins I scarce can hold."
Fair Charlotte shivering faintly said,
"I am exceeding cold."

He cracked his whip, he urged his steed
Much faster than before;
And thus five other dreary miles
In silence were passed o'er.

Said Charles, "How fast the shivering ice
Is gathering on my brow."
And Charlotte still more faintly said,
"I'm growing warmer now."

So on they rode through frosty air
And glittering cold starlight,
Until at last the village lamps
And the ballroom came in sight.

They reached the door and Charles sprang out,
He reached his hand for her;
She sat there like a monument,
That has no power to stir.

He called her once, he called her twice,
She answered not a word;
He asked her for her hand again,
And still she never stirred.

He took her hand in his - O, God!
'Twas cold and hard as stone;
He tore the mantle from her face,
Cold stars upon it shone.

Then quickly to the glowing hall,
Her lifeless form he bore;
Fair Charlotte's eyes were closed in death,
Her voice was heard no more.

And there he sat down by her side,
While bitter tears did flow;
And cried, "My own, my charming bride,
You never more will know."

He twined his arms around her neck,
He kissed her marble brow;
His thoughts flew back to where she said,
"I'm growing warmer now."

He carried her back to the sleigh,
And with her he rode home;
And when he reached the cottage door,
O, how her parents mourned.

Her parents mourned for many a year,
And Charles wept in the gloom;
Till at last her lover died of grief,
And they both lie in one tomb.


More Frozen Charlottes~
Frozen Charlotte Victorian dolls
The Folk Song




Frozen Charlotte Dessert (from Imagine Maine dot com)
To make a Frozen Charlotte dessert, line the sides and bottom of a springform cake pan (or other tin mold) with (24) ladyfingers. Soften a teaspoon and a half of unflavored gelatin in a little water. Whip 2 cups of heavy cream until stiff. Put the softened gelatin and 1/2 to 3/4 cup of sugar in a heavy pan and heat carefully until sugar dissolves. Flavor the whipped cream with vanilla or a couple spoonfuls of sherry or rum, then add gelatin mix slowly to cream while continuing to whip with a beater. Fill the lined pan with the cream mixture.
Freeze for several hours until set or overnight. Unmold and thaw slightly if very frozen. Serve with chopped nuts, more whipped cream, cherries, hot fudge sauce or fresh strawberries.

Read the history about the poem here.

The May Queen

The May Queen By Alfred Lord Tennyson

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

There’s many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;
There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline;
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,
So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,
But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be;
They say his heart is breaking, mother–what is that to me?
There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;
For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;
To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

Part Two
Conclusion

Photo Credit: “The May Queen,” stained glass window designed by George Parlby and Thomas Cowell, 1900

The May Queen - Part Two

NEW-YEAR’S EVE

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,
Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me.

To-night I saw the sun set; he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;
And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day;
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse,
Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

There’s not a flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane.
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again;
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high;
I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook’ll caw from the windy tall elm-tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And the swallow ’ill come back again with summer o’er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early early morning the summer sun ’ill shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light
You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now;
You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild;
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Tho’ I cannot speak a work, I shall harken what you say,
And be often, often with you when you think I’m far away.

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green.
She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor.
Let her take ’em, they are hers; I shall never garden more;
But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rosebush that I set
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother; call me before the day is born.
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,
So, if you’re waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

Conclusion

The May Queen - Conclusion

CONCLUSION

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here.

O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,
And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise,
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

It seem’d so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun.
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!
But still I think it can’t be long before I find release;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

O, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he show’d me all the sin.
Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in;
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
With all my strength I pray’d for both, and so I felt resign’d,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen’d in my bed,
And then did something speak to me–I know not what was said;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, ‘It’s not for them, it’s mine.’
And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
Then seem’d to go right up to heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
There’s many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
If I had lived–I cannot tell–I might have been his wife;
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O, look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine–
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun–
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true–
And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home–
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come–
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast–
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

Poe - et

I know of Poe the writer of books, but I was introduced to Poe the Poet through kevinott.net recently through the poem, "The Village Street."
Here is a link to "Poe Stories," a site that has the text of his poems, if you want to read more, like I did, (The Village Street is not listed for some reason?).



THE VILLAGE STREET
In these rapid, restless shadows,
Once I walked at eventide,
When a gentle, silent maiden,
Walked in beauty at my side.
She alone there walked beside me
All in beauty, like a bride.

Pallidly the moon was shining
On the dewy meadows nigh;
On the silvery, silent rivers,
On the mountains far and high,--
On the ocean's star-lit waters,
Where the winds a-weary die.

Slowly, silently we wandered
From the open cottage door,
Underneath the elm's long branches
To the pavement bending o'er;
Underneath the mossy willow
And the dying sycamore.

With the myriad stars in beauty
All bedight, the heavens were seen,
Radiant hopes were bright around me,
Like the light of stars serene;
Like the mellow midnight splendor
Of the Night's irradiate queen.

Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
Like the distant murmured music
Of unquiet, lovely seas;
While the winds were hushed in slumber
In the fragrant flowers and trees.

Wondrous and unwonted beauty
Still adorning all did seem,
While I told my love in fables
'Neath the willows by the stream;
Would the heart have kept unspoken
Love that was its rarest dream!

Instantly away we wandered
In the shadowy twilight tide,
She, the silent, scornful maiden,
Walking calmly at my side,
With a step serene and stately,
All in beauty, all in pride.

Vacantly I walked beside her.
On the earth mine eyes were cast;
Swift and keen there came unto me
Bitter memories of the past--
On me, like the rain in Autumn
On the dead leaves, cold and fast.

Underneath the elms we parted,
By the lowly cottage door;
One brief word alone was uttered--
Never on our lips before;
And away I walked forlornly,
Broken-hearted evermore.

Slowly, silently I loitered,
Homeward, in the night, alone;
Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
That my youth had never known;
Wild unrest, like that which cometh
When the Night's first dream hath flown.

Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
Mad, discordant melodies,
And keen melodies like shadows
Haunt the moaning willow trees,
And the sycamores with laughter
Mock me in the nightly breeze.

Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
Through the sighing foliage streams;
And each morning, midnight shadow,
Shadow of my sorrow seems;
Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
And, O soul, forget thy dreams!

Bluebeard...A Fairy Tale

From Wikipedia:
""Bluebeard" (French: "La Barbe bleue") is a French literary fairy tale written by Charles Perrault and is one of eight tales by the author first published by Barbin in Paris in January 1697 in Histoires ou Contes du temps passé. The tale tells the story of a violent nobleman in the habit of murdering his wives and the attempts of one wife to avoid the fate of her predecessors."

Clearly, this French fairytale is not for the faint of heart. I came across some lovely photos by Tuttle Images, (as the one shown here), here, (linked on The Beautiful Necessity site), that retell the poem. Stunning photographs! Here is another version in story form.

Here is the text from the Walter Crane illustrated version of Bluebeard, published 1875.:


Bluebeard: A Fairy Tale

Once on a time there lived a man
hated by all he knew.
Both that his ways were very bad,
and that his beard was blue;
But as he was so rich and grand, and
led a merry life,
A lady he contrived at last to induce
to be his wife.

For a month after the wedding they
lived and had good cheer;
And then said Bluebeard to his wife,
"I'll say good-bye my dear;
"Indeed, it is but for six weeks that I
shall be away.
"I beg that you'll invite your friends
and feast and dance and play:

"And all my property I'll leave con-
fided to your care:
"Here are the keys of all my chests,
there's plenty and to spare.

"But this small key belongs to one small
room on the ground floor. --
"And this you must not open, or you
will repent it sore."

And so he went: and all the friends
came there from far and wide.
And in her wealth the lady took much
happiness and pride.

But in a while this kind of joy grew
nearly satisfied.
And oft she saw the closet door, and longed
to look inside.

At last she could no more refrain and turned
the little key.
And looked within, and fainted straight the
horrid sight to see:

For there upon the floor was blood, and on
the walls were wives
For Bluebeard first had married them, then
cut their throats with knives.

And this poor wife, distracted, picked the key
up from the floor.
All stained with blood; and with much fear
she shut and locked the door.

She tried in vain to clean the key and wash
the stain away
With sand and soap--it was no use. Blue-
beard came back that day:

At once he asked her for the key,--he saw
the bloody stain;--

"You have been in the closet once,
and you shall go again!"
"O spare me, spare me! give me
time, not kill me hastily!"
"You have a quarter of an hour,--
then, madam, you must die!"

"Come down!" cried Bluebeard, "time is
up!" With many a sigh and moan,
She prayed him for a minute more: he
shouted still, "Come down!"
"O sister Anne, look out, look out! and do
you nothing see?"
"At last I see our brothers two come riding
hastily."

"Now spare me, Bluebeard--spare thy
wife!" but as the words were said,
And just as Bluebeard's cruel blade was
descending on her head,

In rushed the brothers with their swords,--
they cut the murderer down,
And saved their sister's life, and gained
much glory and renown;

And then they all with gold and plate and
jewels rare made free,
And ever after lived content on Blue-
beard's property.

Lady of Shalott Film

Not sure how I went a half year without hearing about this one! Thanks to the Pre-Raphaelite Sisterhood site, I found their page about The Lady of Shalott film. It is available on DVD. The pictures are stunning and very similar to many of the paintings that portray the poem.



John William Waterhouse painting
The film closely follows her look from Waterhouse's painting

The Lady of Shalott - article
"To celebrate the bicentenary of the birth of Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), Lincoln based WAG Screen has made a film based on Tennyson's poem, The Lady of Shalott.
The Lady of Shalott

Victoria Rigby is The Lady of Shalott
The film has been made to celebrate the 200th anniversary of Tennyson's birth and stars Victoria Rigby from Grantham as the Lady of Shalott. The Lady of Shalott film premiered at the Odeon Cinema, Lincoln.

The part of Lord Tennyson is played by Ben Poole. Ben was born in Lincoln and is a local businessman who runs a tea shop on Lincoln's Steep Hill, at 45 he is just the right age to play Tennyson in the late 1850s.

The majority of the filming was done in and around Lincoln. The filming of Ben giving Tennyson's reading of The Lady of Shalott to an after dinner audience was filmed in an oak panel room at Ashby Hall.

The lady at her loom as portrayed by John William Waterhouse on canvas, and in the short film..."there she weaves by night and day"


The Lady of Shalot Film opens at The Collection, Lincoln's museum, on May 30th 2009 and can be seen there until the end of August.
Lady of Shalott

A verse from The Lady of Shalott
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
Tennyson

The great Victorian poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson was born on the 5th August, 1809 in Somersby near Horncastle. He came from a large family and had eight brothers and four sisters. His father, George Clayton Tennyson was the Rector of Somersby and Bag Enderby.

Appointed as Poet Laureate to Queen Victoria in 1850, Tennyson had a long and fruitful career. Even during his own lifetime he was considered a national institution.

Alfred began writing poetry at eight-years-old, and by the age of twelve was in the midst of a 6,000 line epic. His work was first published in a book entitled Poems by Two Brothers which, despite its name, contained work by three of the Tennyson brothers."

Buy the DVD

The Man From Snowy River - Poem

The Man From Snowy River

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand -
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast;
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his quick and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away,
These hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited, sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend -
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough;
Where a horse's hooves strike firelight from the flintstones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy river riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went: they found the horses by the big mimosa clump,
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black,
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
NO man can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull -
It well might make the boldest hold their breath;
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint-stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill,
And the watchers on the mountain, standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely; he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges - but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam;
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted, cowed and beaten; then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reed-beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The Man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

- A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

The Lady of Shalott

by Alfred Tennyson

Part I

On either side of the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veiled
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

Part II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hands before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the curly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lira," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance —
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light —
Through the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

The Tennyson Page

History of the Poem

Lady of Shalott Pages

Loreena McKinnitt Sings "The Lady of Shalott"

Imagining of "The Lady of Shalott"

Buy Howard Pyle's Book

The Highwayman

Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

The Highwayman

PART ONE

I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

artwork: Maude and Misha Petershams

Three Days Ride

THREE DAYS' RIDE

by: Stephen Vincent Benét

"ROM Belton Castle to Solway side,

Hard by the bridge, is three days' ride."

We had fled full fast from her father's keep,

And the time was come that we must sleep.

The first day was an ecstasy,

A golden mist, a burgeoning tree;

We rode like gods through a world new-made,

The hawthorn scented hill and glade,

A faint, still sweetness in the air--

And, oh, her face and the wind in her hair!

And the steady beat of our good steeds' hooves,

Bearing us northward, strong and fast,

To my high black tower, stark to the blast,

Like a swimmer stripped where the Solway moves.

And ever, riding, we chanted a song,

Challenging Fortune, loud and long,

"From Belton Castle to Solway side,

Strive as you may, is three days' ride!"














She slept for an hour, wrapped in my cloak,

And I watched her till the morning broke;

The second day--and a harsher land,

And grey bare hills on either hand;

A surly land and a sullen folk,

And a fog that came like bitter smoke.

The road wound on like a twisted snake,

And our horses sobbed as they topped the brake.

Till we sprang to earth at Wyvern Fen,

Where fresh steeds stamped, and were off again.

Weary and sleepless, bruised and worn,

We still had strength for laughter and scorn;

Love held us up through the mire and mist,

Love fed us, while we clasped and kissed,

And still we sang as the night closed in,

Stealthy and slow as a hidden sin,

"From Belton Castle to Solway side,

Ride how you will, is three days' ride."

My love drooped low on the black mare's back,

Drowned in her hair . . . the reins went slack . . .

Yet she could not sleep, save to dream bad dreams

And wake all trembling, till at last

Her golden head lay on my breast.

At last we saw the first faint gleams

Of day. Dawn broke. A sickly light

Came from the withered sun--a blight

Was on the land, and poisonous mist

Shrouded the rotting trees, unkissed

By any wind, and the black crags glared

Like sightless, awful faces, spared

From death to live accursed for aye.

Dragging slow chains the hours went by.

We rode on, drunk and drugged with sleep,

Too deadly weary now to say

Whether our horses kept the way

Or no--like slaves stretched on a heap

Of poisoned arrows. Every limb

Shot with sharp pain; pain seemed to swim

Like a red cloud before our eyes. . . .

The mist broke, and a moment showed,

Sharp as the Devil's oxen-goad,

The spear-points where the hot chase rode.

Idly I watched them dance and rise

Till white wreaths wiped them out again . . .

My love jerked at the bridle rein;

The black mare, dying, broke her heart

In one swift gallop; for my part

I dozed; and ever in my brain,

Four hoofs of fire beat out refrain,

A dirge to light us down to death,

A silly rhyme that saith and saith,

"From Belton Castle to Solway side,

Though great hearts break, is three days' ride!"

The black mare staggered, reeled and fell,

Bearing my love down . . . a great bell

Began to toll . . . and sudden fire

Flared at me from the road, a pyre

It seemed, to burn our bodies in . . .

And I fell down, far down, within

The pit's mouth . . . and my brain went blind. . . .

I woke--a cold sun rose behind

Black evil hills--my love knelt near

Beside a stream, her golden hair

Streaming across the grass--below

The Solway eddied to and fro,

White with fierce whirlpools . . . my love turned. . . .

Thank God, some hours of joy are burned

Into the mind, and will remain,

Fierce-blazing still, in spite of pain!

They came behind us as we kissed,

Stealthily from the dripping mist,

Her brothers and their evil band.

They bound me fast and made me stand.

They forced her down upon her knees.

She did not strive or cry or call,

But knelt there dumb before them all--

I could not turn away my eyes--

There was no fear upon her face,

Although they slew her in that place.

The daggers rent and tore her breast

Like dogs that snarl above a kill,

Her proud face gazed above them still,

Seeking rest--Oh, seeking rest!

The blood swept like a crimson dress

Over her bosom's nakedness,

A curtain for her weary eyes,

A muffling-cloth to stop her sighs . . .

And she was gone--and a red thing lay

Silent on the trampled clay.

Beneath my horse my feet are bound,

My hands are bound behind my back,

I feel the sinews start to crack--

And ever to the hoof-beats' sound,

As we draw near the gallows-tree,

Where I shall hang right speedily,

A crazy tune rings in my brain,

Four hoofs of fire tramp the refrain,

Crashing clear o'er the roaring crowd,

Steadily galloping, strong and loud,

"From Belton Castle to Solway side,

Hard by the bridge, is three days' ride!"

An English Ladye Bright

It Was An English Ladye Bright

by Sir Walter Scott

It was an English ladye bright,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)
And she would marry a Scottish knight,
For Love will still be lord of all.

Blithely they saw the rising sun
When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;
But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all.

Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;
Her brother gave but a flask of wine,
For ire that Love was lord of all.

For she had lands both meadow and lea,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And he swore her death, ere he would see
A Scottish knight the lord of all.

That wine she had not tasted well
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)
When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,
For Love was still the lord of all!

He pierced her brother to the heart,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall:--
So perish all would true love part
That Love may still be lord of all!

And then he took the cross divine,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And died for her sake in Palestine;
So Love was still the lord of all.

Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)
Pray for their souls who died for love,
For Love shall still be lord of all!

Lady Clare

Lord Alfred Tennyson's poem: Lady Clare

It was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air.
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn:
Lovers long betrothed were they;
They two will wed the morrow morn;
God's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth
Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse,
Said, "Who was this that went from thee?"
"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare;
"To-morrow he weds with me."

"Oh, God be thanked!" said Alice the nurse,
"That all comes round so just and fair:
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
And you are not the Lady Clare."

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse,"
Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?"
"As God's above," said Alice the nurse,
"I speak the truth: you are my child.

The old earl's daughter died at my breast;
I speak the truth, as I live by bread!
I buried her like my own sweet child,
And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely have ye done,
O mother," she said, "if this be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,
"But keep the secret for your life,
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,
When you are man and wife."

"If I'm a beggar born," she said
"I will speak out, for I dare not lie,
Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold,
And fling the diamond necklace by."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,
"But keep the secret all you can."
She said, "Not so; but I will know
If there be any faith in man."

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse,
"The man will cleave unto his right."
"And he shall have it," the lady replied,
"Though I should die to-night."

"Yet give one kiss to your mother, dear!
Alas, my child! I sinned for thee."
"O mother, mother, mother," she said,
"So strange it seems to me!

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russen gown,
She was no longer Lady Clare:
She went by dale, and she went by down,
With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
Leapt up from where she lay.
Dropped her head in the maiden's hand.
And followed her all the way.

Down stepped Lord Ronald from his tower:
"O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!
Why come you dressed like a village maid,
That are the flower of the earth?"

"If I come dressed like a village maid,
I am but as my fortunes are:
I am a begger born," she said,
"And not the Lady Clare."

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
"For I am yours in word and in deed;
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
"Your riddle is hard to read."

Oh, and proudly stood she up!
Her heart within her did not fail:
She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes,
And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn:
He turned and kissed her where she stood;
"If you are not the heiress born,
And I," said he, "the next in blood--

"If you are not the heiress born,
And I," said he, "the lawful heir,
We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare."
-THE END-