To W.S.B. When the grey evening spreads a calm around, Tell me, has thy bewilder’d fancy sought, Retir’d in some sequestered spot of ground, Rest, from the labour of eternal thought? When, wrapt in self, the soul enjoys repose, The wearied brain resigns its fervent heat, In dream-like musing every care we lose, And wind our way with slowly-moving feet. Oft, to indulge the...
Rhenish autumn To Toussaint-Luca The children of the dead come and play In the cemetery Martin Gertrude Hans and Henri No cockerel has crowed today Adoodleday The old women Walk along slowly with tearful faces And the good-natured donkeys Bray hee-haw and start guzzling the flowers Of the funeral wreaths It’s the day of the dead and of all their souls The children and the old women Light their...
Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,
May still grow white and shine with happier hours.
So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains,
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines,
till by degrees the floating mirror shines;
Reflects each flower that on the border grows,
And a new heaven in it’s fair bosom shows.
William Blake (1757–1827).
AH, Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime,
Where the traveller’s journey is done;
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
I went to the Garden of Love, And I saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And „Thou shalt not.“ Writ over the door; So I turn’d to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be: And Priests in black gowns, were walking...
The Thames nocturne of blue and gold Changed to a Harmony in grey: A barge with ochre-coloured hay Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold The yellow fog came creeping down The bridges, till the houses’ walls Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s Loomed like a bubble o’er the town. Then suddenly arose the clang Of waking life; the streets were stirred With country waggons:...
When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain; When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature...
Where is the street I loved so wellOf many years agoThe years have gone and who can tellWhere did those people go? The old gas lamp where the gang would meetAt the top of Morris LaneThe alleyway to Carnals courtWe sheltered from the rain. Fish and chips at Mrs Trouts,We would all go back for moreBuy some sweets from auntie BessPlay fagcards by her door. Salvation Army played across the...
Where, where are my mornings?Where are my happy days?Where, where is my shining sun?Where are friends of mine?
Why did the sun go down on Bosnia?Where did my morning dawn?There’s no song, and there’s no happinessAll the tears won’t wash my pain away(Volunteered with healing hands in Bosnia 1997-1998-1999)
In the streets of SarajevoYou will see shell and shrapnel holesFilled with plastic paint of redThese large and small paint-filled holesRemain to tell us of the sacrificeBy the many, many wounded and the deadWho fell in Sarajevo Your crimson petalsNurtured by your blood and tearsShine and glisten in the rainLocked deep, deep downInside those blooms of crimson redLay your sorrow and your pain...