August

 August by John Clare (1793-1864)

Harvest approaches with its busy day;
The wheat tans brown, and barley bleaches grey;
In yellow garb the oatland intervenes,
And tawny glooms the valley throng'd with beans.
Silent the village grows, — wood-wandering dreams
Seem not so lonely as its quiet seems;
Doors are shut up as on a winter's day,
And not a child about them lies at play;
The dust that winnows 'neath the breeze's feet
Is all that stirs about the silent street:
Fancy might think that desert-spreading Fear
Had whisper'd terrors into Quiet's ear,
Or plundering armies past the place had come
And drove the lost inhabitants from home.
The fields now claim them, where a motley crew
Of old and young their daily tasks pursue.
The reapers leave their rest before the sun,
And gleaners follow in the toils begun
To pick the litter'd ear the reaper leaves,
And glean in open fields among the sheaves.

July

 

July by John Clare (1793-1864)

July the month of summers prime
Again resumes her busy time
Scythes tinkle in each grassy dell
Where solitude was wont to dwell
And meadows they are mad with noise
Of laughing maids and shouting boys
Making up the withering hay
With merry hearts as light as play
The very insects on the ground
So nimbly bustle all around
Among the grass or dusty soil
They seem partakers in the toil
The very landscape reels with life
While mid the busy stir and strife
Of industry the shepherd still
Enjoys his summer dreams at will
Bent oer his hook or listless laid
Beneath the pastures willow shade
Whose foliage shines so cool and grey
Amid the sultry hues of day

Adelstrop

Adelstrop by Edward Thomas 1878 - 1917

Yes, I remember Adelstrop -
The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express train drew up there

Unwontedly.  It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform, What I saw

Was Adelstrop - only the name.

And willows, willow-herb and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still, and lonely fair,

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang,

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

June

June by John Clare (1793-1864)

Now summer is in flower, and Nature's hum
Is never silent round her bounteous bloom;
Insects, as small as dust, have never done
With glitt'ring dance, and reeling in the sun;
And green wood-fly, and blossom-haunting bee,
Are never weary of their melody.
Round field and hedge, flowers in full glory twine,
Large bind-weed bells, wild hop, and streak'd woodbine,
That lift athirst their slender-throated flowers,
Agape for dew-falls, and for honey showers;
These o'er each bush in sweet disorder run,
And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.
The mottled spider, at eve's leisure, weaves
His webs of silken lace on twigs and leaves,
Which ev'ry morning meet the poet's eye,
Like fairies' dew-wet dresses hung to dry.
The wheat swells into ear, and hides below
The May-month wild flowers and their gaudy show.

Love, whose month is ever May: Poetry and Prose for May Day

May by John Clare (1793-1864)

Come queen of months in company

Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun

And swarthy bees about the grass

That stops wi every bloom they pass

Fantasticks by Nicholas Breton (1545/52 -1623/5)

     It is now May, and the sweetness of the air refresheth every spirit: the sunny beams give forth fair blossoms, and the dripping clouds water Flora's great garden....

     It is the month wherein Nature hath her fill of mirth, and the sense are filled with delights.  I conclude it is from the Heavens a grace, and to the earth a gladness.

Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

   So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

   So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

A Survey of London by John Stow

     In the Month of May, namely on May-day in the morning, every man, except impediment, would walk into the sweet meadows and green woods, there to rejoice their spirits with the beauty and savour of sweet flowers, and with the harmony of birds.....I find also in the month of May, the citizens of London of all estates, lightly in every parish, or sometimes two or three parishes joining together had their several mayings, and did fetch in May-poles, with divers warlike shows, with good archers, morris dancers, and other devices, for pastime all the day long; and toward the evening they had stage plays, and bonfires in the streets.

The Driving Boy by John Clare (1793-1864)

 The driving boy beside his team

Will oer the may month beauty dream

And cock his hat and turn his eye

On flower and tree and deepning skye

And oft bursts loud in fits of song

And whistles as he reels along

Crack[ing] his whip in starts of joy

A happy dirty driving boy

When will my May come? by Richard Barnfield (1574-1627)

When will my May come, that I may embrace thee?

When will the hower be of my soules joying?

If thou wilt come and dwell with me at home,

My sheepcote shall be strowed with new greene rushes

Weele haunt the trembling prickets as they rome

About the fields, along the hauthorne bushes;

I have a pie-bald curre to hunt the hare,

So we will live with daintie forrest fare.

And when it pleaseth thee to walke abroad

Abroad into the fields to take fresh ayre,

The meades with Floras treasure should be strowde,

The mantled meaddowes, and the fields so fayre.

And by a silver well with golden sands

Ile sit me downe, and wash thine ivory hands.

But it thou wilt not pittie my complaint,

My teares, nor vowes, nor oathes, made to thy beautie:

What shall I do but languish, die, or faint,

Since thou dost scorne my teares, and my soules duetie:

And teares contemned, vowes and oaths must faile,

And where teares cannot, nothing can prevaile.

When will my May come, that I may embrace thee?

    

'Oh, to be in England'

 Oh, to be in England, by Robert Browning 1812-1889

Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England - now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent
spray's edge -
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song
twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Ring out wild bells to the wild sky: In Memoriam 106

St Sylvester, Tuesday 30th December, 2024

In Memoriam 106, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

   The flying cloud, the frosty light:

   The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

 

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

   Ring happy bells across the snow,

   The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

   For those that here we see no more;

   Ring out the feud between rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

 

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

   And ancient forms of party strife;

   Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

   The faithless coldness of the times;

   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes.

And let the fuller minstrel in.

 

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

   The civic slander and the pride;

   Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

   Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

 

Ring in the valiant and free,

   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

   Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ who is yet to be.

Mistletoe

 Monday 30th December 2024

Mistletoe by Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)

Sitting under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

One last candle burning low,

All the sleepy dancers gone,

Just one candle burning on,

Shadows lurking everywhere:

Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go

Nodding under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

No footsteps came, no voice, but only,

Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,

Stooped in the still and shadowy air

Lips unseen—and kissed me there.

     I first heard this the other week on BBC Radio 3 - it was the 'Friday Poem' - when I was struck both by the melancholic atmosphere and the occult sensibility.

The Waits

 29th December, 2024

The Waits, by Margaret Deland (1857-1945)

At the break of Christmas Day,

   Through the frosty starlight ringing,

Faint and sweet and far away,

   Comes the sound of children, singing,

         Chanting, singing,

    “Cease to mourn,

   For Christ is born,

         Peace and joy to all men bringing!”

 

Careless that the chill winds blow,

   Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer,

Noiseless footfalls in the snow,

   Bring the happy voices nearer;

         Hear them singing,

    “Winter’s drear,

   But Christ is here,

         Mirth and gladness with Him bringing.”

 

“Merry Christmas!” hear them say,

   As the East is growing lighter;

“May the joy of Christmas Day

   Make your whole year gladder, brighter!”

         Join their singing,

    “To each home

   Our Christ has come,

         All Love’s treasures with Him bringing!”

Nativity

Holy Innocents, 28th December, 2024

Nativity, by John Donne (1572-1631)

Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb,
Now leaves His well-belov’d imprisonment,
There He hath made Himself to His intent
Weak enough, now into the world to come;
But O, for thee, for Him, hath the inn no room?
Yet lay Him in this stall, and from the Orient,
Stars and wise men will travel to prevent
The effect of Herod’s jealous general doom.
Seest thou, my soul, with thy faith’s eyes, how He
Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth lie?
Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high,
That would have need to be pitied by thee?
Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go,
With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe.

A Christmas Carol

 St John the Evangelist, 27th December 2024

A Christmas Carol, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

I.

   The Shepherds went their hasty way,
        And found the lowly stable-shed
   Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
        And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A Mother’s song the Virgin-Mother sung.

II.

   They told her how a glorious light,
         Streaming from a heavenly throng,
   Around them shone, suspending night!
         While sweeter than a Mother’s song,
Blest Angels heralded the Saviour’s birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.

III.

   She listened to the tale divine,
         And closer still the Babe she pressed;
   And while she cried, the Babe is mine!
         The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

IV.

   Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
         Poor, simple, and of low estate!
   That Strife should vanish, Battle cease,
         O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music’s loudest note, the Poet’s story,—
Did’st thou ne’er love to hear of Fame and Glory?

V.

   And is not War a youthful King,
         A stately Hero clad in Mail?
   Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
         Him Earth’s majestic monarchs hail
Their Friend, their Playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh.

VI.

   “Tell this in some more courtly scene,
         “To maids and youths in robes of state!
   “I am a woman poor and mean,
         “And therefore is my Soul elate.
“War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
“That from the aged Father tears his Child!

VII.

   “A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
         “He kills the Sire and starves the Son;
   “The Husband kills, and from her board
         “Steals all his Widow’s toil had won;
“Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away
“All safety from the Night, all comfort from the Day.

VIII.

   “Then wisely is my soul elate,
         “That Strife should vanish, Battle cease:
   “I’m poor and of a low estate,
         “The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
“Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn:
“Peace, Peace on Earth, the Prince of Peace is born.”