The Lotos-eaters
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
“Courage!” he said, and pointed toward the land,
“This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.”
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush’d: and, dew’d with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
The charmed sunset linger’d low adown
In the red West: thro’ mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale;
A land where all things always seem’d the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did make.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, “We will return no more”;
And all at once they sang, “Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.”
CHORIC SONG
I
There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.”
II
Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
“There is no joy but calm!”
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
III
Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud
With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
IV
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labour be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
V
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other’s whisper’d speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap’d over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
VI
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And dear the last embraces of our wives
And their warm tears: but all hath suffer’d change:
For surely now our household hearths are cold,
Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
Or else the island princes over-bold
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Before them of the ten years’ war in Troy,
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.
Is there confusion in the little isle?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile:
‘Tis hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion worse than death,
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long labour unto aged breath,
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
VII
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)
With half-dropt eyelid still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His waters from the purple hill—
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twined vine—
To watch the emerald-colour’d water falling
Thro’ many a wov’n acanthus-wreath divine!
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine.
VIII
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
The Lotos blows by every winding creek:
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:
Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong;
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;
Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
Morning From Each Month : By Various Poets : : Morning Poems : : Months Poems : :
*January Morning : : By Archibald Lampman , Morpeth, Ontario : .. . .. . .. . .. . The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn
Black chimney builds into the quiet sky
Its curling pile to crumble silently.
Far out to westward on the edge of morn,
The slender misty city towers up-borne
Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;
And yonder on those northern hills, the hue
Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn.
And here behind me come the woodmen’s sleighs
With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and main
Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain,
Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers—cheeks ablaze,
Iced beards and frozen eyelids—team by team,
With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam.
Composition date is unknown – the above date represents the first publication date.
— Archibald Lampman
Sonnet Form : : abbaaccadeedff
** February Morning : : By Robert Laurence Binyon : : : : ………………. .,…………….. ………
Peacefully fresh, O February morn,
Thy winds come to me: quiet the light slants
Through silver–bosomed clouds, that slowly borne
Across the wide heath, endlessly advance.
Now ’tis that pause before the leaping Spring,
When over all things waiting comes a hush;
And shyly, listen! the one vocal thing,
Over his dewy notes lingers the thrush.
Now life, with all her hindering riddles, seems
Simple as its green budding to the tree.
Awhile the Fates forbear, and to my dreams,
Sheltered awhile from truth, relinquish me.
In haven and at anchor rides my heart,
And broods upon its swelling joys apart.
— Robert Laurence Binyon
*** On A Cool February Morning : : By Juan Olivaraze , nyssa oregon : : : : …………………
On a cool February morning
The buds playing pick a boo.
The thrush in the Fairy Castle,
Smiled and said ‘how do you do’?
It looks like winter up and went.
And just exited stage right.
And he preened his feathers carefully,
In the early morning light.
And he said, look at the yuccas
Gigantic candles all ablaze.
Stretching high towards the heavens,
This is a magical place.
Then he turned to say good morning,
To the finch and the titmouse,
The latter in a checkered vest,
And the finch in yellow blouse.
Then they all went for a bath,
Neath the big huisache tree.
resplendent as a yellow cloud,
All a swarm with honeybees.
Then from out the ebony’s branches,
Came the butterflies of white.
So much like it’s fuzzy flowers,
And as awkward in their flight.
They decended in the clearing,
And landed on the Texas sage.
To feast on the blood red flowers,
As their lives turned a new page.
And the thrush looked up and caught my eye,
As he splashed round with his friends,
And I smiled despite myself,
This indeed is Winters end.
NOTES : The Huisache, pronounced wee satch a is a tree native to Texas that provides both sustenance and shelter for a variety of wildlife. The Fairy Castle is a member of the Cereus night blooming cactus family. ( Poet’s Notes for the poem )
— Juan Olivarez
**** February Morning Poem : : by Ben myles , London : : : : ………………………..
I had a dream last night that I saw
you at the shopping mall. I, as an
unemployed man, panhandling, and
playing guitar to make money for
soup and a sandwich. You, a beautifully
average girl, something struck me as
special.
Somehow, we knew eachother, between
the way you looked at me and the way
I looked back at you, there was no need
for words, we hugged like two lovers in a
train station upon a spouses return.
To prove my love for you, I carved your
name into my guitar, I loved that guitar,
I loved you.
I awoke, to my alarm, my parents wishing
eachother a happy valentines day.
I didn’t want to go to school.
— Ben myles
V : : February : : BY MARGARET ATWOOD
Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.
Margaret Atwood, “February” from Morning in the Burned House. Used by permission of — Margaret Atwood : : From Morning in the Burned House (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1995) : From poetryfoundation.org : : For Educational Purposes only.
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat —
You must have walked —
How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell!
I got your letter, and the birds’;
The maples never knew
That you were coming, — I declare,
How red their faces grew!
But, March, forgive me —
And all those hills
You left for me to hue;
There was no purple suitable,
You took it all with you.
V* : : March Morning : : By Edna Mead : : : : : : A pale sun glints across the swirling drifts,
Bent trees are crackling with a silver load,
A wild gale shrieks in mischief as it lifts
A stinging screen of flakes across the road.
It seems midwinter still, and still the world
Lies wrapped in sleep upon the year’s high shelf,
But March is such a rogue, his challenge hurled
In fury cannot hide his other self.
A softer azure tints the sky’s cold blue,
Sometimes, for moments, all the wind is quiet,
Ice jewels melt to tears the rendezvous
Of ruffled sparrows teems with April riot.
Still roars the lion, but the lamb is bolder,
The madness has a subtle touch of play,
The night was Winter, but the Spring grown older,
Knows what a sham of Winter is today.
V** : : A March Morning Poem : by Paul Reed:
Everything is ready
As I take the morning air
Everything is in front of me
As Spring begins it’s repair
Every shimmy in the hedgerow
Denotes an impatient life
Knowing so much is to happen soon
Hearts brimming and hopes rife;
A cocktail of high and scattered songs
Gifted from this little commune
The wren’s flurry of happy notes
The blackbird’s rich and merry tune;
Were our breasts as bursting as theirs
Of such energy and joy
Were our steps as sure as theirs
Along their hidden branches coy;
Grant that their bold newness of life
Makes our lives more whole
And that their morning melody
Be planted in our souls
— Paul Reed
V*** : : Late March
BY EDWARD HIRSCH
Saturday morning in late March.
I was alone and took a long walk,
though I also carried a book
of the Alone, which companioned me.
The day was clear, unnaturally clear,
like a freshly wiped pane of glass,
a window over the water,
and blue, preternaturally blue,
like the sky in a Magritte painting,
and cold, vividly cold, so that
you could clap your hands and remember
winter, which had left a few moments ago—
if you strained you could almost see it
disappearing over the hills in a black parka.
Spring was coming but hadn’t arrived yet.
I walked on the edge of the park.
The wind whispered a secret to the trees,
which held their breath
and scarcely moved.
On the other side of the street,
the skyscrapers stood on tiptoe.
I walked down to the pier to watch
the launching of a passenger ship.
Ice had broken up on the river
and the water rippled smoothly in blue light.
The moon was a faint smudge
in the clouds, a brushstroke, an afterthought
in the vacant mind of the sky.
Seagulls materialized out of vapor
amidst the masts and flags.
Don’t let our voices die on land,
they cawed, swooping down for fish
and then soaring back upwards.
The kiosks were opening
and couples moved slowly past them,
arm in arm, festive.
Children darted in and out of walkways,
which sprouted with vendors.
Voices greeted the air.
Kites and balloons. Handmade signs.
Voyages to unknown places.
The whole day had the drama of an expectation.
Down at the water, the queenly ship
started moving away from the pier.
Banners fluttered.
The passengers clustered at the rails on deck.
I stood with the people on shore and waved
goodbye to the travelers.
Some were jubilant;
others were broken-hearted.
I have always been both.
Suddenly, a great cry went up.
The ship set sail for the horizon
and rumbled into the future
but the cry persisted
and cut the air
like an iron bell ringing
in an empty church.
I looked around the pier
but everyone else was gone
and I was left alone
to peer into the ghostly distance.
I had no idea where that ship was going
but I felt lucky to see it off
and bereft when it disappeared.
— Edward Hirsch, “Late March” From ‘Poetry’ Magazine (July/August ’07)
Source: Poetryfoundation.org : For Educational Purposes only.
*X : : And gently blows the warm March breeze
as leaves come fluttering down
creating a carpet of gold
luxuriously laid out
on the path beyond my gate
beckoning me with urgency…
And as I step out
and feel the crunch beneath my feet
a smile plays on my lips
as down the winding lane
I spy a little girl jumping with glee,
as she piles the leafy gold
into a generous golden heap…
Yellow leaves, crispy leaves
dancing, twirling, merry leaves –
leaves that speak of a life that was
making way for new life to bloom
leaves that annoy some genteel folk
bring smiles to those with gentle hearts
leaves that whisper secret
leaves that hold intrigue
leaves that crackle with every touch
leaves so delicate, they’ll turn to dust…
The golden heap gets higher still
I watch her merrily prance around
her tinkling laugh pervades the air
the birds around chirp along
and as on that scene, my eyes, I feast,
my heart, too, bursts into a joyous song!
X : : An April Morning : : By Bliss Carman : : ::
Once more in misted April
The world is growing green.
Along the winding river
The plumey willows lean.
Beyond the sweeping meadows
The looming mountains rise,
Like battlements of dreamland
Against the brooding skies.
In every wooded valley
The buds are breaking through,
As though the heart of all things
No languor ever knew.
The golden-wings and bluebirds
Call to their heavenly choirs.
The pines are blued and drifted
With smoke of brushwood fires.
And in my sister’s garden
Where little breezes run,
The golden daffodillies
Are blowing in the sun.
X* It Was An April Morning: Fresh And Clear: William Wordsworth ,Cumberland England : : …………………………………………….
It was an April morning: fresh and clear
The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man’s speed; and yet the voice
Of waters which the winter had supplied
Was softened down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
And hopes and wishes, from all living things
Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
The steps of June; as if their various hues
Were only hindrances that stood between
Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
Such an entire contentment in the air
That every naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance
With which it looked on this delightful day
Were native to the summer.–Up the brook
I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice
Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
The shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,
Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth
Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;
But ’twas the foliage of the rocks–the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
And, on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
‘Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.’
—-Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
May call it by the name of EMMA’S DELL.
— William Wordsworth
X** : : April Morning
BY JONATHAN WELLS
You are living the life
you wanted as if you’d known
what that was but of course
you didn’t so you’d groped
toward it feeling for what
you couldn’t imagine, what
your hands couldn’t tell you,
for what that shape could be.
This Sunday the rain turns cold
again and steady but the window
is slightly open and there is the vaguest
sense of bird song somewhere in the gaps
between the buildings because it’s spring
the calendar says and the room where
you are reading is empty yet full
of what loves you and this is the day
that you were born.
— Jonathan Wells, “April Morning” from Debris. ( Fourway Books , 2021 ) http://www.fourwaybooks.com. : From poetryfoundation.org : For Educational Purposes only.
X ***April : By James Schuyler ( 1923 – 1991 )
The morning sky is clouding up
and what is that tree,
dressed up in white? The fruit
tree, French pear. Sulphur-
yellow bees stud the forsythia
canes leaning down into the transfer
across the park. And trees in
skimpy flower bud suggest
the uses of paint thinner, so
fine the net they cast upon
the wind. Cross-pollination
is the order of the fragrant day.
That was yesterday: today is May,
not April and the magnolias
open their goblets up and
an unseen precipitation
fills them. A gray day in May.
— From Other Flowers by James Schuyler Farrar, Straus and Giroux. : From poets.org : For Educational Purposes only.
*XV : : “Yonder see the morning blink”By A E Housman : :
Yonder See the Morning
Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.
Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what’s to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I’ve done my best
And all’s to do again.
— A.E. Housman
“Everyday Poem” About “Ten thousand times I’ve done my best / And all’s to do again” : is the repellent and unpleasant Job Evaluation of the sad and sorrowing daily routine that involve washing , dressing , eating , drinking , looking at things , talking and ofcourse thinking and working. The Speaker starts his day with seeing Morning Sun ,” yonderly “, that is at or in an indicated place , and then follow up with the daily set routine, not knowing why ? Only God knows it why ! He is upset with all this . And says, “what’s to show for all my pain?” : : And decides in the last in his words , ” Let me lie abed and rest:” The ordinariness of the mundane existence with resultant pain and anguish 😦😧 may invoke laughter. : : However, As it is said , ” Even In Laughter , Heart is Sorrowful”
Parting At Morning : Robert Browning : : Morning Poems : :
Parting at Morning : : Robert Browning
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain’s rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.
“Parting At Morning”, A Short 4 lines Poem in simple Rhyme of ABBA , By A Preeminent Victorian Poet Robert Browning ( 1812 – ) is About the experience of seeing the world afresh after spending a night with a lover. Hence, an aubade, or a poem about lovers parting in the morning. : : : :
Lines 1 & 2 : : “Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, 1
And the sun looked over the mountain’s rim:” 2
About The enlivened strip of a land projected in to the “sudden (ly) appearing “sea” water , that is “landscape” Round the “cape” before the Speaker Poet and the “sun” look(ing) “over the mountain’s rim”. Sun , here is personified as it looked down over the rim which is a raised edge of a circular shape of the “mountain” The words , “Round” and “Rim” as well as “sudden “, “sea” , and “sun” are the examples of alliteration. The poem opens in the scene of two companions. The Speaker Poet , however does not come out with any emotions or seems keenly excited about the nightlong stay aflamed with consequent desire. : : : :
Lines 3 & 4 : : ” And straight was a path of gold for him, 3
And the need of a world of men for me. 4
About The Speaker Poet and the Sun. The sun has a “straight path of a gold(en)” light set “for him.”The 4 Th line he proclaimed was a ‘moving away’ from the Not So – ‘ardent relationship’ which is of ‘unimportance’ to him and as indicated already in the First Two lines of the poem. The experience of being together with his companion was nightlong stay yet parting At Morning was not worthy of notes. The inclination for the Speaker Poet is to give up his company too easily. He had favoured the other more important alternative over the overindulgent companionship. So he promalgated by saying that he had the “need of a world of men for me.”/him which would fill to satisfaction. : : That is the way , on “parting At Morning ” Browning glorifies his manly world. : : : :
“Parting At Morning”, A Morning Poem By Robert Browning Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India July 22 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
Morning : ( 1 ) : Morning Melody : ( 2 ) : Lucretia Maria Davidson : : Morning Poems : :
I was force from my native shade,
And I wrapped me around with my mantle’s fold,
A sad, mournful Circassian maid!
And I then vow’d that rapture should never move
This changeless check, this rayless eye,
And I then vowed to feel neither bliss nor love,
But I vowed I would meet thee and die.”
* Morning : : By Lucretia Maria Davidson ( 1808 – 1825 ) : : : :
I come in the breath of the wakened breeze,
I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees;
And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night,
From its throne, on the lily’s pure bosom of white.
Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky,
I beam o’er the mountains, and come from on high;
When my gay purple banners are waving afar;
When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star;
When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o’er the lake,
Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake!
Thou mayst slumber when all the wide arches of Heaven
Glitter bright with the beautiful fire of even;
When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high,
O’er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky,
Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven,
To their far-away harbour, all silently driven,
Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light,
Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night;
When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where
The bright ripple curls, ‘neath the smile of a star;
When all is in silence and solitude here,
Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear!
But when I steal silently over the lake,
Awake thee then, maiden, awake! oh, awake!
** Morning Melody : : By Lucretia Maria Davidson ( 1808 – 1825 ) : : : :
I come in the breath of the waken’d breeze,
I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees;
And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night,
From its throne, on the lily’s pure bosom of white.
Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky,
I beam o’er the mountains, and come from on high:
When my gay purple banners are waving afar;
When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguish’d each star:
When I smile on the woodlands, I bid thee awake!
Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake!
Thou may’st slumber when all the wide arches of heaven
Glitter bright with the beautiful fires of even;
When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high,
O’er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky;
Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of heaven,
To their far-away harbour, all silently driven;
Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light,
Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night;
When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where
The bright ripple curls, ‘neath the smile of a star;
When all is in silence and solitude here,
Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear!
But when I steal silently over the lake,
Awake thee then, maiden, awake! oh, awake!
— Lucretia Maria Davidson : : For educational Purposes only. : :
Birdie’s Morning Song : George Cooper : ( 1 ) : : Little Birdie Rhyme Song , 2021 ( For Class 1 INDIA ‘s Tamilnadu State Board ) : Video Lessons For Kiddos ( 2 ) : : Morning Poems : :
https://youtube.com/watch?v=qgNXObVZXZc&feature=share7
Birdie’s Morning Song : : By George Cooper : :
( May 14, 1840, New York City – September 26, 1927, New York City ) : : : :
Wake up, little darling, the birdies are out,
And here you are still in your nest!
The laziest birdie is hopping about;
You ought to be up with the rest.
Wake up, little darling, wake up!
Oh, see what you miss when you slumber so long—
The dewdrops, the beautiful sky!
I can not sing half what you lose in my song;
And yet, not a word in reply.
Wake up, little darling, wake up!
I’ve sung myself quite out of patience with you,
While mother bends o’er your dear head;
Now birdie has done all that birdie can do:
Her kisses will wake you instead!
Wake up, little darling, wake up!
” Birdie’s Morning Song”, By George Cooper is About Waking Up . George Cooper ( May 14, 1840, New York City – September 26, 1927, New York City ) was an American poet remembered chiefly for his song lyrics, many set to music by Stephen Foster.
He translated the lyrics of German, Russian, Italian, Spanish, and French musical works into singable English. Words for the 1869 song “Sweet Genevieve”, to music by Henry L Tucker.
“October’s Party” Memorized by 3 Rd grade students in the 1950s.
Morning Poem : Mary Oliver : : Morning Poems : :
Morning Poem : : by Mary Oliver : born Maple Heights, Ohio and lived in Massachusetts and Florida. : : : : :
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches–
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead–
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging–
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted–
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
“Mary Oliver
“Morning Poem” From The 1986 poetry collection , ‘Dream works’ , By An American Poet and prose writer , A winner of National Book Award ( 1992 ) , and A Pulitzer prize winner ( 1984 ) Mary Oliver, is About hope and new beginning. The sunrise 🌅🌄 / Dawn speaks about this and by that persons , happy or sad become conscious of the New 🆕 Day. She says , “ashes…turn into leaves again.” No matter what went before, the dawn as a new day / rebirth starts over again. : : : :
Stanza 1 : : “Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange” : : lines 1 To 4 : : : :
About “creation” Every morning and uses enjambment to bolster our focus. She wants us to keep recreation, new beginnings, in mind
Stanza 2 : : ” sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again” : : lines 5 To 8 : : : :
About “under the orange”/ that is , the ☀️ sun , the illuminant sunrays ( ” sticks” of the sun ) “the heaped ashes of the night turn into leaves again.” :that is, fire 🔥 of the sun which occurred that night before the sunrise giving away the “ashes” of the night to spread its new form of sunrays on the thin wooden branches of the tree again with a birth creations “in to leaves” Such turning in takes place everyday on “Morning” This reminds of “phoenix” bird rising from its burnt ashes anew , each time it is burnt , rebirth takes the re – birth again. : : : :
Stanza 3 : : “and fasten themselves to the high branches–
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands.” : : lines 9 To 12 : : : :
About shinning leaves ( “fastened” ) to the tall and top level branches of the tree and the “ponds appearing like black cloth ” which will continue to convey the meaningful images in the next Stanza 4 : : : :
Stanza 4 : : “of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails” : : lines 13 To 16 : : : :
About the islands of summer lilies on the ponds ( like black cloth ) and life 🧬 cycle of the creations on rebirth / new 🆕 hopeful beginning of life forms. Persons with nature to become / remain happy will see the beauty in Nature.
Stanza 5 : : ” for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it” : : lines 17 To 20 : : : :
About the day and night , that is , through daylight and darkness : ” expressed in the word ” for hours” ( 24 Hours ) : :
Stanza 6 : : “the thorn
that is heavier than lead–
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging–” : : lines 21 To 24 : : : :
About the ” thorn” that is heavier than lead – ” suggestive of sadness which weighs heavily on the mindset of a sad person having an oppressive sorrows ; whose senses and spirit are down- pressed. Such saddened persons are unable to see and enjoy beauty of creations occuring everyday , everywhere in Nature on each morning. If it is ( the case of saddened persons ) all they ” can do” is “to keep on trudging -” Meaning , they have to walk heavily with a struggle, yet firmly as they are aweary under great strain and stress. : : : :
Stanza 7 : : ” there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted–” : : lines 25 To 28 : : : :
About happy mindset capable of removing sadness of a saddened mind which is suggested by the expression, ” .. . deep within you a beast shouting.. . ” Hope for new 🆕 beginning / restarting / re – birth always exists even when the persons go aweary. The darkness remains as night long. Dawn will appear with the sunrays on the morning.
Stanza 8 : : “each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,” : : lines 29 To 32 : : : :
About “blazing lilies of each pond” appeared like a “dark cloth” are shinning intensely as with the blazing / bright sun blinding with its rapid and repeated shoots of sunrays. The dark pond with dazzling lilies is a ” prayer 🤲🙏 heard and answered lavishly ( richly ) every morning .” This is an eye – popping imaginary.
Stanza 9 : : ” whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.” : : lines 33 To 36 : : : :
About encouraging with notes to become heady and bold with the willingness to try or do something to become happy by overcoming the saddened mind with a view to seeing the beauty of creations in Nature and a light to feel happy. For this , it is not necessary to pray for it because happiness exists everyday on each morning 🌅🌄
“Morning Poem” , By Mary Oliver Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India July 19 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
Will There Really Be a Morning : Emily Dickinson : : Morning Poems : :
Will There Really Be A Morning : : By Emily Dickinson
101
Will there really be a morning? 1
Is there such a thing as day? 2
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they? 3
Has it feet like water-lilies? 4
Has it feathers like a bird? 5
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard? 6
Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!
Oh, some wise man from the skies!
Please to tell a little pilgrim
Where the place called morning.
“Will There Really Be A Morning”, A playful as well as earnest Morning Poem By Emily Dickinson is About A Query for the ‘Bright Good Day’ On seeing a Morning with a particular physical form from The Poet Speaker’s Window 🪟 One might see in it her relationship with her faith and struggle for finding a truthful path of devotion and with, one might say, GOD. Each of the first Two Stanzas contains 3 Queries which are detached and unemotional. : : She expects that “some scholar ! , some sailor ! some wise man from the skies !” would tell “a little pilgrim ,”Where the place called Morning.. ” was existing perhaps because they probably foreknew of the happening with ahead of time. Her poetic queries have a simple eagerness of some child who may be a delight to “someone” who has journeyed to a far – off place of her curiosity , in a foreign land reachable by a sea voyage or a sky wandering , or sailing through by a pilgrim ( little ! and not old 0ne !! ) venerator like herself who would visit a sacred holy place with devotion. Her anticipation expected from the Three Different Persons involved in these different approaches in knowing how a Morning that turned , always to a bright 🌞 Day 😎 has been taking a shape from such a place which remained hidden , or unknown to her. : :
Query 1 : : Will there really be a morning 🌅🌄 ? : : The word , “really” adds as an intensifier to the meaning of truly a Morning and a fact in reality – really / awesomely an enjoyable morning in its simple template and in a wider sense hope , renewal , and a 🆕 beginning / re- starting towards a better future. : :
Query 2 : : Is there such a thing as day ? : : This query 🧐 doubts in admitting the start / re- starting taking life to a better future. Perhaps, some uncertainty , a state of despair, dismay , and desperate efforts have prevailed to feel a lose of 💜 heart. : :
Query 3 : : Could I see it from the mountains, If I were as tall as they ? : : The word “mountains ” suggests easy understanding and grasping the inner nature. With these qualities , she wants to rise to the level of mountains of an advantageous position to see the wide comprehensive view of a real morning that would enable her to be hopeful of gaining the commanding perspective of a better future. THE REALLY GOOD BRIGHT DAYS – અચ્છે દિન. : :
Query 4 : : Has it 🐾 feet like water-lilies ? : : Her curiosity here is About The size of its feet 🐾 in its waking pace and for the distance covered in two steps and in total, in its day-long journey or its feet 🐾 could be hidden such as the case with beautiful and desirable water – lilies floating on a surface of water. : :
Query 5 : : Has it 🪶 🪶 feathers like a bird ? : : Feathers are physical features of a bird which a real morning might not display although she presents them expecting with a Morning wishfully personified in having the same, as beautiful and desirable, like feets wished for water – lilies. : :
Query 6 : : Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard ? : : These lines are suggestive of the hopes for a better future coming in from the far – off land of famous countries Of which she has never heard. : :
Some scholar , sailor and wiseman are called upon to provide the necessary knowledge , guidelines and wisdom from their experiences enabling her to set about for her pilgrimage / a journey of faith and devotion. They could “tell a little pilgrim Where the place called Morning 🌅 🌄 would be with a hope for a better future. : :
“Will There Really Be A Morning?”, A Morning Poem By Emily Dickinson Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India July 19 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
Love Is… : Adrian Henri : : Morning Poems : :
Love Is… : By Adrian Henri ( ) Birkenhead, Cheshire.
Love is…
Love is feeling cold in the back of vans 1
Love is a fanclub with only two fans 2
Love is walking holding paintstained hands 3
Love is.
Love is fish and chips on winter nights 4
Love is blankets full of strange delights 5
Love is when you don’t put out the light 6
Love is
Love is the presents in Christmas shops 7
Love is when you’re feeling Top of the Pops 8
Love is what happens when the music stops 9
Love is
Love is white panties lying all forlorn 10
Love is pink nightdresses still slightly warm 11
Love is when you have to leave at dawn 12
Love is
Love is you and love is me 13
Love is prison and love is free 14
Love’s what’s there when you are away from me 15
Love is…
“Love is…” A 21 lines Morning Poem “at dawn” By Adrian Henry, is About defining “LOVE and understanding it in 15 listed ways , marked as HERE In ABOVE in the Poem, to consider 💕😘 love. : : The romantic relationships focus on small moments, such as “forlorn” or abandoned clothing, and everyday chores. A liking appears in the relationship. By joining hands carefully and conscientiously the efforts of lovers can successfully face any hardship of life that have tested them in becoming happy and cheerful together. Having fish and chips together in winter nights creates a time and place to feel the LOVE for each other. A blanket of LOVE holds many exciting things including sleepless nights dreaming of your partner of love. Love is like a Christmas GIFT of an attractive appeal. Love’s magic makes you feel on cloud nine. From the top 🔝 of the World everything seems s perfect. A GREAT MOMENT TO ENJOY. Music will stop yet the RHYTHM of LOVE remains unceasing and everlasting even after stopping of the music played for the lovers. LOVE brings intimacy and closeness to the lovers who sense the warmth of love. Separation is hard in love. Togetherness sustains the lovers with increasing sense of belonging which is a happiness felt in secure relationship. The lovers feel the pain in separation and do not want to wave goodbye when they have to leave at the dawn. Calling “You” Or ” Me” refers to the lovers. Love keeps them go back to each one again and again. They feel LOVE even in a physical separation. Lovers know no bounds. They go past all limits and boundaries. : : Love’s what’s there when you are away from me.” Love 💕😘
“Love Is… ” A Morning Poem By Adrian Henri Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India July 17 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
Morning on the Sinnecock : Olivia Ward Bush-Bank : : Morning Poems : :
After high school, Bush-Banks got married and had two daughters. A few years later, she divorced and briefly lived with her aunt in Providence again before moving her family to Boston, where she served as the assistant dramatic director at the Robert Gould Shaw Community House.
In 1899, Bush-Banks published the ten-poem collection Original Poems (Louis A. Basinet Press), followed by Driftwood (Atlantic Printing Co., 1914). Paul Laurence Dunbar praised her first collection, saying it “should be an inspiration to the women of our race.” By 1900, Bush-Banks had contributed to a number of publications, including Boston Transcript, Voice of the Negro, and Colored American Magazine, and was serving as the historian for the Montauk nation, a position she held until she remarried in the early 1920s.
After remarrying, Bush-Banks moved to Chicago, where she advocated for the New Negro Movement and established a private drama school, the Bush-Banks School of Expression.
In the 1930s, Bush-Banks moved to New York City, where she served as a drama coach in Harlem under a Works Progress Administration (WPA) program and wrote for the Westchester Record-Courier. an African-American and Native American journalist, poet, and author.
During her lifetime, she contributed to the Colored American magazine.
Bush-Banks died in New York City on April 8, 1944 .
Olivia Ward Bush-Banks
( 1 )MORNING ( 1914 )
Bright glows the morn, I pace the shining sands,
And watch the children, as with eager hands
They gather driftwood for the evening fire.
Their merry laughter, ringing loud and clear,
Resounds like sweetest music to my ear,
As swift they toil, each with the same desire.
And now their task completed, they depart,
Each one with beaming face and happy heart,
They too, will watch the driftwood fire to-night,
And knowing this, they hasten glad and gay,
With willing feet, along the homeward way,
Their precious burdens bearing with delight.
I watch these little children of the poor,
Till they have reached each lowly dwelling’s door,
And then, I too my footsteps homeward turn;
I fancy what a joyous sight ’twill be,
To see the children sitting in their glee,
Close by the fire and laugh to see it burn.
From Driftwood (Atlantic Printing Co., 1914).: : ( 2 ) EVENING ( 1914 ) : :
Olivia Ward Bush-Banks
From out my open window, I can see
The rolling waves, as fierce and restlessly,
They dash against the long, long stretch of shore,
And in the distance, I can dimly trace,
Some out-bound vessel having left her place
Of Harbor, to return perhaps no more.
Within my mind there dwells this lingering thought,
How oft from ill the greatest good is wrought,
Perhaps some shattered wreck along the strand,
Will help to make the fire burn more bright,
And for some weary traveller to-night,
’Twill serve the purpose of a guiding hand.
Ah yes, and thus it is with these our lives,
Some poor misshapen remnant still survives,
Of what was once a fair and beauteous form,
And yet some dwelling may be made more bright,
Some one afar may catch a gleam of light,
After the fury of the blighting storm.
From Driftwood (Atlantic Printing Co., 1914).
Morning on Shinnecock : : By Olivia Ward Bush-Banks ( 1869 – 1944 ) : : : : : : : : : : : : :
The rising sun had crowned the hills,
And added beauty to the plain;
O grand and wondrous spectacle!
That only nature could explain.
I stood within a leafy grove,
And gazed around in blissful awe;
The sky appeared one mass of blue,
That seemed to spread from sea to shore.
Far as the human eye could see,
Were stretched the fields of waving corn.
Soft on my ear the warbling birds
Were heralding the birth of morn.
While here and there a cottage quaint
Seemed to repose in quiet ease
Amid the trees, whose leaflets waved
And fluttered in the passing breeze.
O morning hour! so dear thy joy,
And how I longed for thee to last;
But e’en thy fading into day
Brought me an echo of the past.
‘Twas this,—how fair my life began;
How pleasant was its hour of dawn;
But, merging into sorrow’s day,
Then beauty faded with the morn.
— Olivia Ward Bush-Bank : : Published in ‘Poem-a-Day’ on November 23, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.
“Morning on Shinnecock”, 6 Stanzas / Quatrains Poem in rhyming of ABCD , Originally appeared in Annual Report of the Montauk Tribe of Indians for the Year 1916 By Olivia Ward Bush-Banks ( 1869 – 1944 ) is About speaker’s life which is like “the beauty of morning that faded in to a day with the morn(ing).” : : It describes ,”The rising sun had crowned the hills,
And added beauty to the plain;
O grand and wondrous spectacle!
That only nature could explain.” : : She was as beautiful and unbothered as the sunrise. The warmth and light “stretches the field” and the warbling birds “heralding” the birth of morn(ing).” Yet, the morning cannot last. But on ,” merging in to sorrow’s day , beauty ( is ) faded with the morning.”: :
Notes for each of the 6 Stanzas Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India July 16 , 2023 : : : :
Early One Morning : W S Merwin ; ; Morning Poems : :
Early One Morning : : By W.S. Merwin.
Here is Memory walking in the dark
there are no pictures of her as she is
the coming day was never seen before
the stars have gone into another life
the dreams have left with no sound of farewell
insects wake flying up with their feet wet
trying to take the night along with them
Memory alone is awake with me
knowing that this may be the only time
— W.S. Merwin, from his newest book Garden Time (Copper Canyon Press, 2016) Source : http://www.coppercanyonpress.org : : From The Merwin Conservancy ; For Educational Purposes only.
“Early One Morning”, A sad Short Poem By ,A former US Poet Laureate ( surrealist ) , and Pulitzer Prize winner for his book ,”The Carrier of Ladders”, and above all, the most noteworthy writers of literature within the last 💯 years, M S Merwin is About “Memory walking in the dark”, and about A lonely and nostalgic older man who is stuck in looking back his younger days. The lack of light hints that the “Memory” is not just anyone would see since it can easily go unnoticed. The narrator knows to look back and he sees and holds to recollections of the past in a desperate, nostalgic manner. His past details are more preferable to present ones. “Memory” is his best company because it is his only company. His future is potentially non-existent in this life, and his presence feels lonely and wanting. : : : :
Notes for each of the lines Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India July 15 , 2023 : : : :
MADHU MALTI 