January, 2013

Birthday

POSTED IN classic poetry January 17, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

My heart is like a singing bird

                  Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;

    My heart is like an apple-tree

                  Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;

    My heart is like a rainbow shell

                  That paddles in a halcyon sea;

    My heart is gladder than all these

                  Because my love is come to me.

 

    Raise me a dais of silk and down;

                  Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

    Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

                  And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

    Work it in gold and silver grapes,

                  In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;

    Because the birthday of my life

                  Is come, my love is come to me.

Christina Rossetti

Happy New Year 2013

POSTED IN classic poetry January 1, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Year’s morning

Only a night from old to new!
Only a night, and so much wrought!
The Old Year’s heart all weary grew,
But said: “The New Year rest has brought.”
The Old Year’s hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but trusting, said:
“The blossoms of the New Year’s crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead.”
The Old Year’s heart was full of greed;
With selfishness it longed and ached,
And cried: “I have not half I need.
My thirst is bitter and unslaked.
But to the New Year’s generous hand
All gifts in plenty shall return;
True love it shall understand;
By all my failures it shall learn.
I have been reckless; it shall be
Quiet and calm and pure of life.
I was a slave; it shall go free,
And find sweet peace where I leave strife.”

Only a night from old to new!
Never a night such changes brought.
The Old Year had its work to do;
No New Year miracles are wrought.
Always a night from old to new!
Night and the healing balm of sleep!
Each morn is New Year’s morn come true,
Morn of a festival to keep.
All nights are sacred nights to make
Confession and resolve and prayer;
All days are sacred days to wake
New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old come true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.

Helen Hunt Jackson