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If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that simple object appertains
A story—unenriched with strange events,
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved;—not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects, led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts;
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.

     Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His ****** frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd’s calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone; and oftentimes,
When others heeded not, he heard the South
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
“The winds are now devising work for me!”
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
That came to him, and left him, on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd’s thoughts.
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed
The common air; hills, which with vigorous step
He had so often climbed; which had impressed
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
Which, like a book, preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
The certainty of honourable gain;
Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself .

     His days had not been passed in singleness.
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool;
That small, for flax; and, if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The Pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only Child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o’er his years, began
To deem that he was old,—in shepherd’s phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only Son,
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their household. I may truly say,
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then,
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)
And his old Father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card
Wool for the Housewife’s spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

     Down from the ceiling, by the chimney’s edge,
That in our ancient uncouth country style
With huge and black projection overbrowed
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp,
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn—and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which, going by from year to year, had found,
And left the couple neither gay perhaps
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
Living a life of eager industry.
And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
Father and Son, while far into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
And westward to the village near the lake;
And from this constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the House itself, by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.

     Thus living on through such a length of years,
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael’s heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear—
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—
Than that a child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
His heart and his heart’s joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For pastime and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
His cradle, as with a woman’s gentle hand.

     And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on boy’s attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd’s stool
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
Under the large old oak, that near his door
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,
Chosen for the Shearer’s covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears.
There, while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

     And when by Heaven’s good grace the boy grew up
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old;
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd’s staff,
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
And, to his office prematurely called,
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hindrance and a help,
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his Father hire of praise;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

     But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
He with his Father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which the Shepherd loved before
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came
Feelings and emanations—things which were
Light to the sun and music to the wind;
And that the old Man’s heart seemed born again?

     Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up:
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,
He was his comfort and his daily hope.

     While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day, to Michael’s ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his brother’s son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means;
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had prest upon him; and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had armed himself with strength
To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
The Shepherd’s sole resource to sell at once
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
And his heart failed him. “Isabel,” said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
“I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sunshine of God’s love
Have we all lived; yet, if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger’s hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and, if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but
’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

     “When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou know’st,
Another kinsman—he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade and Luke to him shall go,
And with his kinsman’s help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
He may return to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is poor,
What can be gained?”

                                          At this the old Man paused,
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.
There’s Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a parish-boy—at the church-door
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, which they filled with pedlar’s wares;
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there,
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,
And thus resumed:—”Well, Isabel! this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
—We have enough—I wish indeed that I
Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope.
Make ready Luke’s best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
—If he could go, the boy should go to-night.”

     Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare.
Things needful for the journey of her Son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work: for, when she lay
By Michael’s side, she through the last two nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door, “Thou must not go:
We have no other Child but thee to lose,
None to remember—do not go away,
For if thou leave thy Father he will die.”
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

     With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy;
To which requests were added, that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over, Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke’s. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the old man said,
“He shall depart to-morrow.” To this word
The Housewife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

     Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet’s edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,
And thus the old Man spake to him:—”My Son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories; ’twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should touch
On things thou canst not know of.—After thou
First cam’st into the world—as oft befalls
To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy Father’s tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother’s breast. Month followed month,
And in the open fields my life was passed,
And on the mountains; else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father’s knees.
But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
As well thou knowest, in us the old and young
Have played together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.”
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,
And said, “Nay, do not take it so—I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
—Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others’ hands; for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth.
Both of them sleep together: h
Sanja Trifunovic Jan 2010
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for beside that boisterous Brook
The mountains have all open'd out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.

No habitation there is seen; but such
As journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude,
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first,
The earliest of those tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, men
Whom I already lov'd, not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.

And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
At random and imperfectly indeed
On man; the heart of man and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts,
And with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.


Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name.
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His ****** frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen
Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.

Hence he had learn'd the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone, and often-times
When others heeded not, He heard the South
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills;
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say
The winds are now devising work for me!

And truly at all times the storm, that drives
The Traveller to a shelter, summon'd him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists
That came to him and left him on the heights.
So liv'd he till his eightieth year was pass'd.

And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.
Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath'd
The common air; the hills, which he so oft
Had climb'd with vigorous steps; which had impress'd
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
Which like a book preserv'd the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav'd,
Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honorable gains; these fields, these hills
Which were his living Being, even more
Than his own Blood--what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself.

He had not passed his days in singleness.
He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
Of antique form, this large for spinning wool,
That small for flax, and if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The Pair had but one Inmate in their house,
An only Child, who had been born to them
When Michael telling o'er his years began
To deem that he was old, in Shepherd's phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only son,
With two brave sheep dogs tried in many a storm.

The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their Household. I may truly say,
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then,
Their labour did not cease, unless when all
Turn'd to their cleanly supper-board, and there
Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk,
Sate round their basket pil'd with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal
Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam'd)
And his old Father, both betook themselves
To such convenient work, as might employ
Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card
Wool for the House-wife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the cicling by the chimney's edge,
Which in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim, the House-wife hung a lamp;
An aged utensil, which had perform'd
Service beyond all others of its kind.

Early at evening did it burn and late,
Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours
Which going by from year to year had found
And left the Couple neither gay perhaps
Nor chearful, yet with objects and with hopes
Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when LUKE was in his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
Father and Son, while late into the night
The House-wife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage thro' the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.

Not with a waste of words, but for the sake
Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give
To many living now, I of this Lamp
Speak thus minutely: for there are no few
Whose memories will bear witness to my tale,
The Light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public Symbol of the life,
The thrifty Pair had liv'd. For, as it chanc'd,
Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect North and South,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-Raise,
And Westward to the village near the Lake.
And from this constant light so regular
And so far seen, the House itself by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old and young, was nam'd The Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years,
The Shepherd, if he lov'd himself, must needs
Have lov'd his Help-mate; but to Michael's heart
This Son of his old age was yet more dear--
Effect which might perhaps have been produc'd
By that instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all,
Or that a child, more than all other gifts,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.

From such, and other causes, to the thoughts
Of the old Man his only Son was now
The dearest object that he knew on earth.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
His Heart and his Heart's joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For dalliance and delight, as is the use
Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforc'd
To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd
His cradle with a woman's gentle hand.

And in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on Boy's attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
To have the young one in his sight, when he
Had work by his own door, or when he sate
With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool,
Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door
Stood, and from it's enormous breadth of shade
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd
The CLIPPING TREE, *[1] a name which yet it bears.

There, while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestow'd
Upon the child, if he dislurb'd the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scar'd them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old,
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop'd
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff,
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipp'd
He as a Watchman oftentimes was plac'd
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock,
And to his office prematurely call'd
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hindrance and a help,
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his Father hire of praise.

While this good household thus were living on
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before, the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his Brother's Son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means,
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had press'd upon him, and old Michael now
Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This un-look'd-for claim
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.

As soon as he had gather'd so much strength
That he could look his trouble in the face,
It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
And his heart fail'd him. "Isabel," said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
"I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sun-shine of God's love
Have we all liv'd, yet if these fields of ours
Should pass into a Stranger's hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave."

"Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun itself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I,
And I have liv'd to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil Man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him--but
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.
When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a chearful hope."

"Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free,
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou knowest,
Another Kinsman, he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade, and Luke to him shall go,
And with his Kinsman's help and his own thrift,
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
May come again to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is poor
What can be gain'd?" At this, the old man paus'd,
And Isabel sate silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.

There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a parish-boy--at the church-door
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,
And halfpennies, wherewith the Neighbours bought
A Basket, which they fill'd with Pedlar's wares,
And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad
Went up to London, found a Master there,
Who out of many chose the trusty Boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas, where he grew wond'rous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And at his birth-place built a Chapel, floor'd
With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Pass'd quickly thro' the mind of Isabel,
And her face brighten'd. The Old Man was glad.

And thus resum'd. "Well I Isabel, this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
--We have enough--I wish indeed that I
Were younger, but this hope is a good hope.
--Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
--If he could go, the Boy should go to-night."
Here Michael ceas'd, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The House-wife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her Son.

But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work; for, when she lay
By Michael's side, she for the two last nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go,
We have no other Child but thee to lose,
None to remember--do not go away,
For if thou leave thy Father he will die."
The Lad made answer with a jocund voice,
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recover'd heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sate
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

Next morning Isabel resum'd her work,
And all the ensuing week the house appear'd
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The expected letter from their Kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy,
To which requests were added that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over; Isabel
Went forth to shew it to the neighbours round:
Nor was there at that time on English Land
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
Had to her house return'd, the Old Man said,
"He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
The House--wife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such, short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill,
In that deep Valley, Michael had design'd
To build a Sheep-fold, and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which close to the brook side
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd;
And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd,
And thus the Old Man spake to him. "My Son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me; with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should speak
Of things thou caust not know of.--After thou
First cam'st into the world, as it befalls
To new-born infants, thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on,
And still I lov'd thee with encreasing love."

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side
First uttering without words a natural tune,
When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd month,
And in the open fields my life was pass'd
And in the mountains, else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees.
--But we were playmates, Luke; among these hills,
As well thou know'st, in us the old and young
Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.

Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobb'd aloud; the Old Man grasp'd his hand,
And said, "Nay do not take it so--I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
--Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Receiv'd at others' hands, for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who lov'd me in my youth."

Both of them sleep together: here they liv'd
As all their Forefathers had done, and when
At length their time was come, they were not loth
To give their bodies to the family mold.
I wish'd that thou should'st live the life they liv'd.
But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,
And see so little gain from sixty years.
These fields were burthen'd when they came to me;
'Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine.

"I toil'd and toil'd; God bless'd me in my work,
And 'till these three weeks past the land was free.
--It looks as if it never could endure
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That thou should'st go." At this the Old Man paus'd,
Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood,
Thus, after a short silence, he resum'd:
"This was a work for us, and now, my Son,
It is a wo
Steve Page Aug 2019
A pen,
a notebook
and idleness

- the three requisites for the manufacture of poetry.
John Cooper Clarke, poet, on Desert Island Discs.
Bharti Singh Aug 2015
Expletives are explored
Requisites are implored

Grooming artificial intelligence!

Bharti
Curtains, veils of virtual vice

So, gaze through the ****** intermix
of positional latency,
nano-notions lost in frantic phantasm,
requisites of an idle, unhealed mind.
Draw the virtual screen curtains open,
bring forth the lustful images to
feed the circuitous appetite, lurking
front-row-presence, at the keys.

Unknown, undertones
of desirability, poses in patient wait,
online implication of fallen ways,
predication of unveiling moments.
As any-time-**** pours its spill
of sickest gratification behind
the curtain tab selective viewing.

It is someone’s child the glides on rails
of drawn conclusions, through windows
where drapes of cyber mindlessness
hang on dank walls of seedy buildings.
The ***** grinder always plays the tune
to which monkeys happily dance,
in a world where Neanderthals hang out,
unperturbed with new technology.
Look into those eyes,
And try to interpret what they see.
Feel a spirit so bright,
I can’t tell whether it’s him or me.
As the dawn of the moment breaks,
I can feel myself start to shake.
So he asks me what is wrong,
And I try to remain strong.
With impetuosity,
I tell him the truth ruthlessly.
To a bench he beckons,
We are there in seconds.
But as we start to chat,
My heart begins to splat.
He pleads that there must be another way,
To fix the problems that I say.
When the bullet dives into his heart,
I can tell this was a bad idea from the start.
He kisses me one last time,
I just wish he could be mine.
Just as he gets up to leave,
I feel myself not able to breath.
So as I look into those eyes,
I know this isn't wise.
Without hesitation,
I force myself to believe this is his destination.
Just as I reach into my purse he hugs me,
And I know I’m his curse.
But without despise,
I reach for my knives.
With a look of surprise,
I see the life leaving his eyes.
Slowly the blood takes over his ****,
And I wonder if I should make a dash.
But instead his body falls to the ground,
And I feel unbound.
I kiss his pale lips as the blood,
Stirs on mine with a hiss.
As I turn to leave,
Finally my slate is now made clean.
Down my cheek resides a tear,
As I reminisce when we were a pair.
I bite my lip as my mind quarrels,
And I question my true morals.
I bend down to the earth,
And I hope I can be re birthed.
The knife slips into me like a glove,
As I think of how he’s above.
Hence I do this for my love,
As my spirit flies up like a dove-
the edge of green,
   egress — conscious permission
of some inundation or cataract

  and the raucous facelessness
  of passing figures. army melancholia
in situ — past greens of dread
    and red, some blue of course (in
    dapple of sunlight bordering
      sublimities)

  i submit to its silence and no longer
     ponder its requisites. draped
by fog, helm of pines. the zigzag of
      deliverance swindling the disposable
line of fast-paced time-hover.

       there's no god here. only the
wind, the trellis surmising a component
    of nothing and happening,
  and all ephemera cycling across
   seasons forever changing and their
obsolescence of ways to retain their
    positions until air frizzles
  no
     longer
   than a bated  breath.
Zack Gilbert Jan 2016
You could learn a lot about yourself in a year,
I know that's a cliche statement,
A given if I should be so bold
But it's something that I haven't thought about till the end,
I learned that I have a tendency to hold onto things that won't hold me back in return,
That I desperately want to love
And that the lines you cast don't always lead to something at the moment,
I learned that time doesn't heal all wounds
And the truth is always the best policy even when it hurts,
And it does.
I learned that I have two ears and one mouth for a reason
Speaking doesn't always have to take your lungs for it to send a message,
and that words have volume,
You have to listen to be a leader
And I hate it when people in charge can't hear how wrong they are sometimes,
You can learn a lot about yourself in a year,
I learned that my freedom comes with a cost
My love should never come with pre requisites
And that my love tends to be acted out  rather then spoken,
I learned that I don't like to be rushed
But I enjoy being fast
I go at my own pace even when every one else would rather walk with the crowd.
I learned that acting drunk can make friends really quickly
And that some people are intimidated by things they don't understand
Do I scare you?

I'm seventeen years old,
My name is of Hebrew origin and means The Lord remembers
Gilbert means bright promise
And my middle name means maker of arrows
I have lived  six thousand five hundred sixty eight days (at the time this was written)
And while I've been alive I've truly been learning how to die,
I lean on the side of danger and enjoy testing my boundaries.
I've learned that the eyes are the window to the soul and if you follow someone's gaze it may reveal things you didn't want to know.
I learned that monsters are scary because they are human and anyone is capable of evil
I learned that I'm afraid of becoming somebody I'm not and losing the people I care about
I've learned that you can also find miracles in the messes and but you have to look at the bad sometimes to see the good
I don't like being the reason people are gone, and I would go to the four corners of this round world to gain the forgiveness of someone.
I **** at math
I have a short attention span and I like to focus on things that aren't noticed most of the time.
Like that wall over there

I've learned that moments are worth more than gold
Everything happens for a reason
Love is irrational
I need to keep my friends close because time moves quickly
Keep your eyes open
Forgiveness is hard but so is accepting your wrong
I've learned to not believe in coincidences,
I've learned that it's not my place  to judge others and every good gift and perfect gift is from above
Friends are the reason you can't have nice things
And the truth always comes out now matter how much you try to hide it
I've learned how to say just enough that it won't get me in trouble
Scars are tattoos with better stories
I guess you could say I'm tatted
I've learned a lot in a year
A week is full of treasures
Friends are every where you just have to look
And you are friends of mine

You could learn a lot in a year
I know it's a cliche statement
I've been bold enough to say so
i wrote this as a replacement of a New Years resolution because those never work. I added somethings that are better for speaking it on a stage rather than read. I also put references to other poems in there. See if you can maybe catch them.
Arlene Corwin Oct 2017
Days Of Distraction: The List

What can they be?
They seem to go on endlessly.
Helping out a friend in need;
Finding ways to heed the need(s)
Of several needy friends in need.
Ignoring things that might be done,
Might be some fun
And useful monetarily.
Ignoring requisites of I, myself and me.
Structure: that’s one key.
Thinking practically; harmony.
Priority to me, myself and I.

Life is simple.
Roof, warmth, food -
Summed up sample of the simple,
Which gives ample time
To carry out the other,
'Other' meaning tools which further
Happiness and satisfaction.

Paying bills and buying,
Days of duty and temptation;
Stress and tension:
‘Stressed out’ grown to idiom.

What to do about this ‘dream’,
For dream it is.
This is a list and not a scheme;
Not a plan nor stratagem.
Read and think, find out!
The answer lies in nought but thee.
(That’s you and me).
You’ll see
               what works.

Days Of Distraction 10.21.2017
Definitely Didactic; I Is Always You Is Me;
Arlene Corwin

Chatted with my 'English rose' of a daughter (raised in Oxford, England now residing in Oregon, USA.) who complained of distractions which keep her from other, perhaps more practical or and/or rewarding things.  It inspired these little reflections.
It will go into my collections: Definitely Didactic and I Is Always We Is You.  By the way, my 16th book Birth, Death & In Between II went into publication today!
We all have 'em: days of distraction.
Eric the Red Mar 2018
I’m sorry my mind and soul
Changed the locks on my heart

You left me and my world
When I needed you most

And now you ask
‘Is everything ok?’

That answer is in a bottle
Somewhere out there
On the seas
All the requisites
All the ‘I Love Yous’
You said to me

They’re in that bottle
About to wash up
Near the Azores

Bring me the bottle
And we can talk

I need you
* I wish you were here
I miss you
Can you hear me
Where did you go, my love

Yesterday was writing when I
got caught up in the hype
No solid idea in my head
but fiending for those likes
Without realizing, drifted back
Put on my old routine
Code that is approval-seeking
had slipped in sight unseen
With resistance dredging forward;
syllables I force out
No clear idea the words to say
or what it is about
I gather up a garbage pile
but spray it with Febreze
The opposite I want to share
for everyone to see

Poetry is a translation
formatted into words
The boundless dreams, creative thoughts;
grounded through the absurd
No rules, guidelines or self restraint
should implement or use
Allow your soul to lead the way;
emotions are the muse


However, I feel there's one thing
each writer should possess
Embedded within character:
innately we possess
It's not a rule or a guideline
A path one adheres to
More like a vessel that each word
is birthed and traveled through
Gives life to ink with its voice
reciting what's written
If poetry is the email
than this is how you 'send'


If one is honest and truthful
Then filled the "requisites"
Defined by the Creator
only he or she can set
Whatever the thing we all have
mulling around inside
For some of us it's breaking out
And others it will hide
Can't quantify or explain it
It's not 'one-size-fits-all'
Sometimes it's clear and plain to see
Some hide behind a wall

Ultimately, we get it out
in words, it manifests
Feel at times that I can transcend
Others, ripped from my chest
It's not about looking "pretty"
Fitting into a box
We need more than 'cookie-cutter'
Don't want just Goldilocks
Staying intact after poured out
However it finds form
The beauty's in the honesty
If dark, it still feels warm
Emotion or experience
Can both have their offspring
A message screaming for a voice
Wants out so it can sing

Parents can see within their child
beauty when others don't
But beauty's found in many forms
Finds ways to touch our souls
Each message, voice, or energy
We put down and we share
Can look and feel like one before
To each of us it's rare

We chip off a piece of ourselves
Bit of soul to donate
Rippling through the Universe
Each time when we create
Give life to it and let it out
don't warp or try to bend
A tale conveyed with honesty
A true 'share' when you send

There's nothing more one should expect
Message belongs to you
Wrap heartfelt words in blood & soul
Is all
that we
can do


Written: June 6, 2018

All rights reserved.

poetry is an honest and heartfelt translation formatted into words
Arlene Corwin Feb 2018
Just editing my next book "Definitely Didactic" and thought I'd share this.

   Days Of Distraction: The List

What can they be?
They seem to go on endlessly.
Helping out a friend in need;
Finding ways to heed the need(s)
Of several needy friends in need.
Ignoring things that might be done,
Might be some fun
And useful monetarily.
Ignoring requisites of I, myself and me.
Structure: that’s one key.
Thinking practically; harmony.
Priority to me, myself and I.

Life is simple.
Roof, warmth, food -
Summed up sample of the simple,
Which gives ample time
To carry out the other,
'Other' meaning tools which further
Happiness and satisfaction.

Paying bills and buying,
Days of duty and temptation;
Stress and tension:
‘Stressed out’ grown to idiom.

What to do about this ‘dream’,
For dream it is.
This is a list and not a scheme;
Not a plan nor stratagem.
Read and think, find out!
The answer lies in nought but thee.
(That’s you and me).
You’ll see
               what works.

Days Of Distraction 10.21.2017 Definitely Didactic; I Is Always You Is Me; Arlene Corwin
Chatted with my 'English rose' of a daughter (raised in Oxford, England now residing in Oregon, USA.) who complained of distractions which keep her from other, perhaps more practical or and/or rewarding things.  It inspired these little reflections.
It will go into my collections: Definitely Didactic and I Is Always We Is You.  By the way, my 16th book Birth, Death & In Between II went into publication today!
*Chatted with my 'English rose' of a daughter (raised in Oxford, England now residing in Oregon, USA.) who complained of distractions which keep her from other, perhaps more practical or and/or rewarding things.  It inspired these little reflections.
It will go into my collections: Definitely Didactic and I Is Always We Is You.  By the way, my 16th book Birth, Death & In Between II went into publication today!

It was a lovely morning and the day,
Special, my son’s 16th birthday
Happy and busy with the preparations
But there was something amiss
Couldn’t put my hand or heart on
The day was fine, but by evening there were signs, sickness crept up its way

An out of this world experience
My jumpy heart raced between its place and fist, and the pulse on my wrist
Devoid of any feeling, my fingers numb

The lungs screamed
To be left alone, in silence  
With the painless calm
And the pain, unseen

The chaos outside was too much to bear
My heart weakened by the deafening noise
Wanted this break, from some, I prayed
Believe it or not, god listened to my prayer

Fear disillusioned
Too many places, invited
Never the one to travel
At loss, amidst the chaos

I felt a deep pull
In the eyes of my husband and children
They wanted me to be fit and fine
The other side allured me, twice
In my mind, I swayed on both the sides

I remembered the words and faces of my ageing parents
I knew they would be worried
Parents, never fail you
Wise and old, they have great advice

To stay safe from, I tried, but couldn’t
The virus and I took head on
Single combat, the family safe
No more on the battleground
Self isolation done

Home isolation worked well for me
Locked in my room, with the windows facing the road, my days, alone, duly spent
The room lights on during the nights
Been longing for a break since March
Albeit, in a beach resort

Music has the power to heal
Takes you to places, language free
Pre booking, no requisites
My quarantine sojourn complete

Physically I could be weak
But mentally I am strong
With infinite hope and love of the family
Yes from the clutches of the virus
Came back alive, I survived

If words could speak for themselves
Then they are best, written
Spoken, they are sinusoidal
Unless, the wavelengths match

Thank you so much, my dear friends at Hp
My family of poets and poetesses
For reading my words and sharing yours
It’s always home here, I reckon


🌿🌿
It tend to bare my heart here, thanks for bearing with me on HP :)
Was sick since August 26th, now quite fine

My symptoms were moderate
The medication, rest and writing,  together worked as a therapy :) 🙏
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2019
cultural darwinism:

too much time spent
looking through
the ****
of a chimpanzee
expecting to roar
like a lion...
and now enough time
spent looking
through the ****
of a homosexual
looking for
a higher mind
  of heterosexual
male's
worth of an imploded
fwench kissing
marathon
of...
   what didn't satiate
the body,
sure as hell made
up for in a thai
circus of convo.

i: unit of one...
am but the wishful
attention span
of: the crux of algebra:
verbiose,
  and... more verbiose...

cabbage +2 + 2 'n' 1 kids...
mother
             sgt. pepper's
and...
that collage...
like a bearded man
doing an American Pie
Ostreicher...

me? my fetish with
the...
polish-lithuanian
charge of the winged
hussars...
against the Cossack
rebellion...

hardly a lawd tennyson...
but a great
sienkiewicz novel
to: mind you what
and what not...

the middle-Asian
fetish for cabbage...
like mine:
the *******'re going
to do with all that turmeric
and chilli, and ginger,
garlic... and?
stink with a stink's waaa'th
w'ah?

the pride the boot
and then...
expecting some
côte d'ivoire
brute...

           and i'm to be:
the napkins provider...
i, the:
       curtain fling -
à la flop...
      
  ***. fetish for western
cuck...

             like ski jumping...
noriaki kasai...
and...
what happens in
sapporo:
stays in sapporo:

while in ****-yo:

          rabu hoteru:
  súkī súkī: thai goose:
guess lucky lucky...

suave... baige 'n' all...

indentations: loci: print...

that movie!
no!
not ninja scroll!
not tenchu
or ten-times-achoo!

  funny... not howl's
moving / floating /
whatever the castle did...

or spirited away...
that... manga *****...

shingles for a schmile...
like: teeth...
but less ordered in:
the arithmetic of...
buck-tooth
kicked out...

   that ******* manga
***** though!

         what was it?!

(20 minute interlude):

ah!

               urotsukidoji!
shin-towing
a pajama in bamboo
strict-tease...
via: dojo-open:
**** flower
    alias kimono...

sigh / aye / sigh / aye /
soogh-too'ji!
Shanghai express...

but i whittle
Pole'lock's breath
of the anglican
might but might not add:

         pale Franckian
'aving imported
the: what the Moroccan
sheikh didn't
deem "necessary"
to export...

           but i'm on
the receiving end:
tell ******* coco
what the copper turban
said...
try that...
ain't no *******
cul de sac sushi
palace wish where
whatever comes
after, come prior to:
"a" from...

world salad from now
on...
    it needs to be
IKEA literal...
no nuance...
   no... just literal:
give me the verbs
and...
  and no 'uance
considering 'ouns...

me?
   i like the idea of
the English language
having the capacity to
entertain more requisites
of letters 'come surds...
  
      cockney playing
conckers...
    C C, K K...
            either cold or:
kindled spirit:
yo ** ** and
a fidgeting compass
originating in Sigh-bear-ah...

cold Solomon:
a cod's whallop...

in summary:
i'd still prefer the tongue
of a gay
to a body of a woman
should it be suggested
i pass the hour in:
"prevailing"
to consecrate myself
upon the altar of
a continuum;

but hey...
that's life...

     her life...
i no chimpanzee shrunk
worth a fight
into her dynamo
of the Mars: ahoy!
if she...
       toying mantis...
           mother... tarantula.
Eric the Red Nov 2020
Even when all that is left
Is our sad requisites to each
Other
Even as the earth rotates
Our sad ‘what ifs’ will
Begin to collect dust
Fade with the years
Sand castle
Unfortified
Will crumble into the seas
But before it does
Before time has its inevitable way
Let me take the time to say
I love you...
Eric the Red Oct 2020
Thing of it is:
All of this madness
Drunkenness
Nightmarish requisites
Emblazoned pasts
Ego driven wired infantile
Screaming fire breathing
Snakes in the grass
Forest fire
Tsunami
Earth scorched
Man...
Can be tamed
Forever
.
By only one soul
One touch
One fire
One
Vermont Cabin in the Woods
Norbert Tasev May 2020
In the face of people, you search for the impossible: the apocryphal obituaries of unfulfilled dreams, desires, and emotions, the tiny requisites of lives, which in one pair of eyes, in shocked recognition, are still frightened and manifest! You cannot be independent, free in your emotions and thoughts, because if you follow in the footsteps of snarling people, you will become an animal: And where is the universal pledge of a laughing and liberating laughter today?

Can you know yourself if you spit on someone or betray you? You live your existence according to a recipe - but you can't guess the answers, the repeated questions yourself! - You greet the salivating, chewing kittens of cocoons who do not appreciate you with novel kisses from ivory towers of fiction who feel alone in their fashionable boutiques in the plaza and the Poem, the poetry,

as ars poetica, state of being, or vocation-consciousness perfectly independent of their complacent character! "Forever restless, prophetic dissatisfaction is straining within you: to arm yourself with etiquette morals, and to cultivate love in knees of poetry like a knightless, jealous knight!" You whine about yourself and accuse you, “Perhaps you were worse and more old-fashioned than These? Did you think you could resurrect it in the hearts of ladies like the song songbird, the immortal Universe, from the salted Phoenician ashes?

No! Polite gentlemen have begun to educate your wise people, and books that cherish knowledge, and no one can ask you, "Was a rich restaurant your main attraction or your luxury verde?" - No and not again! - It may be that a secret duel of minute-people is taking place these days, and the bohemian daring of the beneficiaries also wipes out the remaining, last stumps of chivalry

- but in the eternal flame of passions to find and recognize the complex, simple connections of the present with pre-coded secrets of eyes and glances: The Magic! Two human Hearts can only beat each other for each other!

— The End —