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in The potting shed
I know it is very hard to outshine Birdy's effort at writing poetry so I have decided not to try. Instead I shall offer John Keats's take on an autumn day. Ahem, ladies and gentlemen, I give you:
To Autumn. 1820. by John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.
and I give you....I walked out in my coat of pride and looked about on everyside....forgotten the rest.
Oh dear, sorry. Didn't mean to sound snotty nosed. Just liked the words.
no,lovely poem,....I myself love poetry ..just I cant remember the lines these days.
Me neither. And so often the lines that I remember go round and round in loops instead of straight on to the end.
I love 'To Autumn' and I'm not really a peotry person. Just a few I like
I won't bore everyone with the next two verses! I have limited poetry capacity myself.
Slowly silently now the moon, walks the night in her silver shoon
This way and that she peers and sees, silver fruit upon silver trees
One by one the casements catch, her beams beneath the silvery thatch
Crouched in his kennel like a log, with paws of silver sleeps the dog
From their shadowy cotes the white breasts peep of doves in a silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by, with silver claw and silver eye
And moveless fish in the water gleam of silver reeds in a silver stream
I was tought this at school many (MOONS) ago
I edited this poem but couldnt insert it on here, doing something wrong obviously
oops it worked
high waving heather neath stormy skies
Tomstattyead, you obviously had a very effective teacher. Can you remember the teacher? Can you remember who wrote the poem?
Archiepem, is that your own?
emily jane bronte
It's been a bit Wuthering here today.
One of my most clear childhood memories is of a picture on the wall at home, which had upon it the verse:
The things I sow, somehow don't grow
I'm sorely disenchanted.
But, oh, what luck I have with things
I never even planted
The poem was by Walter De La Mare, yes I do remember my teachers. I love poetry even had ago myself, but mine are more rymes than poems..
I got some statistics on line about the angel of the north and wrote a little rhyme based on them
Four double decker busses would not exceed his hight.
He's one of Englands icons, a most impressive sight.
Can jumbo jets outspan him, this angel of renown
He doesn't wear a halo, and his skin is reddish brown
He's loved by all who know him, no one can guess his worth
He is our special angel
The angel of the north
I'm pretty bad at poetry, but one that has always stuck with me was called "two cats of kilkenny"
There were two cats of Kilkenny,
and each thought there was one cat too many,
so they fought and they fit,
they scratched and they bit,
until instead of two cats... there werent any..