The Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ)/Articles pages contain helpful information about how to navigate this site as well as the world of kitchen renovations.

The Kitchen Forum Acronyms will help you understand some of the acronyms used frequently in posts.

The Finished Kitchens Blog has pictures and information about many GW members' finished kitchens. Not only can you see them alphabetically, but you can also use the "Find-A-Kitchen" function to utilize several search options if you're looking for specific things like a kitchen w/a Beverage Center or a kitchen w/a mix of dark and light cabinets. Access "Find-A-Kitchen" via the via the menu bar at the top of any FKB page. Additionally, "Find-A-Kitchen" contains a link to "In-Progress Kitchens" for those members' kitchens that are not quite ready for the FKB. There is also a link to "Coming Soon Kitchens" for those kitchens that are ready for the FKB but have not yet been added. To access the "In-Progress Kitchens", the "Coming Soon Kitchens", and the "FKB Categories", see the links on the menu bar at the top of any FKB page.

The Appliances Forum is very useful when you have questions specific to appliances.

To start off the kitchen remodel process...take the Sweeby Test. Then, move on to Beginning a Kitchen Plan.

Other topics such as layouts, planning for storage, and stone materials are discussed in later topics in this thread. Even more information can be found by doing a search on the forum.

Tips:

• Before posting a question, please search the forum. There's a very good chance someone has already asked the question.


• When using the "search" function, be sure to use the search box on the bottom of the page, not the top!


• Note, however, that you will probably have better luck searching if you use Google (or similar search engine) than if you use the Forum search function. When using Google, to limit your results to Garden Web, include the following in your search criteria: ***site:ths.gardenweb.com


• In the Subject, the site changes the double quote used as the inches indicator (") to a single quote ('). We don't know why. To compensate, use two single quotes and it will appear as a double quote in the Subject. Luckily, the double quote works in the message box.


• When composing a new thread, you have a couple of options:


• Have replies emailed to you: check the box offering this option. However, you must have "Allow other users to send you email via forms at our site." box checked in your profile for this to work (see the "Your Profile" link at the very top of the page) [See the post later in this thread with the Subject: Getting Emails Sent To You...3-step Process]


• Insert a link: When you "preview" your message, you will be provided with two boxes for a link...one is for the link itself and the second is for the name or description of the link.


• When using the "Clip this post" option (far upper right corner of each post, small print), remember that only the current post is clipped, not the entire thread. Also, you are allowed a maximum of 50 clippings. Once you reach this max, you will no longer be able to clip or email posts.

How are the home page and the Forum organized? (based on the Kitchen Forum's FAQs entries)

• The Kitchens Forum home page lists 30 thread titles, starting with those that don't yet have a response. After the unanswered threads, threads are listed in order of most recent response. That first page displays the last 2 hours or so of activity. (If there is no response to a thread in an hour or two, the unanswered thread usually starts to drop.)
• Below the thread list are page numbers 1-67 for the total 67 pages of threads available -- capturing maybe 2 months or so of threads, less when the Forum is busy.
• Below that (and at the top of the thread list as well) is a space for you to switch to the Conversations or Gallery "sides" - these are set up similarly but are not nearly as active.
• Next down is a Search box -- very important! This is also the Search box you should use (not the one at the top of the page.)
• Always refresh the page two or three times b/f assuming a thread has disappeared right after starting it.
• As to searching...a thread will not be found doing a GW search for up to 24 hours after it has been started. This may seem too technical, but...searches are done against what are known as "indexes". Indexes use key fields/words to find things. iVillage only indexes threads once a day. So, that means that until your thread is "indexed", it won't show up in a search. If you start a thread just before the index is taken, you will be able to retrieve your thread by searching soon after creation. If, however, you start your thread right after the daily index, then you will have to wait almost 24 hours for the next index.
• Next is a place for you to start a new thread. And finally there are some instructions and links at the bottom.

Kitchen Forum "Sides"

Discussions: This is the "side" you are on. It is for on-topic discussions concerning kitchens...renovations, use of, etc.

Conversations: This is the "side" where you can post off topic threads such as regional get-togethers and non-kitchen subjects.

Gallery: This is the "side" where members often post pictures...especially if you're posting a lot or a finished kitchen. (Note: This is where StarPooh, our FKB person, wants you to post your finished kitchen prior to having it added to the FKB.)

Again, welcome and good luck! The journey is wild, sometimes bumpy, but fun and very rewarding in the end!

Note: The links in this Read Me thread have been updated to reflect the new Finished Kitchens Blog (thank you StarPooh!)

We will continue to bump this thread, but not the other threads I created. Please, do not bump the "subject" threads I will be linking to from here. We do not want to flood the first page with all those threads. To do so would knock threads from members asking for help, etc. off the first page and would be counter-productive!

http://ths.gardenweb.com/forums/load/kitchbath/msg010521247761.html

What are zones and how do you design with them in mind?

http://ths.gardenweb.com/forums/load/kitchbath/msg0508230128712.html

A piece of advice:

When you post a layout for comments, please do not take the comments you receive personally. Everyone here is trying to help, not criticize maliciously. We want you to have a kitchen that, in the end, functions wonderfully well and looks nice overall. This may mean that some of us may tear apart your layout and rebuild it to what we think will work better, but it's done with good intentions. We're not the best at just "validating" someones layout, we're best at critiquing!

I will warn you that most of us here are "function over form" (or "function first")...meaning we strive first for a functional layout and then fit the form or look around it. It is far easier to make a functional kitchen look nice than it is to make a nice looking but dysfunctional kitchen functional. So, if you are a form/looks over function person, be sure to state that when you post.

Some people here think "function over form" means that we want all kitchens to look the same....not true! What we do want is all kitchens to function well...which means that in 99% of the cases, the workflow is the same...so that will mean some similarities due to workflow. However, as each kitchen is unique, each will have its own unique quirks, etc.

In the end, remember this is your kitchen. You don't have to make any of the recommended changes if you don't want to!

[Note: If you're just posting for validation of your layout (i.e., you don't want comments that suggest changes), state that as well. If you don't, people will comment on it!

Warning: People may comment anyway, it's tough to let a kitchen go that you think is dysfunctional and will cause angst later...especially if it's not yet installed and we think we can help. Bear with us, we're just trying to help!]

http://ths.gardenweb.com/forums/load/kitchbath/msg010523449014.html

http://ths.gardenweb.com/forums/load/kitchbath/msg0105292031876.html

Note: As of Summer 2012, iVillage changed the thread lists & history functionality so that old threads can be resurrected. However, once a thread falls off of page 67, you will still need the URL of that thread to bring it back up. What has changed is that now if you bump the thread, it will re-appear in the list of threads.

While this may be useful for some, it does have the potential for pushing newer threads with more recent information and those asking for help off the first few pages faster. I would like to ask everyone to use discretion in resurrecting old threads. Yes, some have a lot of useful information, but I would like to suggest we create a "Library" of such threads as part of the FAQ rather than bringing them back to the thread list.

http://ths.gardenweb.com/forums/load/kitchbath/msg0105254810134.html

http://ths.gardenweb.com/forums/load/kitchbath/msg0105280230861.html

Enduring, Breezy, tea4all, et alii: what game shall we play with this one?

Like:

The red rose whispers of passion,

But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

Thanks, tea4all. Not sure this game works with google, but also think it ONLY works because of it! Hmm....

One more try:

The night is freezing fast,

Angie, honestly I could not have found "A White Rose" by John Boyle O'Reilly if it weren't for google. :) My DH is great with songs but that one stumped him. So google it was. How did you know that Irish song/poem? It is lovely.

Sooooo, what to do? What do we like about the musical bumps? We get to share some of our faves. No reason we cannot just do THAT with poetry!

Let's go with a standard today:

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty (Ogden Nash)

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, -- and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of --wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew --
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
- Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

OK, I ain't got no lyrics

But I got this. I suppose you could guess what he's singing about.

Morning at the Window
They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed-

I, too, am America.

by Langston Hughes

Angie, I like the T.S. Eliot poem. It is so, "of the moment" when read.

another Langston Hughes poem. This one because I LOVE RIVERS!!! I will add a link that has a recording of Hughes providing a background of the writing of this poem and him reading the poem.

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

The Oven Bird
BY ROBERT FROST

There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.

Ironically, the Oven Bird is a warbler that is pretty common. The reason I thought of it was that there was one in my yard, and a friend pointed it out. I could guess it was a warbler, but had no idea which one. Frost ASSUMED that people would know about the oven bird. I did not know it by name or by habit or by sight.

Ohh, let'd do another standard!

If thou must love me... (Sonnet 14)
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say,
"I love her for her smile -- her look -- her way
Of speaking gently, -- for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" --
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee -- and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry:
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

I Hear America Singing

by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it whould be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The woodcutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

Hope everyone votes today if they haven't already voted early.

I've no poem, just a quote attributed to John Quincy Adams. "Always vote for principle, though you may vote alone, and you may cherish the sweetest reflection that your vote is never lost."

VOTED

Tea4all, perfect quote for our country. If we could all get in touch with our principles - really take time to reflect on this.

From
"ON THE PULSE OF MORNING" by Maya Angelou.
(Spoken at the Presidential Inauguration Ceremony, January 20, 1993.)

.....

Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands,
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here, on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, and into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope --
Good morning.

Not on the level of such poetry as above, but this song has been running through my head for two days:

If you want to make a snowman
I'll help you make it, one, two, three.
If you want to take a sleigh ride
Whee! The ride's on me.

Can you guess?

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

by Abraham Lincoln (Yes, THAT Abraham Lincoln.)

My childhood home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it too.

O Memory! thou midway world
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,

And, freed from all that's earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.

As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;

As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar--
So memory will hallow all
We've known, but know no more.

Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.

Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.

The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.

I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.

I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs.

Here is one I've liked and have shared with patients that I've cared for.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

~ Rumi ~

You can't complain about that with this one!

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? (Sonnet 18)
by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter
by Ezra Pound

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married, My Lord, you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.

318. Poem of Remembrance for a Girl or a Boy

by Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass)

You just maturing youth! You male or female!
Remember the organic compact of These States,
Remember the pledge of the Old Thirteen thenceforward to the rights, life, liberty, equality of man,
Remember what was promulged by the founders, ratified by The States, signed in black and white by the Commissioners, and read by Washington at the head of the army,
Remember the purposes of the founders,-- Remember Washington;
Remember the copious humanity streaming from every direction toward America;
Remember the hospitality that belongs to nations and men; (Cursed be nation, woman, man, without hospitality!)
Remember, government is to subserve individuals,
Not any, not the President, is to have one jot more than you or me,
Not any habitan of America is to have one jot less than you or me.

Anticipate when the thirty or fifty millions, are to become the hundred, or two hundred millions, of equal freemen and freewomen, amicably joined.

Recall ages--One age is but a part--ages are but a part;
Recall the angers, bickerings, delusions, superstitions, of the idea of caste,
Recall the bloody cruelties and crimes.

Anticipate the best women;
I say an unnumbered new race of hardy and well-defined women are to spread through all These States,
I say a girl fit for These States must be free, capable, dauntless, just the same as a boy.

Anticipate your own life--retract with merciless power,
Shirk nothing--retract in time--Do you see those errors, diseases, weaknesses, lies, thefts?
Do you see that lost character?--Do you see decay, consumption, rum-drinking, dropsy, fever, mortal cancer or inflammation?
Do you see death, and the approach of death?

A Lemon
by Pablo Neruda

Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.

So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, 'Speak to us of Children.'

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Such a lovely passage.

Thanks Angie for your creativity and generosity.

And...bump!

Here's a mellow poem that captures the slower and peaceful pace of life.

Days of Tea and Sunshine
Author: Nan Sexton
Out on the veranda

on a tablecloth of lace

She's laid out

her cups of china

in their dignity and grace

She's set the wicker rockers

near the morning glory vine

and she's taking off her apron

for the clock has struck its chime

It's early Sunday evening

and the supper table's spread

with her bowl of homemade jelly

and her plate of fresh-baked bread.

Three- minute eggs are ready

as he steps through the screen door

to their days of tea and sunshine

...golden days they've had in store...

While the balmy breezes rustle

summer leaves upon the tree

...the golden couple reminisces

of the things that use to be

Then a neighbor stops to linger

near the steps, at end of day

to partake of tea and sunshine

in the good old-fashioned way

Many summers have they lived there

many falls and winters, too

Many promises of springtime

kept their faces bright and new

Now, they're happy, though they're aging

...just to see the daytime's end

and to share the tea and sunshine

from their back porch once again.

I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.

Bump this puppy to stay on pg 1.

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Robert Service (1874-1958)
The Cremation of Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN

By John Keats

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Auguries of Innocence
William Blake

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

I see myself somewhere in that poem.

Bump

The Lake Isle of Innisfree
by W. B. Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.

All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.

Greece sees, unmoved,
God's daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away"

Angie thanks so much for posting the Hope poem by Emily Dickinson. That is sure timely for me. Currently hope is an illusive thing for my older son (age 29). Even though he is an adult, when he hurts it still is hard on this mother's heart.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

Tea4all--good to see you back! PT? Are you injured?

Bump

Brussels in Winter
W.H. Auden

Wandering through cold streets tangled like old string,
Coming on fountains rigid in the frost,
Its formula escapes you; it has lost
The certainty that constitutes a thing.

Only the old, the hungry and the humbled
Keep at this temperature a sense of place,
And in their misery are all assembled;
The winter holds them like an Opera-House.

Ridges of rich apartments loom to-night
Where isolated windows glow like farms,
A phrase goes packed with meaning like a van,

A look contains the history of man,
And fifty francs will earn a stranger right
To take the shuddering city in his arms.

I've never been a sports playing gal so coordination to get my lower abdominal muscles and transverse muscles to tighten, hold, etc while breathing normally has been frustrating! Normally? Really! However, I have just advanced to trying to do these exercises while sitting on a fitness ball. That is a sight! Ha. I will do anything to keep from having this injury re-occur.

All you younger gals do NOT ignore your core strength. Ain't fun to remedy. ;) (And placing ice my right backside following exercises isn't my idea of a top-of-the-day experience.) But this too will pass, God willing.

On a much more pleasant topic--Today was glorious here in the heart of our country--warm & sunny like a Spring day! Therefore, here's a poem that has to do with outdoors beauty.

Trees
by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Blessings to you all.

Picture and book remain,
An acre of green grass
For air and exercise,
Now strength of body goes;
Midnight, an old house
Where nothing stirs but a mouse.

My temptation is quiet.
Here at life's end
Neither loose imagination,
Nor the mill of the mind
Consuming its rag and bonc,
Can make the truth known.

Grant me an old man's frenzy,
Myself must I remake
Till I am Timon and Lear
Or that William Blake
Who beat upon the wall
Till Truth obeyed his call;

A mind Michael Angelo knew
That can pierce the clouds,
Or inspired by frenzy
Shake the dead in their shrouds;
Forgotten else by mankind,
An old man's eagle mind.

A lily-girl, not made for this world's pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe,
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

The Owl and the Pussy Cat
by Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

My Shadow
by Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

These, in the day when heaven was falling,
The hour when earth's foundations fled,
Followed their mercenary calling,
And took their wages, and are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth's foundations stay;
What God abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.

Starfish
by Eleanor Lerman

This is what life does. It lets you walk up to
the store to buy breakfast and the paper, on a
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have
your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman
down beside you at the counter who say, Last night,
the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?

Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.

And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.

Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life's way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won't give you smart or brave,
so you'll have to settle for lucky.) Because you
were born at a good time. Because you were able
to listen when people spoke to you. Because you
stopped when you should have and started again.

So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,
while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.

Some Hae Meat
Robert Burns

Some hae meat and canna eat, -
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.

Gratitude is the sign of noble souls.� ~Aesop

Bump.

Musee des Beaux Arts
W. H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro: -
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Thanks for the whole poem!

Rumi

Today I feel like a bit of silly nonsense. This may be the laugh someone needs.

Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face by Jack Prelutsky

Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face!

Clown in the Moon
by Dylan Thomas

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

Oh my, Angie, earlier today I almost posted Dylan Thomas's poem Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night but then decided to go in the opposite direction with the nonsensical Nose on you face poem. ;-)

I have noticed what has been pointed out earlier: A large fraction of poems are real downers! Death is way too common a theme! I have been trying to post uplifting ones, but don't always succeed. So many that are not grim are sappy.

At least love provides a reliable theme that does not (necessarily) involve grief. Here is one:

Between Us Now
Thomas Hardy

Between us now and here -
Two thrown together
Who are not wont to wear
Life's flushest feather -
Who see the scenes slide past,
The daytimes dimming fast,
Let there be truth at last,
Even if despair.

So thoroughly and long
Have you now known me,
So real in faith and strong
Have I now shown me,
That nothing needs disguise
Further in any wise,
Or asks or justifies
A guarded tongue.

Face unto face, then, say,
Eyes mine own meeting,
Is your heart far away,
Or with mine beating?
When false things are brought low,
And swift things have grown slow,
Feigning like froth shall go,
Faith be for aye.

Birds of Passage
Flight the Second.
A Day of Sunshine by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

O GIFT of God! O perfect day:
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be!

Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.

And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where through a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon,

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
Whose steep sierra far uplifts
Its craggy summits white with drifts.

Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach!

O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?

Now for something different. Here is a little ditty I wrote some time ago in a thread honoring Boxerpup's manifold contributions to the GW Kitchen Forum. I wrote it in terza rima, as I find that doggerel looks least like doggerel if done in terza rima! ;-)

Ode to Boxerpups
Angie_DIY

Here is an ode to boxerpups
who delights us all with her pix
that serve as kitchen pick-me-ups

when our inspiration needs a fix.
Slack-jawed, we read and wonder
how she conjures from her bag of tricks:

The desired image comes quick as thunder
after the blinding lighting flash.
Before I'd know what tag to look under

she has posted a relevant cache
of shots with ranges by Bosch, coffee by Krupps,
with counters of soapstone and cabinets of ash!

So let us all raise our cups
and join in the ode to boxerpups.

I love your Ode to Boxerpups!! It is a perfect delight! Yes, yes to boxerpups!

You are quite talented Angie. Nice job!

One, two, buckle my shoe
three, four, out the door.
Five, six, pick up sticks.
Seven, eight, don't be late.
Nine, ten, do it again.

My two year old just counted her five fingers for the first time for me tonight so counting is on my mind.

This is a little song that an English friend from years ago taught me:

"When the Boat Comes In"
Oh, dance for your daddy, my bonny laddy
Dance for your daddy, my bonny lad.
For he will bring a fishy, on a little dishy.
He will bring a fishy when the boat comes in.

I just looked this song up on Wikipedia and they have a very long version and the lyrics are all different.

Thanks Angie, Tea4all, and crl for these great thoughtful poems. Angie, I think I've said it before you are one talented woman. Sort of a Renaissance Woman. I loved the haiku too, that was inspired by you, on the other boxerpups thread.

For us who don't know much (like me) here is the definition of "terza rima" from Wikipedia:
The literal translation of terza rima from Italian is 'third rhyme'. Terza rima is a three-line stanza using chain rhyme in the pattern A-B-A, B-C-B, C-D-C, D-E-D. There is no limit to the number of lines, but poems or sections of poems written in terza rima end with either a single line or couplet repeating the rhyme of the middle line of the final tercet. The two possible endings for the example above are d-e-d, e or d-e-d, e-e. There is no set rhythm for terza rima, but in English, iambic pentameter is generally preferred.
[edit]

Crl--Wonderful accomplishment for your little one! Thanks for sharing that with us. You have a great start with rhymes with your child. Some of the most treasured memories I have are remembering Mom reading books and poems to me and me doing the same with my boys (now young adults). Treasure that time together.

Now here is a poem for Crl and little one.

Rain by Robert Louis Stevenson

The rain is falling all around,
It falls on field and tree,
It rains on the umbrellas here,
And on the ships at sea.

Bump.

Happy December everyone!

First Fig
Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1920

My candle burns at both ends,
It will not last the night,
But ah my foes and oh my friends
It gives a lovely light.

All along the valley, stream that flashest white,
Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,
All along the valley, where thy waters flow,
I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago.
All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day,
The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away;
For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed,
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,
And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

Who Has Seen the Wind?
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

MY NOVEMBER GUEST
Robert Frost

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense." � Ralph Waldo Emerson

Bump to get this up to pg 1.

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

DUST OF SNOW
by Robert Frost

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head:
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men."

Till, ringing singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men!

"Peace on earth will come to stay, When we live Christmas every day."
― Helen Steiner Rice

A Carol for Children
Ogden Nash

God rest you merry, Innocents,
Let nothing you dismay,
Let nothing wound an eager heart
Upon this Christmas day.
Yours be the genial holly wreaths,
The stockings and the tree;
An aged world to you bequeaths
Its own forgotten glee.
Soon, soon enough come crueler gifts,
The anger and the tears;
Between you now there sparsely drifts
A handful yet of years.

Oh, dimly, dimly glows the star
Through the electric throng;
The bidding in temple and bazaar
Drowns out the silver song.

The ancient altars smoke afresh,
The ancient idols stir;
Faint in the reek of burning flesh
Sink frankincense and myrrh.

Gaspar, Balthazar, Melchior!
Where are your offerings now?
What greetings to the Prince of War,
His darkly branded brow?

Two ultimate laws alone we know,
The ledger and the sword --
So far away, so long ago,
We lost the infant Lord.

Only the children clasp His hand;
His voice speaks low to them,
And still for them the shining band
Wings over Bethlehem.

God rest you merry, Innocents,
While innocence endures,
A sweeter Christmas than we to ours
May you bequeath to yours.

Drink to me, only, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

Unfortunate Coincidence
Dorothy Parker

By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying --
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.

A Home Song
by Henry Van Dyke

I read within a poet's book
A word that starred the page:
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!"

Yes, that is true; and something more
You'll find, where'er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.

The time will come, when with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you.
all your life, whom you have ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Bump

Weather
Author: Unknown

Whether the weather be fine,
Or whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold,
Or whether the weather be hot,
We"ll weather the weather
Whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not!

He Ate and Drank the Precious Words
Emily Dickenson

He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor
Nor that his frame was dust

He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings.

"Christmas is a necessity. There has to be at least one day of the year to remind us that we're here for something else besides ourselves."

The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

To write a verse or two is all the praise
That I can raise:
Mend my estate in any ways,
Thou shalt have more.

I go to Church; help me to wings, and I
Will thither fly;
Or, if I mount unto the sky,
I will do more.

Man is all weakness; there is no such thing
As Prince or King:
His arm is short; yet with a sling
He may do more.

An herb distill'd, and drunk, may dwell next door,
On the same floor,
To a brave soul: Exalt the poor,
They can do more.

O raise me then! poor bees, that work all day,
Sting my delay,
Who have a work, as well as they,
And much, much more.

Here is another of his short works:

Upon Julia's Clothes
Robert Herrick

Whenas inn silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free ;
O how that glittering taketh me !

Pied Beauty
Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things--
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Is there a limit of 150 entries for a thread? If so, we are almost there. I'm not a poet for sure but maybe someone can come up with an original asking Tamara to add Buehl's other links above to the STICKY GW currently has at the top.

My feeble efforts are childish.

A sticky, a sticky.
We need a sticky
For ALL the threads referenced here
By Buehl who deserves a cheer.

Bump

In My Craft or Sullen Art
Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.