| Poetry for your Mind, Heart and Soul |
| The Stolen Child Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water-rats; There we've hid our faery vats, Full of berries And of the reddest stolen charries. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim grey sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wondering water gushes From the hills above Glen-Car, In pools among the rushes That scarce could bathe a star, We seek for slumbering trout And whispering in their ears Give them unquiet dreams; Leaning softly out From ferns that drop their tears Over the young streams Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Away with us he's going The solemn eyed: He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the worm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal-chest. For he comes, the human child! The the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, From a world more full of weeping than he can understand. William Butler Yeats |
| Faith A fae by heart but a mortal by soul. She retreats to her world, where love, beuty, and peace are waiting. Her wings catch the air as she glides through the forest of life. With each passing wood a heart is broken. Lost to the ways of the world of which she chooses not to love. Soon her day will come to fall; But she will have the clouds of hope as her landing place. Briana Morrison |
| Hope Hope is a thing with Feathers That perchas 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. Emily Dickinson |
| I'd Love to be a Fairy's Child Children born of stock Never need for shirt or frock, Never want for food or fire, Always get their heart's desire: Jingle pockets full of gold, Merry when they're seven years old. Every fairy child may keep Two strong ponies and two sheep; All have houses, each his own, Built of brick or granite stone; They live on charries, they run wild-- I'd love to be a fairy's child. -Robert Graves |
| Heart of a Dragon Shifting his feet, slowly his head turns Gazing over the lands below As the cool rain falls Beats the heart of a Dragon Once in flight, high above the clouds Feeling the warm sun, on his body He soars... free at last Beats the heart of a Dragon Wind beneath his wings The smell of the sweet earth Fills his lungs, with each breath Beats the heart of a Dragon He has no treasures to keep And his loyalty is to his oun kind And in all of us Beats the heart of a Dragon. -Unknown |
| The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed of crimson joy, and his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. -William Blake |
| The Lamb Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life & bid thee feed, By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing wooly bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice! Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Little Lamb, I'll tell thee, Little Lamb, I'll tell thee! He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a Lamb: He is meek & he is miled, He became a little child: I a child & thou a lamb, We are called by his name. Little Lamb, God bless thee. Little Lamb, God bless thee. -William Blake |
| Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave? "Ah, are you digging on my grave, My loved one? - planting rue?" "No: yesterday he went to wed One of the brightest wealth has bred. 'It cannot hurt her now,' he said, 'That I should not be true.'" "Then who is digging on my grave? My nearest dearest kin?" - "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use! What good will planting flowers produce? No tendence of her mound can loose Her spirits from Death's grin.'" "But someone digs upon my grave? My enemy - prodding sly?" - "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate That shuts on all flesh soon or late, She thought you were no more worth her hate, And cares not where you lie. "Then, who is digging on my grave? Say - since I have not guessed!" - "O, it is I, my mistress dear, Your little dog, who lives near, And much I hope my movement here Have not desturbed your rest?" "Ah yes! You dig upon my grave... Why flashed it not on me The one true heart was left behind What feelings do we ever find To equal among human kind A dogs fidelity!" "Mistress, I dug upon your grave To bury a bone, in case I should be hungry near this spot When passing on my daily trot. I am sorry, but I quite forgot It was your resting place." -Thomas Hardy |