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Poem for the Day

Posted: 1 March 2013

da bore, ceriant, 'n ddedwydd St David's ddiwrnod
(Good morning, friends, happy St David's Day)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Dylan Thomas 1914 -1953

Poem for the Day

Posted: 28 February 2013

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

Time Does Not Bring Relief
Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892-1950

Poem for the Day

Posted: 27 February 2013

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
'My fragile leaves,' it said, 'his heart enclose.'
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

One Perfect Rose
Dorothy Parker 1893 - 1967

Poem for the Day

Posted: 26 February 2013

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the North of Kathmandu
There's a little marble cross below the town
There's a broken hearted woman tends the grave of mad Carew
And the yellow god forever gazes down.
He was known as 'Mad Carew' by the subs at Kathmandu
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks
And the colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong
The fact that she loved him was plain to all
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a Ball.
He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew
They met next day as he dismissed a squad
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little yellow god.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.
He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn
And a gash across his temple dripping red
He was patched up right away, and he slept throughout the day
And the colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod
He bade her search the pocket saying, “That's from Mad Carew”
And she found the little green eye of the god.
She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height on that still and tropic night
She thought of him and hastened to his room
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune stealing softly through the gloom.
His door was open wide, with the silver moonlight shining through
The place was wet and slippery where she trod
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew
'Twas the vengeance of the little yellow god.

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the North of Kathmandu
There's a little marble cross below the town
There's a broken hearted woman tends the grave of mad Carew
And the yellow god forever gazes down.

The Green Eye of the Yellow God
J Milton Hayes 1884 - 1940

Poem for the Day

Posted: 25 February 2013

I’m a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;
I’m a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
I’m a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;
I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

I’ll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,
Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,
Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

Lone Dog
Irene Mcleod 1891 - 1968

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