Fathers Poems - Poems For Fathers
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Anecdote For Fathers - Poem by William Wordsworth
I HAVE a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beautyÕs mold
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Or quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.
The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.
Birds warbled round me---and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,
And so is Liswyn farm.
My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.
'Now tell me, had you rather be,'
I said. and took him by the arm,
'On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?'
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, 'At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.'
'Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why.'---
'I cannot tell, I do not know.'---
'Why, this is strange,' said I;
'For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:
There surely must one reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea.'
At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And three times to the child I said,
'Why, :Edward, tell me why?'
His head he raised---there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain---
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply:
'At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that's the reaon why.'
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.
Comments about Anecdote For Fathers by William Wordsworth
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Our Fathers Of Old
Excellent herbs had our fathers of old-- Excellent herbs to ease their pain-- Alexanders and Marigold, Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane-- Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue, ( Almost singing themselves they run) Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you-- Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun. Anything green that grew out of the mould Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old. Wonderful tales had our fathers of old, Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars- The Sun was Lord of the Marigold, Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars. Pat as a sum in division it goes-- (Every herb had a planet bespoke)-- Who but Venus should govern the Rose? Who but Jupiter own the Oak? Simply and gravely the facts are told In the wonderful books of our fathers of old. Wonderful little, when all is said, Wonderful little our fathers knew. Half their remedies cured you dead-- Most of their teaching was quite untrue-- "Look at the stars when a patient is ill. (Dirt has nothing to do with disease), Bleed and blister as much as you will, Bister and bleed him as oft as you please." Whence enormous and manifold Errors were made by our fathers of old. Yet when the sickness was sore in the land, And neither planets nor herbs assuaged, They took their lives in their lancet-hand And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged! Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door- (Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled! ) Excellent courage our fathers bore-- None too learned, but nobly bold Into the fight went our fathers of old. If it be certain, as Galen says-- And sage Hippocrates holds as much-- "That those afflicted by doubts and dismays Are mightily helped by a dead man's touch," Then, be good to us, stars above! Then, be good to us, herbs below! We are afflicted by what we can prove, We are distracted by what we know. So-ah, so! Down from your heaven or up from your mould Send us the hearts of our Fathers of old!
Our fathers all were poor, Poorer our fathers' fathers; Beyond, we dare not look. We, the sons, keep store Of tarnished gold that gathers Around us from the night, Record it in this book That, when the line is drawn, Credit and creditor gone, Column and figure flown, Will open into light. Archaic fevers shake Our healthy flesh and blood Plumped in the passing day And fed with pleasant food. The fathers' anger and ache Will not, will not away And leave the living alone, But on our careless brows Faintly their furrows engrave Like veinings in a stone, Breathe in the sunny house Nightmare of blackened bone, Cellar and choking cave. Panics and furies fly Through our unhurried veins, Heavenly lights and rains Purify heart and eye, Past agonies purify And lay the sullen dust. The angers will not away. We hold our fathers' trust, Wrong, riches, sorrow and all Until they topple and fall, And fallen let in the day.
Snug at the club two fathers sat, Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat. One of them said: ‘My eldest lad Writes cheery letters from Bagdad. But Arthur’s getting all the fun At Arras with his nine-inch gun.’ ‘Yes,’ wheezed the other, ‘that’s the luck! My boy’s quite broken-hearted, stuck In England training all this year. Still, if there’s truth in what we hear, The Huns intend to ask for more Before they bolt across the Rhine.’ I watched them toddle through the door— These impotent old friends of mine.
The Landing Of The Pilgrim Fathers In New England
"Look now abroad--another race has fill'd Those populous borders--wide the wood recedes, And town shoots up, and fertile realms are till'd; The land is full of harvests and green meads."--BRYANT The breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches toss'd; And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;-- They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea: And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free! The ocean eagle soar'd From his nest by the white wave's foam And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd-- This was their welcome home! There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band:-- Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- They sought a faith's pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trode. They have left unstained, what there they found-- Freedom to worship God.