Quotes about heather, page 7
The Turncoat
Set me out forewarned
While the heather glistened,
Tramped the starbright road
While my lady listened,
Soldiers at the doors,
Muskets at the casement,
All Kilmarnock groaned,
Milady in the basement.
There the road to Ayr
There the road to Dumfries
Torn by here or there
Mauchline; there lay Humphries:
‘Where’s the Laird o’ Fife? ’
Pikemen swarm all over,
All the red stained coats
By Portsmouth, and by Dover.
‘Take the road, ’ she said,
‘Take it, I’ll come after,
[...] Read more
poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Four Schoolboys And A Dog
The countryside around wore Summer colours
The haycocks in mown meadows standing white
And the pasture fields surrounded by green hedgerows
Resplendent in the afternoon sunlight.
Four School going boys climbed the slopes of Clara mountain
Donal Hickey, Jerry and John Mahony and I
And Donal had his terrier 'Bonzo' with him
On that sunday long ago in mid July.
Four Primary Schoolgoing boys on Clara mountain
The countryside was beautiful to view
We picked and eat the whortleberries from the heather
The whortleberries small and ripe and blue.
The whortleberries ripe fruits of the heather
In July when ripe so beautiful to eat
You find them on the Cork and Kery mountains
Towards east Kerry from Macroom and Millstreet.
[...] Read more
poem by Francis Duggan
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Our Tree House
As children, my dearest friend and
I began planning to build a tree
house. We searched until we
finially found the perfect tree.
Along with our brothers, we began
to gather wood, and pieces of
fragments for the roof. When all
the material was gathered, the
construction began.
We worked day after day, endlessly
until we saw the tree house coming
together. Little by little it took
shape. At last it was time for the
curtains to be hung.Our lovely dish
towels were hung from tree limbs.
Now for the furniture. Old boards
were nailed together for our chairs.
[...] Read more
poem by Heather Burns
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The High Moors for M'lady Tara
I love the beauty of the moors. Those vast expanses wild and free
But I am prejudiced of course; there is no place I’d rather be.
In any season I feel at home. The winte, spring, summer or fall.
Be because I claim the right to roam. There are no rules here none at all.
The only laws are those decreed by mother nature long ago
Thou shalt not kill except to feed. The laws all living creatures know.
I love the freshness of the spring despite the fact the winds are keen
I am quite happy wandering to search for any sign of green.
The bitter winter slowly passed and soon the hillsides will be grassed
Though snow still lingers here and there. As bald spots undergo repair.
Underground new life is stirring as the sunshine returns with spring
to warm the winter frozen land. This artistry I understand
Natures consummate artistry: Infinite in variety
Each plant supplies a different hue and shadows add a touch of blue.
A contrast to the greenery which dominates the scenery
The purple heather showing through as spring continues to renew.
The beauty of the moors again to be enjoyed other men
Who love the moors as much as me, a privilege completely free.
Eventually spring slips away, the moors preparing for the day
When they will bask beneath the sun. A slow process which has begun.
[...] Read more
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Shoemakers
Ho! workers of the old time styled
The Gentle Craft of Leather!
Young brothers of the ancient guild,
Stand forth once more together!
Call out again your long array,
In the olden merry manner!
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day,
Fling out your blazoned banner!
Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stone
How falls the polished hammer!
Rap, rap! the measured sound has grown
A quick and merry clamor.
Now shape the sole! now deftly curl
The glossy vamp around it,
And bless the while the bright-eyed girl
Whose gentle fingers bound it!
For you, along the Spanish main
A hundred keels are ploughing;
For you, the Indian on the plain
His lasso-coil is throwing;
[...] Read more
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Death of the Queen
Alas! our noble and generous Queen Victoria is dead,
And I hope her soul to Heaven has fled,
To sing and rejoice with saints above,
Where ah is joy, peace, and love.
'Twas on January 22, 1901, in the evening she died at 6.30 o'clock,
Which to the civilised world has been a great shock;
She was surrounded by her children and grandchildren dear,
And for the motherly, pious Queen they shed many a tear.
She has been a model and faithful Queen,
Very few like her have been;
She has acted virtuously during her long reign,
And I'm afraid the world will never see her like again.
And during her reign she was beloved by the high and the low,
And through her decease the people's hearts are full of woe,
Because she was kind to her subjects at home and abroad,
And now she's receiving her reward from the Eternal God.
[...] Read more
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Hypotheses Hypochondriacae
And should she die, her grave should be
Upon the bare top of a sunny hill,
Among the moorlands of her own fair land,
Amid a ring of old and moss-grown stones
In gorse and heather all embosomed.
There should be no tall stone, no marble tomb
Above her gentle corse;-the ponderous pile
Would press too rudely on those fairy limbs.
The turf should lightly he, that marked her home.
A sacred spot it would be-every bird
That came to watch her lone grave should be holy.
The deer should browse around her undisturbed;
The whin bird by, her lonely nest should build
All fearless; for in life she loved to see
Happiness in all things-
And we would come on summer days
When all around was bright, and set us down
And think of all that lay beneath that turf
On which the heedless moor-bird sits, and whistles
His long, shrill, painful song, as though he plained
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Kingsley
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Ossian’s Grave
PREHISTORIC MONUMENT NEAR CUSHENDALL
IN ANTRIM
Steep up in Lubitavish townland stands
A ring of great stones like fangs, the shafts of the stones
Grown up with thousands of years of gradual turf,
The fangs of the stones still biting skyward; and hard
Against the stone ring, the oblong enclosure
Of an old grave guarded with erect slabs; gray rocks
Backed by broken thorn-trees, over the gorge of Glenaan;
It is called Ossian's Grave. Ossian rests high then,
Haughtily alone.
If there were any fame or burial or monument
For me to envy,
Warrior and poet they should be yours and yours.
For this is the pure fame, not caged in a poem,
Fabulous, a glory untroubled with works, a name in the north
Like a mountain in the mist, like Aura
Heavy with heather and the dark gray rocks, or Trostan
Dark purple in the cloud: happier than what the wings
And imperfections of work hover like vultures
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Greeting Poem
There was a sound in the wind to-day,
Like a joyous cymbal ringing!
And the leaves of the trees talked with the breeze,
And they altogether were singing,
For they knew that an army, both bold and strong,
A brave, brave army, was coming,
Not with the fife and sounds of strife,
With marshal music and drumming,
Not with stern faces and gleaming swords,
That would make blood to flow like water,
While brother and brother should slay each other
On wholesale fields of slaughter;
But rather like rills from a thousand hills,
That ripple through valley and heather,
On, on to the sea, with a song of glee,
Till they meet and mingle together.
They come from the South, and the East, and the West,
The bravest and best in the nation.
[...] Read more
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Charles Edward At Versailles
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN
Take away that star and garter-
Hide them from my aching sight:
Neither king nor prince shall tempt me
From my lonely room this night;
Fitting for the throneless exile
Is the atmosphere of pall,
And the gusty winds that shiver
'Neath the tapestry on the wall.
When the taper faintly dwindles
Like the pulse within the vein,
That to gay and merry measure
Ne'er may hope to bound again,
Let the shadows gather round me
While I sit in silence here,
Broken-hearted, as an orphan
Watching by his father's bier.
Let me hold my still communion
[...] Read more
poem by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!