Quotes about lane, page 9
Taking You Down Memory Lane
.
It is time to take you down memory lane
With the hit t. v. series “Spanky and our gang”.
They were on for many a year
They gave us laughter and a few tears.
There was Spanky, alfalfa, buckwheat
Froggy and Darlene, and we can’t forget
The teacher Mrs. Crabtree.
Alfalfa with his one strand of greased up hair
Standing straight up - two pounds of grease
And still not enough.
Spanky was the leader- he was short and round
Any problems, he had to be found.
Buckwheat was the daring young guy
He would do anything for a ride.
Then there was Froggy - his name says it all
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poem by Louis Rams
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Rain drive
I see a big storm
hanging dark against the sky
and lightning bolts,
that hit smashing to the ground.
There are big drops
that hit whipping down
and the black road
wet and somewhat slippery.
There’s no way
to ride away from the storm
and the traffic
stand still in front of me,
but with a motorbike
you can cut past cars.
It’s as if clouds of steam
rise out of the hot tar road,
but the screen
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Anne
Her eyes be like the violets,
Ablow in Sudbury lane;
When she doth smile, her face is sweet
As blossoms after rain;
With grief I think of my gray hairs,
And wish me young again.
In comes she through the dark old door
Upon this Sabbath day;
And she doth bring the tender wind
That sings in bush and tree;
And hints of all the apple boughs
That kissed her by the way.
Our parson stands up straight and tall,
For our dear souls to pray,
And of the place where sinners go
Some grewsome things doth say:
Now, she is highest Heaven to me;
So Hell is far away.
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poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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Vocation
When the gong sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our
lane.
Every day I meet the hawker crying, "Bangles, crystal
bangles!"
There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road he must
take, no place he must go to, no time when he must come home.
I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying,
"Bangles, crystal bangles!"
When at four in the afternoon I come back from the school,
I can see through the gate of that house the gardener digging
the ground.
He does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes
with dust, nobody takes him to task if he gets baked in the sun or
gets wet.
I wish I were a gardener digging away at the garden with
nobody to stop me from digging.
Just as it gets dark in the evening and my mother sends me to
bed,
I can see through my open window the watchman walking up and
down.
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poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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End of A Day
In the long evening of April through the cool light
Bayle's two sheep dogs sail down the lane like magpies
for the flock a moment before he appears near the oaks
a stub of a man rolling as he approaches
smiling and smiling and his dogs are afraid of him
we stand among the radiant stones looking out over
green lucent wheat and earth combed red under bare walnut limbs
bees hanging late in cowslips and lingering bird cherry
stumps and brush that were the grove of hazel trees
where the land turns above the draped slopes and the valley
filled with its one sunbeam and we exchange a few questions
as though nothing were different but he has bulldozed the upland
pastures and the shepherds' huts into piles of rubble
and has his sheep fenced in everyone's meadows now
the smell of box and damp leaves drifts from the woods where a blackbird
is warning of nightfall Bayle has plans to demolish
the ancient walls of the lane and level it wide
so that trucks can go all the way down to where the lambs
with perhaps two weeks to live are waiting for him at the wire
he hurries toward them while the sun sinks and the hour
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poem by William Stanley Merwin
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The Mowing
The clock has struck six,
And the morning is fair,
While the east in red splendor is glowing;
There’s a dew on the grass, and a song in the air—
Let us up and be off to the mowing.
Wouldst know why I wait
Ere the sunlight has crept
O’er the fields where the daisies are growing?
Why all night I’ve kept my own vigils, nor slept?
’Tis to-day is the day of the mowing.
This day and this hour
Maud has promised to tell
What the blush on her cheek was half showing.
If she waits at the lane, I’m to know all is well,
And there’ll be a good time at the mowing.
Maud’s mother has said,
And I’ll never deny,
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poem by Samuel Hawkins Marshall Byers from Harper's, Volume 59, Issue 350 (1879)
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Oxford: Michaelmas
Christ Church meadow
is awash with driving rain
and a wind which bites the skin
and chills the blood within.
Its paths are sticky, yellow mud.
And the Cherwell, brown and dull,
slips ever higher.
Ducks, moorhens, squirrels
endure it.
As they endure frost and ice
and the teeth of pike,
the ill-will of dogs
and the harrassment of herons.
I retreat to Merton,
and the medieval silence
of its Tower.
Greeted by the bell,
I stand quite still in the chapel
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Pan at Lane Cove
SCALY with poison, bright with flame,
Great fungi steam beside the gate,
Run tentacles through flagstone cracks,
Or claw beyond, where meditate
Wet poplars on a pitchy lawn.
Some seignior of colonial fame
Has planted here a stone-cut faun
Whose flute juts like a frozen flame.
O lonely faun, what songs are these
For skies where no Immortals hide?
Why finger in this dour abode
Those Pan-pipes girdled at your side?
Your Gods, and Hellas too, have passed,
Forsaken are the Cyclades,
And surely, faun, you are the last
To pipe such ancient songs as these.
Yet, blow your stone-lipped flute and blow
Those red-and-silver pipes of Pan.
Cold stars are bubbling round the moon,
Which, like some golden Indiaman
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poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Hidden Hearts
Imagine yourself in a woodland scene
by the verge of an old winding lane;
and circled around islands of green,
oceans of leaves rustling in waves.
Picture the beech and the sitka spruce
reaching through shade to the dizzying sky,
with beams of sunshine lighting the broom,
and hardly a sound when the wood pigeons fly
Ahead in the distance, through shadow and shine,
glints the White Loch’s shimmering blues,
a border of waves beyond chestnut and pine
and above it the castle in ruins.
A puzzle in brick from the second world war
catches the eye and confuses the brain.
It sits by the lane and tempts some to stop
where mostly these days serenity reigns;
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poem by Jim Hogg
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Matter Of Beauty
That's Speedwell
and that's Red Sorrel
Jane said
pointing out
the wildflowers
as you both walked
down the lane
that led to the empty cottage
with apples trees
in the garden
and gooseberry bushes
in fruit by hedges
They all look the same to me
you said
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poem by Terry Collett
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