General Chat

Clover,what a lovely poem, it really touched the heart strings, what those folk went through to get to a better life was quite unbelievable. Robin, The poem about the skylark was lovely too. When I was a child, we lived near the Berkshire Downs, and when picknicking we used to often see and hear the Skylark. I once found a Skylarks nest on the ground, which was a rare find even in those days! They seemed such happy times, the sun was ALWAYS shining, and my parents seemed happy and unhurried. It was a LONG time ago!!!!

Irving Thalberg of MGM said to Louis B Mayer not tko bid for the film rights for Gone with the Wind...By saying "Forget it Louis, no Civil War film ever made a nickel............how rong can you be

'Remember, you are the only person on earth who can use your ability'.

Zig Zigler (1926 - )

Skylarks are now, sadly, a rare sight and sound where I live, but whenever I hear or see one this verse springs easily to mind ;


Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert -
That from Heaven or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.


Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.


In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.


The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of Heaven,
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight -

Tracy, I have just gone to the previous page and read your entries, they are great and thank you for adding them. I shall be back later today and will read them again as I shall have more time.

Please keep posting

09.30 hrs Spain

Clover, I have read your piece twice and in true Irish fashion I am tearful because of the pathos within the poem. How brave those young and old people were, what terrible conditions they left behind in order to survive. I can only tread in their footsteps and be grateful for what they
did and for their fortitude.
The heartache must have been enormous for those who left behind.

Bridget
09.25 hrs Spain

IMMIGRANT EYES.

OH Ellis Island was swarming
Like a scene from a costume ball,
Decked out in the colours of Europe
And on fire with the hope of it all,
There my father,s own father stood huddled,
With the tired and hungry and scared,
Turn of the century pilgrims
Bound by the dream that they shared.

They were standing in lines just like cattle,
Poked and sorted and shoved;
Some were one desk away from freedom,
Some were torn from someone they loved,
Through this sprawling tower of babel
Came a young man confused and alone,
Determined and bound for America
And carrying everything that he owned.

Sometimes when i look in my Grandfather,s immigrant eyes,
I see that day reflected and i can,t hold my feelings inside,
I see starting with nothing and working hard all of his life;
So don,t take it for granted say my Grandfather,s eyes;

Now he rocks and he stares out the window
But his eyes are still just as clear,
As the day he sailed through the Harbour,
And came ashore on the Island of Tears;
My grandfather,s days are numbered,
But i won,t let his memory die
!Cause he gave me the gift of sweet Freedom
And the look in his Immigrant Eyes.

Ellis Island opened in 1892, first person through was a Irish girl Annie Moore aged only 15 years old. It closed in 1943.
In that 51 years, 17 million had passed through.

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

W B Yeats (1865-1939).

STILL HERE''

JUST LOOK FOR ME I'VE NOT GONE FAR
YOU'LL SEE ME IN THE EVENING STAR'S
COME TALK WITH ME I'LL BE THERE
ALL AROUND YOU EVERY WHERE
NOT TO TOUCH, NOR WITH EYES TO SEE
BUT IN YOUR HEART I'LL ALWAYS BE

''HI------

NOBODY-KNOW''S-IT-BUT-ME''

THERE'S A PLACE THAT I TRAVEL
WHEN I WANT TO ROAM AND NOBODY KNOW''S IT BUT ME.
THE ROAD'S DON'T GO THERE
AND THE SIGN'S STAY HOME.AND NOBODY KNOW''S IT BUT ME.
IT'S FAR ,FAR AWAY AND WAY ,WAY, AFAR.
IT'S OVER THE MOON AND THE SEA AND WHERE EVER YOUR GOING
THAT'S WHERE EVER YOU ARE AND NOBODY KNOW''S IT BUT ME

BY-PAT O'LEARY

Robin,

You do realise that you are now hooked, and we eagerly await your next entry.

Bridget

16.21 Spain :-)

Thank you both so much for your welcome for my post. I was not sure if it was the sort of verse that this thread was intended for. But it is a favourite piece of mine and I could not resist taking a chance.

'Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes'.

(Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde 1854-1900).

Robin, thank you for joining us, and with such a wonderful poem, surely everyone in the UK must be aware of this delightful description of Grandchester?

Please stay with us.
Today I am having a lazy day so will be back later this afternoon to add a saying or poem.

I wonder if poetry is still taught in school, I must ask my daughter?

LiZ, your Phillip Larking piece was a delightbtonread, I did not know this one. Thank you.

13.57 hrs Spain :-)

Thank you so much Robin for your posting, it's one of my favorites and it was so nice to read it again.

Ah God! to see the branches stir
Across the moon at Grantchester!
To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten
Unforgettable, unforgotten
River-smell, and hear the breeze
Sobbing in the little trees.
Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand
Still guardians of that holy land?
The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,
The yet unacademic stream?
Is dawn a secret shy and cold
Anadyomene, silver-gold?
And sunset still a golden sea
From Haslingfield to Madingley?
And after, ere the night is born,
Do hares come out about the corn?
Oh, is the water sweet and cool,
Gentle and brown, above the pool?
And laughs the immortal river still
Under the mill, under the mill?
Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain?... oh! yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?

Home is Sad. Phillip Larkin.

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stall. That vase.

Some beautiful items on here today. Very emotional, must be the Irishin some of us.

Have just arrived home after a delightful evening with our neighbours. The house next door is superb and is used spasmodically by the large family of relatives of the first owner. The husban is South African,left there when he wax 15", lived in UK for a few years now lives in Switzerland.

Now we have a group of Irish ,Dermot, clover, Lizlynes, me.
Maybe I should star an Irish Thread,??
Will be back tomorrow.

Good night everyone

00.36 hrs Spain

When You Are Old.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid the face amid a crowd of stars.
W.B.YEATS

I see His Blood Upon the Rose.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Joseph Plunkett (1887-1916).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Up Mayo!!