Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not…
Strickland Gillilan (1869-1954) I had a mother who read to me Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea, Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth, “Blackbirds” stowed in the hold beneath I had a Mother who read me lays Of ancient and gallant and golden days; Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe,…
by Robert Frost, 1922 Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods…
] by Robert W. Service, 1907 There are strange things done in the midnight sun ……….By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales ……….That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, ……….But the queerest they ever did see…
by J. Milton Hayes, 1911 There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu, 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…
by Dorothea Mackellar, 1904 The love of field and coppice, Of green and shaded lanes. Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins, Strong love of grey-blue distance Brown streams and soft dim skies I know but cannot share it, My love is otherwise. I love a sunburnt…