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Mahfood)</managingEditor><generator>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>613</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>25</openSearch:itemsPerPage><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetry" /><feedburner:info uri="coffeetablepoetry" /><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="hub" href="http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/" /><thespringbox:skin xmlns:thespringbox="http://www.thespringbox.com/dtds/thespringbox-1.0.dtd">http://feeds.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetry?format=skin</thespringbox:skin><geo:lat>25.784276</geo:lat><geo:long>-80.141267</geo:long><creativeCommons:license>http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/</creativeCommons:license><image><link>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.blogspot.com</link><url>http://i654.photobucket.com/albums/uu265/vickig423/coffeeiconwelcome.png</url><title>Coffee Table Poetry</title></image><feedburner:emailServiceId>CoffeeTablePoetry</feedburner:emailServiceId><feedburner:feedburnerHostname>http://feedburner.google.com</feedburner:feedburnerHostname><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-1152489594903639544</guid><pubDate>Thu, 23 Feb 2012 18:04:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-02-23T13:13:56.863-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Wordsworth W.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">night</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">19th C</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">seasons</category><title>The Sun Has Long Been Set</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Description:&lt;/b&gt; Wordsworth W., 19th C, Nature, Night, Seasons&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/Sa_jC1gRBRI/AAAAAAAAAr4/ZVEuwMkBtbI/s1600-h/MoonFlip.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/Sa_jC1gRBRI/AAAAAAAAAr4/ZVEuwMkBtbI/s320/MoonFlip.gif" vi="true" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;center&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; color: brown;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
The sun has long been set,&lt;br /&gt;
The stars are out by twos and threes,&lt;br /&gt;
The little birds are piping yet&lt;br /&gt;
Among the bushes and the trees;&lt;br /&gt;
There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,&lt;br /&gt;
And a far-off wind that rushes,&lt;br /&gt;
And a sound of water that gushes,&lt;br /&gt;
And the cuckoo's sovereign cry&lt;br /&gt;
Fills all the hollow of the sky.&lt;br /&gt;
Who would go `parading'&lt;br /&gt;
In London, `and masquerading',&lt;br /&gt;
On such a night of June&lt;br /&gt;
With that beautiful soft half-moon,&lt;br /&gt;
And all these innocent blisses?&lt;br /&gt;
On such a night as this is!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth"&gt;&lt;b&gt;William Wordsworth&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt; (7 April 1770 – 23 April 1850) Wordsworth was a major English Romantic poet who, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped to launch the Romantic Age in English literature with the 1798 joint publication Lyrical Ballads.&lt;br /&gt;
Wordsworth's magnum opus is generally considered to be The Prelude, a semiautobiographical poem of his early years which the poet revised and expanded a number of times. The work was posthumously titled and published, prior to which it was generally known as the poem "to Coleridge". Wordsworth was England's Poet Laureate from 1843 until his death in 1850. The second of five children born to John Wordsworth and Ann Cookson, William Wordsworth was born on 7 April 1770 in Wordsworth House in Cockermouth, Cumberland—part of the scenic region in northwest England, the Lake District. His sister, the poet and diarist Dorothy Wordsworth, to whom he was close all his life, was born the following year, and the two were baptised together. They had three other siblings: Richard, the eldest, who became a lawyer; John, born after Dorothy, who would become a poet and enjoy nature with William and Dorothy until he died in an 1809 shipwreck, from which only the captain escaped; and Christopher, the youngest, who would become an academician. Their father was a legal representative of James Lowther, 1st Earl of Lonsdale. Read more at: William Wordsworth&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Poetry Terminology:&lt;/b&gt;  Aide-memoire poem -&lt;br /&gt;
Poem which helps the memory e.g. 'Thirty days hath September,/April, June and November' &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  evanescence \ev-uh-NES-ens\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
1. A gradual dissappearance.&lt;br /&gt;
2. The state of becoming imperceptible.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
This is one of the most beautiful circumstances connected with water surface, for by these means a variety of color and a grace and evanescence are introduced in the reflection otherwise impossible.&lt;br /&gt;
-John Ruskin, The Works of John Ruskin: Modern painters, v.1-5 &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  In the coldest February, as in every other month in every other year, the best thing to hold on to in this world is each other.  ~Linda Ellerbee &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 19th C, Holmes O.W., Aging, Life--&amp;nbsp;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NcyvkRGlehU/T0PjvhR7uMI/AAAAAAAAIPo/keUSWhEXRmE/s1600/twostreams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NcyvkRGlehU/T0PjvhR7uMI/AAAAAAAAIPo/keUSWhEXRmE/s320/twostreams.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;BEHOLD the rocky wall&lt;br /&gt;
That down its sloping sides&lt;br /&gt;
Pours the swift rain-drops, blending as they fall,&lt;br /&gt;
In rushing river-tides!&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Yon stream, whose sources run&lt;br /&gt;
Turned by a pebble's edge,&lt;br /&gt;
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun&lt;br /&gt;
Through the cleft mountain-ledge.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The slender rill had strayed,&lt;br /&gt;
But for the slanting stone,&lt;br /&gt;
To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid&lt;br /&gt;
Of foam-flecked Oregon.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So from the heights of Will&lt;br /&gt;
Life's parting stream descends,&lt;br /&gt;
And, as a moment turns its slender rill,&lt;br /&gt;
Each widening torrent bends,--&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
From the same cradle's side,&lt;br /&gt;
From the same mother's knee,--&lt;br /&gt;
One to long darkness and the frozen tide,&lt;br /&gt;
One to the Peaceful Sea!&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oliver_Wendell_Holmes,_Sr."&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Oliver Wendell Holmes&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  (August 29, 1809 – October 7, 1894) Holmes was an American physician, professor, lecturer, and author. Regarded by his peers as one of the best writers of the 19th century, he is considered a member of the Fireside Poets. His most famous prose works are the "Breakfast-Table" series, which began with The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table (1858). He is recognized as an important medical reformer. Born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Holmes was educated at Phillips Academy and Harvard College. After graduating from Harvard in 1829, he briefly studied law before turning to the medical profession. He began writing poetry at an early age; one of his most famous works, "Old Ironsides", was published in 1830. Following training at the prestigious medical schools of Paris, Holmes was granted his M.D. from Harvard Medical School in 1836. He taught at Dartmouth Medical School before returning to teach at Harvard and, for a time, served as dean there. During his long professorship, he became an advocate for various medical reforms and notably posited the controversial idea that doctors were capable of carrying puerperal fever from patient to patient. Holmes retired from Harvard in 1882 and continued writing poetry, novels and essays until his death in 1894. See more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oliver_Wendell_Holmes,_Sr."&gt;Oliver Wendell Holmes&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; mammonism \MAM-uh-niz-uhm\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
The greedy pursuit of riches.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
We will bring to mind a young man or young woman bitterly awakened from a fancy dream of accomplishment, action or glory, forced instead to come to terms with a considerably reduced status, a betrayed love, and a hideously bourgeois world of crass mammonism and philistine taste.&lt;br /&gt;
-- Rudyard Kipling, Kim&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; What is necessary to change a person is&lt;br /&gt;
to change his awareness of himself.&lt;br /&gt;
- Abraham Maslow&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;a href="http://coffeetablepoetry.com/"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Coffee Table Poetry for Tea Drinkers&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;b&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; is updated often.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Subscribe by selecting&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=CoffeeTablePoetry&amp;amp;loc=en_US"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"&gt; E-mail&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;span style="color: black;"&gt;or&lt;/span&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds2.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetry"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"&gt;RSS Reader.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Also, come follow us on &lt;a href="http://twitter.com/coffeetablepoet"&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;Twitter&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; and &lt;a href="http://bit.ly/aEV6Eq"&gt;Facebook.&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt; Poets and Advertisers-please contact us to post your press releases, new book info, graphics and more at: &lt;/b&gt; &lt;a href="mailto: coffeetablepoet@gmail.com"&gt; &lt;span style="color: red; font-weight: bold;"&gt;coffeetablepoet@gmail.com&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/C_b29QTyryk" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/C_b29QTyryk/two-streams.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SuBsq9TCFlI/AAAAAAAACx0/SipI2mFI8a4/s72-c/teacupempress.png" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/02/two-streams.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-3334855398852597345</guid><pubDate>Sun, 19 Feb 2012 01:53:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-02-18T20:53:47.441-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Tabb J. B.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">love</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">20th C</category><title>A Duet</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TSpT1Em84KI/AAAAAAAAF9k/M-pIICzVfOk/s1600/teababies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="140" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TSpT1Em84KI/AAAAAAAAF9k/M-pIICzVfOk/s200/teababies.jpg" width="200" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 20th C, Tabb J. B., Love, Nature-- &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dk5vD-ZUNyA/T0BV9qWFKGI/AAAAAAAAIOQ/xMGyaNElA6s/s1600/yellowflower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dk5vD-ZUNyA/T0BV9qWFKGI/AAAAAAAAIOQ/xMGyaNElA6s/s320/yellowflower.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; "&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
A little yellow Bird above,&lt;br /&gt;
A little yellow Flower below;&lt;br /&gt;
The little Bird can sing the love&lt;br /&gt;
That Bird and Blossom know;&lt;br /&gt;
The Blossom has no song nor wing,&lt;br /&gt;
But breathes the love he cannot sing&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_B._Tabb"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;John B. Tabb&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  (March 22, 1845 - November 19, 1909) Father John Bannister Tabb was an American poet, Roman Catholic priest, and professor of English. (Although often misspelled as Bannister, the poet's middle name is actually spelled with only one "n", Banister.) Born into one of Virginia's oldest and wealthiest families, he became a blockade runner for the Confederacy during the Civil War, and spent eight months in a Union prison camp (where he formed a life-long friendship with poet Sidney Lanier); he converted to the Roman Catholic Church in 1872, and began to teach Greek and English at Saint Charles College (Ellicott City, Maryland) in 1878. He was ordained as a priest in 1884, after which he retained his academic position. Plagued by eye problems his whole life, he lost his sight completely about a year before he died in the college rooms that he had continued to occupy after his retirement. Father Tabb (as he was commonly known) was widely published in popular and prestigious magazines of the day, including Harper's Monthly, The Atlantic Monthly, and The Cosmopolitan. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_B._Tabb"&gt;John  B. Tabb&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; piacular \pahy-AK-yuh-ler\, adjective:&lt;br /&gt;
1. Expiatory; atoning; reparatory.&lt;br /&gt;
2. Requiring expiation; sinful or wicked.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
The journey to obtain scriptures in the Western Heaven is, for Tripitaka and his disciples, also the piacular journey of return to Buddha, and like the Odysseus of the Homeric poem, the scripture pilgrim must pass through appalling obstacles for past offenses against the gods.&lt;br /&gt;
-- Anthony C. Yu, Journey to the West&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; A friend is someone who won't stop&lt;br /&gt;
until he finds you and brings you home.&lt;br /&gt;
- Fraser Sr. in the movie Due South&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 17th C, Shakespeare W., Love-- &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/Sp8PRB0FaHI/AAAAAAAACUc/W97G31xcdhI/s1600/FairyLandWEB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/Sp8PRB0FaHI/AAAAAAAACUc/W97G31xcdhI/s320/FairyLandWEB.jpg" width="253" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded &lt;br /&gt;
A plaintful story from a sistering vale, &lt;br /&gt;
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded, &lt;br /&gt;
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale; &lt;br /&gt;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale, &lt;br /&gt;
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain, &lt;br /&gt;
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Upon her head a platted hive of straw, &lt;br /&gt;
Which fortified her visage from the sun, &lt;br /&gt;
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw &lt;br /&gt;
The carcass of beauty spent and done: &lt;br /&gt;
Time had not scythed all that youth begun, &lt;br /&gt;
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage, &lt;br /&gt;
Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, &lt;br /&gt;
Which on it had conceited characters, &lt;br /&gt;
Laundering the silken figures in the brine &lt;br /&gt;
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears, &lt;br /&gt;
And often reading what contents it bears; &lt;br /&gt;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe, &lt;br /&gt;
In clamours of all size, both high and low. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride, &lt;br /&gt;
As they did battery to the spheres intend; &lt;br /&gt;
Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied &lt;br /&gt;
To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend &lt;br /&gt;
Their view right on; anon their gazes lend &lt;br /&gt;
To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd, &lt;br /&gt;
The mind and sight distractedly commix'd. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, &lt;br /&gt;
Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride &lt;br /&gt;
For some, untuck'd, descended her sheaved hat, &lt;br /&gt;
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside; &lt;br /&gt;
Some in her threaden fillet still did bide, &lt;br /&gt;
And true to bondage would not break from thence, &lt;br /&gt;
Though slackly braided in loose negligence. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
A thousand favours from a maund she drew &lt;br /&gt;
Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet, &lt;br /&gt;
Which one by one she in a river threw, &lt;br /&gt;
Upon whose weeping margent she was set; &lt;br /&gt;
Like usury, applying wet to wet, &lt;br /&gt;
Or monarch's hands that let not bounty fall &lt;br /&gt;
Where want cries some, but where excess begs all. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Of folded schedules had she many a one, &lt;br /&gt;
Which she perused, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood; &lt;br /&gt;
Crack'd many a ring of posied gold and bone &lt;br /&gt;
Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud; &lt;br /&gt;
Found yet moe letters sadly penn'd in blood, &lt;br /&gt;
With sleided silk feat and affectedly &lt;br /&gt;
Enswathed, and seal'd to curious secrecy. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes, &lt;br /&gt;
And often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear: &lt;br /&gt;
Cried 'O false blood, thou register of lies, &lt;br /&gt;
What unapproved witness dost thou bear! &lt;br /&gt;
Ink would have seem'd more black and damned here!' &lt;br /&gt;
This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, &lt;br /&gt;
Big discontent so breaking their contents. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh-- &lt;br /&gt;
Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew &lt;br /&gt;
Of court, of city, and had let go by &lt;br /&gt;
The swiftest hours, observed as they flew-- &lt;br /&gt;
Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew, &lt;br /&gt;
And, privileged by age, desires to know &lt;br /&gt;
In brief the grounds and motives of her woe. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So slides he down upon his grained bat, &lt;br /&gt;
And comely-distant sits he by her side; &lt;br /&gt;
When he again desires her, being sat, &lt;br /&gt;
Her grievance with his hearing to divide: &lt;br /&gt;
If that from him there may be aught applied &lt;br /&gt;
Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage, &lt;br /&gt;
'Tis promised in the charity of age. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold &lt;br /&gt;
The injury of many a blasting hour, &lt;br /&gt;
Let it not tell your judgment I am old; &lt;br /&gt;
Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power: &lt;br /&gt;
I might as yet have been a spreading flower, &lt;br /&gt;
Fresh to myself, If I had self-applied &lt;br /&gt;
Love to myself and to no love beside. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'But, woe is me! too early I attended &lt;br /&gt;
A youthful suit--it was to gain my grace-- &lt;br /&gt;
Of one by nature's outwards so commended, &lt;br /&gt;
That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face: &lt;br /&gt;
Love lack'd a dwelling, and made him her place; &lt;br /&gt;
And when in his fair parts she did abide, &lt;br /&gt;
She was new lodged and newly deified. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls; &lt;br /&gt;
And every light occasion of the wind &lt;br /&gt;
Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls. &lt;br /&gt;
What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find: &lt;br /&gt;
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind, &lt;br /&gt;
For on his visage was in little drawn &lt;br /&gt;
What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'Small show of man was yet upon his chin; &lt;br /&gt;
His phoenix down began but to appear &lt;br /&gt;
Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin &lt;br /&gt;
Whose bare out-bragg'd the web it seem'd to wear: &lt;br /&gt;
Yet show'd his visage by that cost more dear; &lt;br /&gt;
And nice affections wavering stood in doubt &lt;br /&gt;
If best were as it was, or best without. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'His qualities were beauteous as his form, &lt;br /&gt;
For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free; &lt;br /&gt;
Yet, if men moved him, was he such a storm &lt;br /&gt;
As oft 'twixt May and April is to see, &lt;br /&gt;
When winds breathe sweet, untidy though they be. &lt;br /&gt;
His rudeness so with his authorized youth &lt;br /&gt;
Did livery falseness in a pride of truth. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'Well could he ride, and often men would say &lt;br /&gt;
'That horse his mettle from his rider takes: &lt;br /&gt;
Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, &lt;br /&gt;
What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop &lt;br /&gt;
he makes!' &lt;br /&gt;
And controversy hence a question takes, &lt;br /&gt;
Whether the horse by him became his deed, &lt;br /&gt;
Or he his manage by the well-doing steed. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'But quickly on this side the verdict went: &lt;br /&gt;
His real habitude gave life and grace &lt;br /&gt;
To appertainings and to ornament, &lt;br /&gt;
Accomplish'd in himself, not in his case: &lt;br /&gt;
All aids, themselves made fairer by their place, &lt;br /&gt;
Came for additions; yet their purposed trim &lt;br /&gt;
Pieced not his grace, but were all graced by him. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'So on the tip of his subduing tongue &lt;br /&gt;
All kinds of arguments and question deep, &lt;br /&gt;
All replication prompt, and reason strong, &lt;br /&gt;
For his advantage still did wake and sleep: &lt;br /&gt;
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep, &lt;br /&gt;
He had the dialect and different skill, &lt;br /&gt;
Catching all passions in his craft of will: &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'That he did in the general bosom reign &lt;br /&gt;
Of young, of old; and sexes both enchanted, &lt;br /&gt;
To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain &lt;br /&gt;
In personal duty, following where he haunted: &lt;br /&gt;
Consents bewitch'd, ere he desire, have granted; &lt;br /&gt;
And dialogued for him what he would say, &lt;br /&gt;
Ask'd their own wills, and made their wills obey. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'Many there were that did his picture get, &lt;br /&gt;
To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind; &lt;br /&gt;
Like fools that in th' imagination set &lt;br /&gt;
The goodly objects which abroad they find &lt;br /&gt;
Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign'd; &lt;br /&gt;
And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them &lt;br /&gt;
Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them: &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'So many have, that never touch'd his hand, &lt;br /&gt;
Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart. &lt;br /&gt;
My woeful self, that did in freedom stand, &lt;br /&gt;
And was my own fee-simple, not in part, &lt;br /&gt;
What with his art in youth, and youth in art, &lt;br /&gt;
Threw my affections in his charmed power, &lt;br /&gt;
Reserved the stalk and gave him all my flower. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'Yet did I not, as some my equals did, &lt;br /&gt;
Demand of him, nor being desired yielded; &lt;br /&gt;
Finding myself in honour so forbid, &lt;br /&gt;
With safest distance I mine honour shielded: &lt;br /&gt;
Experience for me many bulwarks builded &lt;br /&gt;
Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil &lt;br /&gt;
Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'But, ah, who ever shunn'd by precedent &lt;br /&gt;
The destined ill she must herself assay? &lt;br /&gt;
Or forced examples, 'gainst her own content, &lt;br /&gt;
To put the by-past perils in her way? &lt;br /&gt;
Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay; &lt;br /&gt;
For when we rage, advice is often seen &lt;br /&gt;
By blunting us to make our wits more keen. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, &lt;br /&gt;
That we must curb it upon others' proof; &lt;br /&gt;
To be forbod the sweets that seem so good, &lt;br /&gt;
For fear of harms that preach in our behoof. &lt;br /&gt;
O appetite, from judgment stand aloof! &lt;br /&gt;
The one a palate hath that needs will taste, &lt;br /&gt;
Though Reason weep, and cry, 'It is thy last.' &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'For further I could say 'This man's untrue,' &lt;br /&gt;
And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling; &lt;br /&gt;
Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew, &lt;br /&gt;
Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling; &lt;br /&gt;
Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling; &lt;br /&gt;
Thought characters and words merely but art, &lt;br /&gt;
And bastards of his foul adulterate heart. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'And long upon these terms I held my city, &lt;br /&gt;
Till thus he gan besiege me: 'Gentle maid, &lt;br /&gt;
Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity, &lt;br /&gt;
And be not of my holy vows afraid: &lt;br /&gt;
That's to ye sworn to none was ever said; &lt;br /&gt;
For feasts of love I have been call'd unto, &lt;br /&gt;
Till now did ne'er invite, nor never woo. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''All my offences that abroad you see &lt;br /&gt;
Are errors of the blood, none of the mind; &lt;br /&gt;
Love made them not: with acture they may be, &lt;br /&gt;
Where neither party is nor true nor kind: &lt;br /&gt;
They sought their shame that so their shame did find; &lt;br /&gt;
And so much less of shame in me remains, &lt;br /&gt;
By how much of me their reproach contains. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''Among the many that mine eyes have seen, &lt;br /&gt;
Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm'd, &lt;br /&gt;
Or my affection put to the smallest teen, &lt;br /&gt;
Or any of my leisures ever charm'd: &lt;br /&gt;
Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harm'd; &lt;br /&gt;
Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free, &lt;br /&gt;
And reign'd, commanding in his monarchy. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me, &lt;br /&gt;
Of paled pearls and rubies red as blood; &lt;br /&gt;
Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me &lt;br /&gt;
Of grief and blushes, aptly understood &lt;br /&gt;
In bloodless white and the encrimson'd mood; &lt;br /&gt;
Effects of terror and dear modesty, &lt;br /&gt;
Encamp'd in hearts, but fighting outwardly. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''And, lo, behold these talents of their hair, &lt;br /&gt;
With twisted metal amorously impleach'd, &lt;br /&gt;
I have received from many a several fair, &lt;br /&gt;
Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech'd, &lt;br /&gt;
With the annexions of fair gems enrich'd, &lt;br /&gt;
And deep-brain'd sonnets that did amplify &lt;br /&gt;
Each stone's dear nature, worth, and quality. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''The diamond,--why, 'twas beautiful and hard, &lt;br /&gt;
Whereto his invised properties did tend; &lt;br /&gt;
The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard &lt;br /&gt;
Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend; &lt;br /&gt;
The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend &lt;br /&gt;
With objects manifold: each several stone, &lt;br /&gt;
With wit well blazon'd, smiled or made some moan. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''Lo, all these trophies of affections hot, &lt;br /&gt;
Of pensived and subdued desires the tender, &lt;br /&gt;
Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not, &lt;br /&gt;
But yield them up where I myself must render, &lt;br /&gt;
That is, to you, my origin and ender; &lt;br /&gt;
For these, of force, must your oblations be, &lt;br /&gt;
Since I their altar, you enpatron me. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''O, then, advance of yours that phraseless hand, &lt;br /&gt;
Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise; &lt;br /&gt;
Take all these similes to your own command, &lt;br /&gt;
Hallow'd with sighs that burning lungs did raise; &lt;br /&gt;
What me your minister, for you obeys, &lt;br /&gt;
Works under you; and to your audit comes &lt;br /&gt;
Their distract parcels in combined sums. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''Lo, this device was sent me from a nun, &lt;br /&gt;
Or sister sanctified, of holiest note; &lt;br /&gt;
Which late her noble suit in court did shun, &lt;br /&gt;
Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote; &lt;br /&gt;
For she was sought by spirits of richest coat, &lt;br /&gt;
But kept cold distance, and did thence remove, &lt;br /&gt;
To spend her living in eternal love. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''But, O my sweet, what labour is't to leave &lt;br /&gt;
The thing we have not, mastering what not strives, &lt;br /&gt;
Playing the place which did no form receive, &lt;br /&gt;
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves? &lt;br /&gt;
She that her fame so to herself contrives, &lt;br /&gt;
The scars of battle 'scapeth by the flight, &lt;br /&gt;
And makes her absence valiant, not her might. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''O, pardon me, in that my boast is true: &lt;br /&gt;
The accident which brought me to her eye &lt;br /&gt;
Upon the moment did her force subdue, &lt;br /&gt;
And now she would the caged cloister fly: &lt;br /&gt;
Religious love put out Religion's eye: &lt;br /&gt;
Not to be tempted, would she be immured, &lt;br /&gt;
And now, to tempt, all liberty procured. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell! &lt;br /&gt;
The broken bosoms that to me belong &lt;br /&gt;
Have emptied all their fountains in my well, &lt;br /&gt;
And mine I pour your ocean all among: &lt;br /&gt;
I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong, &lt;br /&gt;
Must for your victory us all congest, &lt;br /&gt;
As compound love to physic your cold breast. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''My parts had power to charm a sacred nun, &lt;br /&gt;
Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace, &lt;br /&gt;
Believed her eyes when they to assail begun, &lt;br /&gt;
All vows and consecrations giving place: &lt;br /&gt;
O most potential love! vow, bond, nor space, &lt;br /&gt;
In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine, &lt;br /&gt;
For thou art all, and all things else are thine. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''When thou impressest, what are precepts worth &lt;br /&gt;
Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame, &lt;br /&gt;
How coldly those impediments stand forth &lt;br /&gt;
Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame! &lt;br /&gt;
Love's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense, &lt;br /&gt;
'gainst shame, &lt;br /&gt;
And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears, &lt;br /&gt;
The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
''Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, &lt;br /&gt;
Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine; &lt;br /&gt;
And supplicant their sighs to you extend, &lt;br /&gt;
To leave the battery that you make 'gainst mine, &lt;br /&gt;
Lending soft audience to my sweet design, &lt;br /&gt;
And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath &lt;br /&gt;
That shall prefer and undertake my troth.' &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'This said, his watery eyes he did dismount, &lt;br /&gt;
Whose sights till then were levell'd on my face; &lt;br /&gt;
Each cheek a river running from a fount &lt;br /&gt;
With brinish current downward flow'd apace: &lt;br /&gt;
O, how the channel to the stream gave grace! &lt;br /&gt;
Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses &lt;br /&gt;
That flame through water which their hue encloses. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies &lt;br /&gt;
In the small orb of one particular tear! &lt;br /&gt;
But with the inundation of the eyes &lt;br /&gt;
What rocky heart to water will not wear? &lt;br /&gt;
What breast so cold that is not warmed here? &lt;br /&gt;
O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath, &lt;br /&gt;
Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft, &lt;br /&gt;
Even there resolved my reason into tears; &lt;br /&gt;
There my white stole of chastity I daff'd, &lt;br /&gt;
Shook off my sober guards and civil fears; &lt;br /&gt;
Appear to him, as he to me appears, &lt;br /&gt;
All melting; though our drops this difference bore, &lt;br /&gt;
His poison'd me, and mine did him restore. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'In him a plenitude of subtle matter, &lt;br /&gt;
Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, &lt;br /&gt;
Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, &lt;br /&gt;
Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, &lt;br /&gt;
In either's aptness, as it best deceives, &lt;br /&gt;
To blush at speeches rank to weep at woes, &lt;br /&gt;
Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'That not a heart which in his level came &lt;br /&gt;
Could 'scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, &lt;br /&gt;
Showing fair nature is both kind and tame; &lt;br /&gt;
And, veil'd in them, did win whom he would maim: &lt;br /&gt;
Against the thing he sought he would exclaim; &lt;br /&gt;
When he most burn'd in heart-wish'd luxury, &lt;br /&gt;
He preach'd pure maid, and praised cold chastity. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'Thus merely with the garment of a Grace &lt;br /&gt;
The naked and concealed fiend he cover'd; &lt;br /&gt;
That th' unexperient gave the tempter place, &lt;br /&gt;
Which like a cherubin above them hover'd. &lt;br /&gt;
Who, young and simple, would not be so lover'd? &lt;br /&gt;
Ay me! I fell; and yet do question make &lt;br /&gt;
What I should do again for such a sake. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
'O, that infected moisture of his eye, &lt;br /&gt;
O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow'd, &lt;br /&gt;
O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly, &lt;br /&gt;
O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd, &lt;br /&gt;
O, all that borrow'd motion seeming owed, &lt;br /&gt;
Would yet again betray the fore-betray'd, &lt;br /&gt;
And new pervert a reconciled maid!' &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;William Shakespeare&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt; (baptised 26 April 1564; died 23 April 1616) Shakespeare was an English poet and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet and the "Bard of Avon". His surviving works, including some collaborations, consist of 38 plays,154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and several other poems. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright. Shakespeare was born and raised in Stratford-upon-Avon. At the age of 18, he married Anne Hathaway, who bore him three children Shakespeare produced most of his known work between 1590 and 1613. His early plays were mainly comedies and histories, genres he raised to the peak of sophistication and artistry by the end of the sixteenth century. He then wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608, including Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth, considered some of the finest works in the English language. Read more at:&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare"&gt; William Shakespeare&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;   exoteric \ek-suh-TER-ik\, adjective:&lt;br /&gt;
1. Suitable for or communicated to the general public.&lt;br /&gt;
2. Not belonging, limited, or pertaining to the inner or select circle, as of disciples or intimates.&lt;br /&gt;
3. Popular; simple; commonplace.&lt;br /&gt;
4. Pertaining to the outside; exterior; external.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
    Every religion under the heavens has a set of exoteric beliefs for the common man and a secret set of esoteric beliefs known only to a privileged inner circle.&lt;br /&gt;
    -- C. M. Palov, The Templar's Code&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;   Security is mostly a superstition.&lt;br /&gt;
It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it.&lt;br /&gt;
Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure.&lt;br /&gt;
Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.&lt;br /&gt;
- Helen Keller&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/ocXbOYJ7_rs" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/ocXbOYJ7_rs/lovers-complaint.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TAqWqSOtEXI/AAAAAAAAEpU/2aF6xs5la8A/s72-c/teacupflower.png" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2010/06/lovers-complaint.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-2647714685596591896</guid><pubDate>Sun, 12 Feb 2012 00:30:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-02-11T19:30:45.448-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">seasons</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">20th C</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Coleridge M.E.</category><title>The Swallow</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EyQIjtuTk7k/ToiqLD-6hOI/AAAAAAAAHUM/6NCZtHTMZVw/s1600/teacuppedestalbing.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="180" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EyQIjtuTk7k/ToiqLD-6hOI/AAAAAAAAHUM/6NCZtHTMZVw/s200/teacuppedestalbing.png" width="173" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 20th C, Coleridge M.E., Nature, Seasons--&amp;nbsp; &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-adWcn7KJ0kc/TzcH06saLNI/AAAAAAAAILo/JF-7_3RlFdg/s1600/swallow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-adWcn7KJ0kc/TzcH06saLNI/AAAAAAAAILo/JF-7_3RlFdg/s320/swallow.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Come back to me my swallow&lt;br /&gt;
And leave me not forlorn,&lt;br /&gt;
Into the woods I follow&lt;br /&gt;
The footsteps of the morn.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I thread the rustling hollow&lt;br /&gt;
Before the day is born,&lt;br /&gt;
Come back to me my swallow&lt;br /&gt;
And leave me not forlorn!&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The light was dark without thee,&lt;br /&gt;
My bird of April days,&lt;br /&gt;
I almost came to doubt thee&lt;br /&gt;
When thou hadst gone thy ways -- &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The sunshine round about thee -- &lt;br /&gt;
Into the land of rays.&lt;br /&gt;
The light was dark without thee,&lt;br /&gt;
My bird of April days. &lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Elizabeth_Coleridge"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Mary Elizabeth Coleridge&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  &lt;a href="http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/02/swallow.html"&gt;Mary Elizabeth Coleridge&lt;/a&gt; (23 September 1861 – 25 August 1907) was a British novelist and poet, who also wrote essays and reviews. She taught at the London Working Women's College for twelve years from 1895 to 1907. She wrote poetry under the pseudonym Anodos, taken from George MacDonald; other influences on her were Richard Watson Dixon and Christina Rossetti. Coleridge published five novels, the best known of those being The King with Two Faces, which earned her £900 in royalties in 1897. She travelled widely throughout her life, although her home was in London, where she lived with her family. Mary Coleridge was the great-grandniece of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and the great niece of Sara Coleridge, the author of Phantasmion. She died from complications arising from appendicitis while on holiday in Harrogate in 1907, leaving an unfinished manuscript for her next novel, and hundreds of unpublished poems. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Elizabeth_Coleridge"&gt;Mary Elizabeth Coleridge&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  natheless \NEYTH-lis\, adverb:&lt;br /&gt;
Nevertheless.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
Natheless, it was I who did educate Miss Lucy in all useful learning.&lt;br /&gt;
-- Sir Walter Scott, Guy Mannering&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  Yesterday is ashes.&lt;br /&gt;
Tomorrow is green wood.&lt;br /&gt;
Only today does the fire burn brightly.&lt;br /&gt;
- Eskimo Proverb&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://coffeetablepoetry.com/"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Coffee Table Poetry for Tea Drinkers&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;b&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; is updated often.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Subscribe by selecting&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=CoffeeTablePoetry&amp;amp;loc=en_US"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt; E-mail&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;span style="color: black;"&gt;or&lt;/span&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds2.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetry"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;RSS Reader.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Also, come follow us on &lt;a href="http://twitter.com/coffeetablepoet"&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;Twitter&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; and &lt;a href="http://bit.ly/aEV6Eq"&gt;Facebook.&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt; Poets and Advertisers-please contact us to post your press releases, new book info, graphics and more at: &lt;/b&gt; &lt;a href="mailto:%20coffeetablepoet@gmail.com"&gt; &lt;span style="color: red; font-weight: bold;"&gt;coffeetablepoet@gmail.com&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/ypcXR55tVZE" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/ypcXR55tVZE/swallow.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EyQIjtuTk7k/ToiqLD-6hOI/AAAAAAAAHUM/6NCZtHTMZVw/s72-c/teacuppedestalbing.png" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/02/swallow.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-7032535123380771229</guid><pubDate>Thu, 09 Feb 2012 14:34:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-02-09T20:39:08.586-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">joy</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Alcott Louisa M.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">19thC</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">seasons</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">hope</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">love</category><title>Brighter Shone the Golden Shadows</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://s654.photobucket.com/albums/uu265/vickig423/?action=view&amp;amp;current=teablueflower-1.jpg" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i654.photobucket.com/albums/uu265/vickig423/teablueflower-1.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 19thC, Alcott Louisa M., Hope, Love, Joy, Nature, Seasons--&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7fFP8X53zSg/TzR0pIANqNI/AAAAAAAAILA/m2IZniaLzAg/s1600/goldenshadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="233" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7fFP8X53zSg/TzR0pIANqNI/AAAAAAAAILA/m2IZniaLzAg/s320/goldenshadow.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Brighter shone the golden shadows;&lt;br /&gt;
On the cool wind softly came&lt;br /&gt;
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,&lt;br /&gt;
Singing little Violet's name.&lt;br /&gt;
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,&lt;br /&gt;
And the bright waves bore it on&lt;br /&gt;
To the lonely forest flowers,&lt;br /&gt;
Where the glad news had not gone.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,&lt;br /&gt;
And his power to harm and blight.&lt;br /&gt;
Violet conquered, and his cold heart&lt;br /&gt;
Warmed with music, love, and light;&lt;br /&gt;
And his fair home, once so dreary,&lt;br /&gt;
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,&lt;br /&gt;
Brought a joy that never faded&lt;br /&gt;
Through the long bright summer hours.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Thus, by Violet's magic power,&lt;br /&gt;
All dark shadows passed away,&lt;br /&gt;
And o'er the home of happy flowers&lt;br /&gt;
The golden light for ever lay.&lt;br /&gt;
Thus the Fairy mission ended,&lt;br /&gt;
And all Flower-Land was taught&lt;br /&gt;
The 'Power of Love,' by gentle deeds&lt;br /&gt;
That little Violet wrought. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louisa_May_Alcott"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Lousia May Alcott&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt; (November 29, 1832 – March 6, 1888) Alcott was an American novelist. She is best known for the novel Little Women, written and set in the Alcott family home, Orchard House in Concord, Massachusetts and published in 1868. This novel is loosely based on her childhood experiences with her three sisters. Alcott was the daughter of noted transcendentalist and educator Amos Bronson Alcott and Abigail May Alcott. Though of New England heritage, she was born in Germantown, which is currently part of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She was the second of four daughters; Anna Bronson Alcott was the eldest, Elizabeth Sewall Alcott and Abigail May Alcott were the two youngest.She also wrote passionate, fiery novels and sensation stories under the nom de plume A. M. Barnard. Among these are A Long Fatal Love Chase and Pauline's Passion and Punishment. Her protagonists for these tales are willful and relentless in their pursuit of their own aims, which often include revenge on those who have humiliated or thwarted them. These works followed a style which was wildly popular at the time and achieved immediate commercial success. Alcott also produced moralistic and wholesome stories for children. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louisa_May_Alcott"&gt;Louisa May Alcott&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; cater-cousin \KEY-ter-kuhz-uhn\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
An intimate friend.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
The world talks loudly of your learning, your skill, and cunning in arts the most abstruse ; nay, sooth to say, some look coldly on you therefore, and stickle not to aver that you are cater-cousin with Beelzebub himself.&lt;br /&gt;
-- Thomas Ingolds, The Ingolds legends; or, Mirth and marvels&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; No creature is fully itself till it is, like the dandelion, opened in the bloom of pure relationship to the sun, the entire living cosmos.  ~D.H. Lawrence&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://coffeetablepoetry.com/"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Coffee Table Poetry for Tea Drinkers&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;b&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; is updated often.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Subscribe by selecting&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=CoffeeTablePoetry&amp;amp;loc=en_US"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt; E-mail&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;span style="color: black;"&gt;or&lt;/span&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds2.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetry"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;RSS Reader.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Also, come follow us on &lt;a href="http://twitter.com/coffeetablepoet"&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;Twitter&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; and &lt;a href="http://bit.ly/aEV6Eq"&gt;Facebook.&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt; Poets and Advertisers-please contact us to post your press releases, new book info, graphics and more at: &lt;/b&gt; &lt;a href="mailto:%20coffeetablepoet@gmail.com"&gt; &lt;span style="color: red; font-weight: bold;"&gt;coffeetablepoet@gmail.com&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;center&gt;&lt;span style="color: #660000;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;Enjoy these other unique locations: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;div style="line-height: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0pt; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/%7Er/CoffeeTablePoetrysGuestBookForPoets/%7E6/3" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;img alt="Coffee Table Poetry's Guest Book For Poets" src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetrysGuestBookForPoets.3.gif" style="border: 0pt none;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="line-height: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0pt; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="line-height: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0pt; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/%7Er/FreeIphoneAppsForYou/%7E6/5" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;img alt="Cool iPhone, iPad, iPod Touch Apps" src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/FreeIphoneAppsForYou.5.gif" style="border: 0pt none;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-size: x-small; margin-top: 5px; padding-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/headlineanimator/install?id=8s11hb853eegmcfe4vuk6gt7mo&amp;amp;w=5" target="_blank"&gt;↑ Grab this Headline Animator&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/center&gt;&lt;center style="color: #990000;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"&gt;Posted by V. Mahfood&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/center&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8083953159111148026-7032535123380771229?l=www.coffeetablepoetry.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 17th C, Herbert G ., Love--&amp;nbsp;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tngDDFzEEeU/Ty8PZNIOx3I/AAAAAAAAII4/Snp_YnPSopo/s1600/mattins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tngDDFzEEeU/Ty8PZNIOx3I/AAAAAAAAII4/Snp_YnPSopo/s320/mattins.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;I cannot ope mine eyes,&lt;br /&gt;
But thou art ready there to catch&lt;br /&gt;
My morning-soul and sacrifice:&lt;br /&gt;
Then we must needs for that day make a match.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
My God, what is a heart?&lt;br /&gt;
Silver, or gold, or precious stone,&lt;br /&gt;
Or star, or rainbow, or a part&lt;br /&gt;
Of all these things or all of them in one?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
My God, what is a heart?&lt;br /&gt;
That thou should'st it so eye, and woo,&lt;br /&gt;
Pouring upon it all thy art,&lt;br /&gt;
As if that thou hadst nothing else to do?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Indeed man's whole estate&lt;br /&gt;
Amounts (and richly) to serve thee:&lt;br /&gt;
He did not heav'n and earth create,&lt;br /&gt;
Yet studies them, not him by whom they be.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Teach me thy love to know;&lt;br /&gt;
That this new light, which now I see,&lt;br /&gt;
May both the work and workman show:&lt;br /&gt;
Then by a sun-beam I will climb to thee.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Herbert"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;George Herbert&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  George Herbert (3 April 1593 – 1 March 1633) was a Welsh born English poet, orator and Anglican priest.  Being born into an artistic and wealthy family, he received a good education that led to his holding prominent positions at Cambridge University and Parliament. As a student at Trinity College, Cambridge, Herbert excelled in languages and music. He went to college with the intention of becoming a priest, but his scholarship attracted the attention of King James I/VI. Herbert served in parliament for two years. After the death of King James and at the urging of a friend, Herbert's interest in ordained ministry was renewed. In 1630, in his late thirties he gave up his secular ambitions and took holy orders in the Church of England, spending the rest of his life as a rector of the little parish of Fugglestone St Peter with Bemerton St Andrew, near Salisbury. He was noted for unfailing care for his parishioners, bringing the sacraments to them when they were ill, and providing food and clothing for those in need. Henry Vaughan said of him "a most glorious saint and seer". Read more at: &lt;a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Herbert"&gt;George Herbert&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;   caprice \kuh-PREES\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
1. A sudden, unpredictable change, as of one's mind or the weather.&lt;br /&gt;
2. A tendency to change one's mind without apparent or adequate motive; whimsicality; capriciousness.&lt;br /&gt;
3. Music. Capriccio.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
Does she turn, thought he, thus, from one to the other, with no preference but of accident or caprice? Is her favour thus light of circulation?&lt;br /&gt;
-- Fanny Burney, Camilla, or a Picture of Youth&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;   The essence of life is not in the great victories and grand failures, but in the simple joys.&lt;br /&gt;
- Jonathan Lockwood Huie&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://coffeetablepoetry.com/"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Coffee Table Poetry for Tea Drinkers&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;b&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; is updated often.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Subscribe by selecting&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=CoffeeTablePoetry&amp;amp;loc=en_US"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt; E-mail&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;span style="color: black;"&gt;or&lt;/span&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds2.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetry"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;RSS Reader.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Also, come follow us on &lt;a href="http://twitter.com/coffeetablepoet"&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;Twitter&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; and &lt;a href="http://bit.ly/aEV6Eq"&gt;Facebook.&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt; Poets and Advertisers-please contact us to post your press releases, new book info, graphics and more at: &lt;/b&gt; &lt;a href="mailto:%20coffeetablepoet@gmail.com"&gt; &lt;span style="color: red; font-weight: bold;"&gt;coffeetablepoet@gmail.com&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/4xV8AeZ_NUw" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/4xV8AeZ_NUw/mattins.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2lZkM9b8xzk/Ty8PIwG265I/AAAAAAAAIIw/T7ba-2BssH8/s72-c/teavintage.png" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/02/mattins.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-2835253468730959443</guid><pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 01:12:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-02-02T20:25:28.904-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">aging</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Mansfield K.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">friendship</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">K.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">love</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">20th C</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">marriage</category><title>Camomile Tea</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EkNq1T046qw/Tysz21WHl2I/AAAAAAAAIHQ/82ylFyP7FDU/s1600/tea2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EkNq1T046qw/Tysz21WHl2I/AAAAAAAAIHQ/82ylFyP7FDU/s1600/tea2.png" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000;"&gt;--Description: Mansfield K., 20th C, Aging, Friendship, Love, Marriage&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SayKpEGdgQI/AAAAAAAAAqI/WI7x4mdRnwc/s1600-h/camtea1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SayKpEGdgQI/AAAAAAAAAqI/WI7x4mdRnwc/s320/camtea1.png" vi="true" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;Outside the sky is light with stars; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;There's a hollow roaring from the sea. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;And, alas! for the little almond flowers, &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;The wind is shaking the almond tree. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;How little I thought, a year ago, &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;In the horrible cottage upon the Lee &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;That he and I should be sitting so &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;And sipping a cup of camomile tea. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;Light as feathers the witches fly, &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;The horn of the moon is plain to see; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;By a firefly under a jonquil flower &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;A goblin toasts a bumble-bee. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;We might be fifty, we might be five, &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;So snug, so compact, so wise are we! &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;Under the kitchen-table leg &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;My knee is pressing against his knee. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;Our shutters are shut, the fire is low, &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;The tap is dripping peacefully; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;The saucepan shadows on the wall &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia,&amp;quot;Times New Roman&amp;quot;,serif;"&gt;Are black and round and plain to see.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katherine_Mansfield"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Katherine Mansfield&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  (14 October 1888 – 9 January 1923) &lt;a href="http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2010/10/little-boys-dream.html"&gt;Katherine Mansfield&lt;/a&gt; was a prominent modernist writer of short fiction who was born and brought up in colonial New Zealand and wrote under the pen name of Katherine Mansfield, which is in itself a short form of her real name as she was born Katherine Mansfield Beauchamp. Mansfield left for Great Britain in 1908 where she encountered Modernist writers such as D.H. Lawrence and Virginia Woolf with whom she became close friends. Her stories often focus on moments of disruption and frequently open rather abruptly. Among her most well known stories are The Garden Party, The Daughters of the Late Colonel and The Fly. During the First World War Mansfield contracted tuberculosis which rendered any return or visit to New Zealand impossible and led to her death at the age of 34. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katherine_Mansfield"&gt;Katherine Mansfield&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Poetry Terminology:&lt;/b&gt; Rising Meter - &lt;br /&gt;
Term used to describe end-stressed meters such as iambic and anapestic - as opposed to falling meter. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; hotchpot \HOCH-pot\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
the bringing together of shares or properties in order to divide them equally.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
She continued, "This is what I can give into the hotchpot." I could not but note the quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all seriousness? "What will each of you give?..."&lt;br /&gt;
-- Bram Stoker, Dracula&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  &lt;br /&gt;
Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste&lt;br /&gt;
that they hurry past it.&lt;br /&gt;
- Soren Kierkegaard&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://coffeetablepoetry.com/"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Coffee Table Poetry for Tea Drinkers&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;b&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; is updated often.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Subscribe by selecting&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=CoffeeTablePoetry&amp;amp;loc=en_US"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt; E-mail&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;span style="color: black;"&gt;or&lt;/span&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds2.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetry"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;RSS Reader.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Also, come follow us on &lt;a href="http://twitter.com/coffeetablepoet"&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;Twitter&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; and &lt;a href="http://bit.ly/aEV6Eq"&gt;Facebook.&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt; Poets and Advertisers-please contact us to post your press releases, new book info, graphics and more at: &lt;/b&gt; &lt;a href="mailto:%20coffeetablepoet@gmail.com"&gt; &lt;span style="color: red; font-weight: bold;"&gt;coffeetablepoet@gmail.com&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/G0azFlZ_5TU" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/G0azFlZ_5TU/camomile-tea.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EkNq1T046qw/Tysz21WHl2I/AAAAAAAAIHQ/82ylFyP7FDU/s72-c/tea2.png" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/02/camomile-tea.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-4001892345530635835</guid><pubDate>Tue, 31 Jan 2012 01:12:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-01-30T20:14:02.027-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Longfellow H.W.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">night</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">19th C</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">celestial</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">seasons</category><title>Daylight and Moonlight</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/S2yXpbAYZ-I/AAAAAAAADkc/oELPI9TKMoE/s1600/teacupblack.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/S2yXpbAYZ-I/AAAAAAAADkc/oELPI9TKMoE/s1600/teacupblack.png" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 19th C, Longfellow H.W., Celestial, Nature, Night, Seasons-- &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TBvEmSwna4I/AAAAAAAAEpw/H9yNkIzAkys/s1600/MoonFlip.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="190" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TBvEmSwna4I/AAAAAAAAEpw/H9yNkIzAkys/s320/MoonFlip.gif" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;In broad daylight, and at noon,&lt;br /&gt;
Yesterday I saw the moon&lt;br /&gt;
Sailing high, but faint and white,&lt;br /&gt;
As a schoolboy's paper kite.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
In broad daylight, yesterday,&lt;br /&gt;
I read a poet's mystic lay;&lt;br /&gt;
And it seemed to me at most&lt;br /&gt;
As a phantom, or a ghost.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
But at length the feverish day&lt;br /&gt;
Like a passion died away,&lt;br /&gt;
And the night, serene and still,&lt;br /&gt;
Fell on village, vale, and hill.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Then the moon, in all her pride,&lt;br /&gt;
Like a spirit glorified,&lt;br /&gt;
Filled and overflowed the night&lt;br /&gt;
With revelations of her light.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And the Poet's song again&lt;br /&gt;
Passed like music through my brain;&lt;br /&gt;
Night interpreted to me&lt;br /&gt;
All its grace and mystery.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Henry W. Longfellow&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt; (February 27, 1807 – March 24, 1882) Longfellow was an American educator and poet whose works include "Paul Revere's Ride", The Song of Hiawatha, and "Evangeline". He was also the first American to translate Dante Alighieri's The Divine Comedy and was one of the five Fireside Poets. Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, then part of Massachusetts, and studied at Bowdoin College. After spending time in Europe he became a professor there and, later, at Harvard College. His first major poetry collections were Voices of the Night (1839) and Ballads and Other Poems (1841). Longfellow retired from teaching in 1854 to focus on his writing, living the remainder of his life in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in a former headquarters of George Washington. His first wife, Mary Potter, died in 1835 after a miscarriage. His second wife, Frances Appleton, died in 1861 after sustaining burns from her dress catching fire. After her death, Longfellow had difficulty writing poetry for a time and focused on his translation. He died in 1882. Longfellow predominantly wrote lyric poems which are known for their musicality and which often presented stories of mythology and legend. He became the most popular American poet of his day and also had success overseas. He has been criticized, however, for imitating European styles and writing specifically for the masses. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow"&gt;Henry W. Longfellow&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; juggernaut \JUHG-er-nawt\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
1. Any large, overpowering, destructive force.&lt;br /&gt;
2. Something, such as a belief or institution, that elicits blind and destructive devotion.&lt;br /&gt;
3. An idol of Krishna, at Puri in Orissa, India, annually drawn on an enormous cart under whose wheels devotees are said to have thrown themselves to be crushed.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
It is a pity that every time this economic juggernaut encounters successful international competition in manufacturing, it resorts to bullying against its own consumers' welfare and that of the working poor worldwide.&lt;br /&gt;
-Zhang Xiang, "Going toe to toe with the bully", Xinhua   &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,&lt;br /&gt;
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.&lt;br /&gt;
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/mr0EVew3aQY" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/mr0EVew3aQY/daylight-and-moonlight.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/S2yXpbAYZ-I/AAAAAAAADkc/oELPI9TKMoE/s72-c/teacupblack.png" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/daylight-and-moonlight.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-8302012166809737250</guid><pubDate>Thu, 26 Jan 2012 23:54:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-01-26T18:55:37.119-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Belloc H.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">seasons</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">20th C</category><title>[Month of] February</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/S2yXpbAYZ-I/AAAAAAAADkc/oELPI9TKMoE/s1600-h/teacupblack.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/S2yXpbAYZ-I/AAAAAAAADkc/oELPI9TKMoE/s1600/teacupblack.png" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 20th C, Belloc H., Nature, Seasons--&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HRkpqT8KFvk/TyHnhxcu_eI/AAAAAAAAIFI/963LhARYzh8/s1600/february.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HRkpqT8KFvk/TyHnhxcu_eI/AAAAAAAAIFI/963LhARYzh8/s320/february.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;The winter moon has such a quiet car&lt;br /&gt;
That all the winter nights are dumb with rest.&lt;br /&gt;
She drives the gradual dark with drooping crest,&lt;br /&gt;
And dreams go wandering from her drowsy star.&lt;br /&gt;
Because the nights are silent, do not wake:&lt;br /&gt;
But there shall tremble through the general earth,&lt;br /&gt;
And over you, a quickening and a birth.&lt;br /&gt;
The sun is near the hill-tops for your sake.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The latest born of all the days shall creep&lt;br /&gt;
To kiss the tender eyelids of the year;&lt;br /&gt;
And you shall wake, grown young with perfect sleep,&lt;br /&gt;
And smile at the new world, and make it dear&lt;br /&gt;
With living murmurs more than dreams are deep.&lt;br /&gt;
Silence is dead, my Dawn; the morning's here. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hilaire_Belloc"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Hilaire Belloc&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt; (27 July 1870 – 16 July 1953) Belloc was an Anglo-French writer and historian who became a naturalised British subject in 1902. He was one of the most prolific writers in England during the early twentieth century. He is most notable for his Roman Catholic faith, which had an impact on most of his writing. Belloc was born in La Celle-Saint-Cloud, France (next to Versailles and near Paris) to a French father and English mother, and grew up in England. Much of his boyhood was spent in Slindon, West Sussex, for which he often felt homesick in later life. His mother Elizabeth Rayner Parkes (1829–1925) was also a writer, and a great-granddaughter of the English chemist Joseph Priestley. In 1867 she married attorney Louis Belloc, son of the French painter Jean-Hilaire Belloc. In 1872, five years after they wed, Louis died, but not before being wiped out financially in a stock market crash. The young widow then brought her son Hilaire, along with his sister, Marie, back to England where he remained, except for his voluntary enlistment as a young man in the French artillery. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hilaire_Belloc"&gt;Hilaire Beloc&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Poetry Terminology:&lt;/b&gt; Haibun - &lt;br /&gt;
Japanese form, pioneered by the poet Basho, and comprising a section of prose followed by haiku. They are frequently travelogues - as in Basho's The Records of a Travel-Worn Satchel (1688). In the best examples, the prose and haiku should work together to create an organic whole. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; deucedly \DOO-sid-lee\, adverb:&lt;br /&gt;
Devilishly; damnably.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
When I went in I had seen that there was a deucedly pretty girl sitting in that particular seat, so I had taken the next one.&lt;br /&gt;
-- P. G. Wodehouse, Man With Two Left Feet and Other Stories&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
Regret is an appalling waste of energy,&lt;br /&gt;
you can't build on it - it's only good for wallowing in.&lt;br /&gt;
- Katherine Mansfield&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/_oRYlxaewPU" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/_oRYlxaewPU/month-of-february.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/S2yXpbAYZ-I/AAAAAAAADkc/oELPI9TKMoE/s72-c/teacupblack.png" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/month-of-february.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-7101645503032026938</guid><pubDate>Sun, 22 Jan 2012 19:01:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-01-22T14:01:11.465-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">life</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Masefield J.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">20th C</category><title>Sea Fever</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4dkf8__nOmw/ToT6QMR4OBI/AAAAAAAAHTc/jg8Xuyd1pbw/s1600/teacupbing3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4dkf8__nOmw/ToT6QMR4OBI/AAAAAAAAHTc/jg8Xuyd1pbw/s1600/teacupbing3.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 20th C, Masefield J., Nature, Life-- &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R7G7hZnQhjQ/TxxcMIuedVI/AAAAAAAAIC4/UzbElc7li70/s1600/seafever.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="243" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R7G7hZnQhjQ/TxxcMIuedVI/AAAAAAAAIC4/UzbElc7li70/s320/seafever.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,&lt;br /&gt;
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,&lt;br /&gt;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,&lt;br /&gt;
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide&lt;br /&gt;
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;&lt;br /&gt;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,&lt;br /&gt;
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,&lt;br /&gt;
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;&lt;br /&gt;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,&lt;br /&gt;
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Masefield"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;John Masefield&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  (1 June 1878 – 12 May 1967) John Masefield was an English poet and writer, and Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1930 until his death in 1967. He is remembered as the author of the classic children's novels The Midnight Folk and The Box of Delights, and many memorable poems, including "The Everlasting Mercy" and "Sea-Fever".  Masefield was born in Ledbury in Herefordshire, to Caroline and George Masefield, a solicitor. His mother died giving birth to his sister when Masefield was only six, and he went to live with his aunt. His father died soon after following a mental breakdown. After an unhappy education at the King's School in Warwick (now known as Warwick School), where he was a boarder between 1888 and 1891, he left to board the HMS Conway, both to train for a life at sea, and to break his addiction to reading, of which his aunt thought little. He spent several years aboard this ship and found that he could spend much of his time reading and writing. It was aboard the Conway that Masefield’s love for story-telling grew. While on the ship, he listened to the stories told about sea lore. He continued to read, and felt that he was to become a writer and story teller himself. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Masefield"&gt;John Masefield&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;   alate \EY-leyt\, adjective:&lt;br /&gt;
1. Having wings; winged.&lt;br /&gt;
2. Having membranous expansions like wings.&lt;br /&gt;
noun:&lt;br /&gt;
1. The winged form of an insect when both winged and wingless forms occur in the species.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
    Vainly a few diehard physicists pointed out that wings are of no propulsive help in airless void, that alate flight is possible only where there are wind currents to lift and carry.&lt;br /&gt;
    -- Robert Silverberg, Earth is the Strangest Planet&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;   Life is ten percent what happens to you&lt;br /&gt;
and ninety percent how you respond to it.&lt;br /&gt;
- Lou Holtz&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/8KNO_21-pBw" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/8KNO_21-pBw/sea-fever.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4dkf8__nOmw/ToT6QMR4OBI/AAAAAAAAHTc/jg8Xuyd1pbw/s72-c/teacupbing3.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/sea-fever.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-4636231921520795694</guid><pubDate>Thu, 19 Jan 2012 18:33:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-01-19T13:33:24.985-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">disillusion</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Emerson R.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">19th C</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">life</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Death</category><title>Good-by</title><description>&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TBPK5pi7xJI/AAAAAAAAEpo/AgAxrBckdcw/s1600/teacups5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TBPK5pi7xJI/AAAAAAAAEpo/AgAxrBckdcw/s1600/teacups5.png" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 19th C, Emerson Ralph W., Death, Disillusion, Life-- &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SrpjvfuCZdI/AAAAAAAACgk/WPglM2XdpNE/s1600/meadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SrpjvfuCZdI/AAAAAAAACgk/WPglM2XdpNE/s320/meadow.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Good-by, proud world, I'm going home, &lt;br /&gt;
Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine; &lt;br /&gt;
Long through thy weary crowds I roam; &lt;br /&gt;
A river-ark on the ocean brine, &lt;br /&gt;
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam, &lt;br /&gt;
But now, proud world, I'm going home. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Good-by to Flattery's fawning face, &lt;br /&gt;
To Grandeur, with his wise grimace, &lt;br /&gt;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye, &lt;br /&gt;
To supple Office low and high, &lt;br /&gt;
To crowded halls, to court, and street, &lt;br /&gt;
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet, &lt;br /&gt;
To those who go, and those who come, &lt;br /&gt;
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I'm going to my own hearth-stone &lt;br /&gt;
Bosomed in yon green hills, alone, &lt;br /&gt;
A secret nook in a pleasant land, &lt;br /&gt;
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; &lt;br /&gt;
Where arches green the livelong day &lt;br /&gt;
Echo the blackbird's roundelay, &lt;br /&gt;
And vulgar feet have never trod &lt;br /&gt;
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, &lt;br /&gt;
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; &lt;br /&gt;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines &lt;br /&gt;
Where the evening star so holy shines, &lt;br /&gt;
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, &lt;br /&gt;
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan; &lt;br /&gt;
For what are they all in their high conceit, &lt;br /&gt;
When man in the bush with God may meet. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ralph_Waldo_Emerson"&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;i&gt;Ralph Waldo Emerson &lt;/a&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  (May 25, 1803 – April 27, 1882) Emerson was an American essayist, philosopher, and poet, best remembered for leading the Transcendentalist movement of the mid 19th century. His teachings directly influenced the growing New Thought movement of the mid 1800s. He was seen as a champion of individualism and a prescient critic of the countervailing pressures of society. Emerson gradually moved away from the religious and social beliefs of his contemporaries, formulating and expressing the philosophy of Transcendentalism in his 1836 essay, Nature. As a result of this ground breaking work he gave a speech entitled The American Scholar in 1837, which Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. considered to be America's "Intellectual Declaration of Independence". Considered one of the great orators of the time, Emerson's enthusiasm and respect for his audience enraptured crowds. His support for abolitionism late in life created controversy, and at times he was subject to abuse from crowds while speaking on the topic. When asked to sum up his work, he said his central doctrine was "the infinitude of the private man." Read more at: Ralph Waldo Emerson  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; bathos \BEY-thos\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
1. Triteness or triviality in style.&lt;br /&gt;
2. A ludicrous descent from the exalted or lofty to the commonplace; anticlimax.&lt;br /&gt;
3. Insincere pathos; sentimentality; mawkishness.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
After one character undergoes a particularly lightning-speed change in temperament, the director lays on a ludicrously coincidental plot twist with sentimental bathos that nearly swamps everything that has gone before.&lt;br /&gt;
-Ann Hornaday, "Movie review: In 'Mother and Child,' Bening and Epps give strong performances", Washington Post, May 2010  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  "Woe to the man whose heart has not learned while young to hope, to love ... and to put its trust in life." &lt;br /&gt;
-Joseph Conrad &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/-S3BeGUdkew" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/-S3BeGUdkew/good-by.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TBPK5pi7xJI/AAAAAAAAEpo/AgAxrBckdcw/s72-c/teacups5.png" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2010/06/good-by.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-267285433373240693</guid><pubDate>Mon, 16 Jan 2012 01:08:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-01-15T20:17:21.112-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">17th C</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Bradstreet A.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">parenting</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">love</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">children</category><title>In Reference to Her Children</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j-YwnMWen7M/TxN4wNya54I/AAAAAAAAH_A/oJLl0bAM9_Y/s1600/teavintage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j-YwnMWen7M/TxN4wNya54I/AAAAAAAAH_A/oJLl0bAM9_Y/s200/teavintage.png" width="151" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 17th C, Bradstreet A., Children, Love, Parenting-- &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1Ei6BvWM5Xg/TxN4gwwbt4I/AAAAAAAAH-4/uHA2vy8jnQ8/s1600/birdfamily%2527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="306" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1Ei6BvWM5Xg/TxN4gwwbt4I/AAAAAAAAH-4/uHA2vy8jnQ8/s400/birdfamily%2527.jpg" width="400" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
I had eight birds hatched in one nest,&lt;br /&gt;
Four cocks there were, and hens the rest.&lt;br /&gt;
I nursed them up with pain and care,&lt;br /&gt;
Nor cost, nor labour did I spare,&lt;br /&gt;
Till at the last they felt their wing,&lt;br /&gt;
Mounted the trees, and learned to sing;&lt;br /&gt;
Chief of the brood then took his flight&lt;br /&gt;
To regions far and left me quite.&lt;br /&gt;
My mournful chirps I after send,&lt;br /&gt;
Till he return, or I do end:&lt;br /&gt;
Leave not thy nest, thy dam and sire,&lt;br /&gt;
Fly back and sing amidst this choir.&lt;br /&gt;
My second bird did take her flight,&lt;br /&gt;
And with her mate flew out of sight;&lt;br /&gt;
Southward they both their course did bend,&lt;br /&gt;
And seasons twain they there did spend,&lt;br /&gt;
Till after blown by southern gales,&lt;br /&gt;
They norward steered with filled sails.&lt;br /&gt;
A prettier bird was no where seen,&lt;br /&gt;
Along the beach among the treen.&lt;br /&gt;
I have a third of colour white,&lt;br /&gt;
On whom I placed no small delight;&lt;br /&gt;
Coupled with mate loving and true,&lt;br /&gt;
Hath also bid her dam adieu;&lt;br /&gt;
And where Aurora first appears,&lt;br /&gt;
She now hath perched to spend her years.&lt;br /&gt;
One to the academy flew&lt;br /&gt;
To chat among that learned crew;&lt;br /&gt;
Ambition moves still in his breast&lt;br /&gt;
That he might chant above the rest&lt;br /&gt;
Striving for more than to do well,&lt;br /&gt;
That nightingales he might excel.&lt;br /&gt;
My fifth, whose down is yet scarce gone,&lt;br /&gt;
Is 'mongst the shrubs and bushes flown,&lt;br /&gt;
And as his wings increase in strength,&lt;br /&gt;
On higher boughs he'll perch at length.&lt;br /&gt;
My other three still with me nest,&lt;br /&gt;
Until they're grown, then as the rest,&lt;br /&gt;
Or here or there they'll take their flight,&lt;br /&gt;
As is ordained, so shall they light.&lt;br /&gt;
If birds could weep, then would my tears&lt;br /&gt;
Let others know what are my fears&lt;br /&gt;
Lest this my brood some harm should catch,&lt;br /&gt;
And be surprised for want of watch,&lt;br /&gt;
Whilst pecking corn and void of care,&lt;br /&gt;
They fall un'wares in fowler's snare,&lt;br /&gt;
Or whilst on trees they sit and sing,&lt;br /&gt;
Some untoward boy at them do fling,&lt;br /&gt;
Or whilst allured with bell and glass,&lt;br /&gt;
The net be spread, and caught, alas.&lt;br /&gt;
Or lest by lime-twigs they be foiled,&lt;br /&gt;
Or by some greedy hawks be spoiled.&lt;br /&gt;
O would my young, ye saw my breast,&lt;br /&gt;
And knew what thoughts there sadly rest,&lt;br /&gt;
Great was my pain when I you fed,&lt;br /&gt;
Long did I keep you soft and warm,&lt;br /&gt;
And with my wings kept off all harm,&lt;br /&gt;
My cares are more and fears than ever,&lt;br /&gt;
My throbs such now as 'fore were never.&lt;br /&gt;
Alas, my birds, you wisdom want,&lt;br /&gt;
Of perils you are ignorant;&lt;br /&gt;
Oft times in grass, on trees, in flight,&lt;br /&gt;
Sore accidents on you may light.&lt;br /&gt;
O to your safety have an eye,&lt;br /&gt;
So happy may you live and die.&lt;br /&gt;
Meanwhile my days in tunes I'll spend,&lt;br /&gt;
Till my weak lays with me shall end.&lt;br /&gt;
In shady woods I'll sit and sing,&lt;br /&gt;
And things that past to mind I'll bring.&lt;br /&gt;
Once young and pleasant, as are you,&lt;br /&gt;
But former toys (no joys) adieu.&lt;br /&gt;
My age I will not once lament,&lt;br /&gt;
But sing, my time so near is spent.&lt;br /&gt;
And from the top bough take my flight&lt;br /&gt;
Into a country beyond sight,&lt;br /&gt;
Where old ones instantly grow young,&lt;br /&gt;
And there with seraphims set song;&lt;br /&gt;
No seasons cold, nor storms they see;&lt;br /&gt;
But spring lasts to eternity.&lt;br /&gt;
When each of you shall in your nest&lt;br /&gt;
Among your young ones take your rest,&lt;br /&gt;
In chirping language, oft them tell,&lt;br /&gt;
You had a dam that loved you well,&lt;br /&gt;
That did what could be done for young,&lt;br /&gt;
And nursed you up till you were strong,&lt;br /&gt;
And 'fore she once would let you fly,&lt;br /&gt;
She showed you joy and misery;&lt;br /&gt;
Taught what was good, and what was ill,&lt;br /&gt;
What would save life, and what would kill.&lt;br /&gt;
Thus gone, amongst you I may live,&lt;br /&gt;
And dead, yet speak, and counsel give:&lt;br /&gt;
Farewell, my birds, farewell adieu,&lt;br /&gt;
I happy am, if well with you.  &lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Bradstreet"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Anne Bradstreet&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt; (c. 1612 – September 16, 1672) Anne Bradstreet was New England's first published poet. Her work met with a positive reception in both the Old World and the New World. Bradstreet was born Anne Dudley in Northampton, England, 1612. She was the daughter of Thomas Dudley, a steward of the Earl of Lincoln, and Dorothy Yorke. Due to her family's position she grew up in cultured circumstances and was a well-educated woman for her time, being tutored in history, several languages and literature. At the age of sixteen she married Simon Bradstreet. Both Anne's father and husband were later to serve as governors of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Anne and Simon, along with Anne's parents, immigrated to America aboard the Arbella as part of the Winthrop Fleet of Puritan emigrants in 1630. Bradstreet's education gave her advantages to write with authority about politics, history, medicine, and theology. Her personal library of books was said to have numbered over 800, before many were destroyed when her home burned down. This event itself inspired a poem entitled "Upon the Burning of Our House July 10th, 1666". She rejects the anger and grief that this worldly tragedy has caused her and instead looks toward God. Read more at: &lt;a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Bradstreet"&gt;Anne Bradstreet&lt;/a&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;   solecism \SOL-uh-siz-uhm\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
1. A breach of good manners or etiquette.&lt;br /&gt;
2. A nonstandard or ungrammatical usage, as unflammable and they was.&lt;br /&gt;
3. Any error, impropriety, or inconsistency.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
To pick a fight with a visiting lord is a solecism, but being caught that way would have put the solecism squarely on Minch's head…&lt;br /&gt;
-- Joel Rosenburg, Hour of the Octopus&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;   The most dangerous phrase in the language is,&lt;br /&gt;
"We've always done it this way."&lt;br /&gt;
- Grace Hopper&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/mMiyQlCcnQo" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/mMiyQlCcnQo/in-reference-to-her-children.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j-YwnMWen7M/TxN4wNya54I/AAAAAAAAH_A/oJLl0bAM9_Y/s72-c/teavintage.png" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/in-reference-to-her-children.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-6116795628640240158</guid><pubDate>Fri, 13 Jan 2012 01:05:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-01-12T20:07:18.827-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">de la Mare W .</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">contentment</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">20th C</category><title>A Song of Enchantment</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QOxsI2mEhSw/TuJSkmxUgQI/AAAAAAAAHtE/mlvHDFRy6dM/s1600/teacups1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QOxsI2mEhSw/TuJSkmxUgQI/AAAAAAAAHtE/mlvHDFRy6dM/s200/teacups1.JPG" width="121" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 20th C, de la Mare W ., Contentment, Nature--&amp;nbsp;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EcPCYQiAYGY/Tw-DSup4llI/AAAAAAAAH9g/Q1aE62HAdK0/s1600/Pool_in_the_Woods_%2528George_Inness%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="261" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EcPCYQiAYGY/Tw-DSup4llI/AAAAAAAAH9g/Q1aE62HAdK0/s320/Pool_in_the_Woods_%2528George_Inness%2529.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;A song of Enchantment I sang me there,&lt;br /&gt;
In a green-green wood, by waters fair,&lt;br /&gt;
Just as the words came up to me&lt;br /&gt;
I sang it under the wild wood tree.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Widdershins turned I, singing it low,&lt;br /&gt;
Watching the wild birds come and go;&lt;br /&gt;
No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen&lt;br /&gt;
Under the thick-thatched branches green.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Twilight came: silence came:&lt;br /&gt;
The planet of Evening's silver flame;&lt;br /&gt;
By darkening paths I wandered through&lt;br /&gt;
Thickets trembling with drops of dew.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
But the music is lost and the words are gone&lt;br /&gt;
Of the song I sang as I sat alone,&lt;br /&gt;
Ages and ages have fallen on me -&lt;br /&gt;
On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.  &lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_de_la_Mare"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Walter de la Mare&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  (25 April 1873 – 22 June 1956)  Walter de la Mare was an English poet, short story writer and novelist, probably best remembered for his works for children and the poem "The Listeners". He was born in Kent (at 83 Maryon Road, Charlton,[2] now part of the London Borough of Greenwich), descended from a family of French Huguenots, and was educated at St Paul's Cathedral School. His first book, Songs of Childhood, was published under the name Walter Ramal. He worked in the statistics department of the London office of Standard Oil for eighteen years while struggling to bring up a family, but nevertheless found enough time to write, and, in 1908, through the efforts of Sir Henry Newbolt he received a Civil List pension which enabled him to concentrate on writing. De la Mare also wrote some subtle psychological horror stories; "Seaton's Aunt" and "Out of the Deep" are noteworthy examples. His 1921 novel, Memoirs of a Midget, won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for fiction. Read more at: &lt;a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_de_la_Mare"&gt;Walter de la Mare&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  paregmenon \puh-REG-muh-non\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
The juxtaposition of words that have a common derivation, as in “sense and sensibility.”&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
Although as artificial as his use of traductio, this use of paregmenon at least reveals Sidney's ingenuity and wit.&lt;br /&gt;
-- Sherod M. Cooper, The Sonnets of Astrophel and Stella&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  "We all go through life bristling&lt;br /&gt;
at our external limitations,&lt;br /&gt;
but the most difficult chains&lt;br /&gt;
to break are inside us."&lt;br /&gt;
- Bradley Whitford &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 17th C, Shakespeare W., Nature, Seasons--&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ENJy-DoWE3s/TwzbRT9RgCI/AAAAAAAAH8w/T5wMYvsUJUM/s1600/winterlondon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="222" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ENJy-DoWE3s/TwzbRT9RgCI/AAAAAAAAH8w/T5wMYvsUJUM/s320/winterlondon.jpg" width="340" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;When icicles hang by the wall&lt;br /&gt;
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail&lt;br /&gt;
And Tom bears logs into the hall,&lt;br /&gt;
And milk comes frozen home in pail,&lt;br /&gt;
When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,&lt;br /&gt;
Then nightly sings the staring owl,&lt;br /&gt;
Tu-who;&lt;br /&gt;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,&lt;br /&gt;
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
When all aloud the wind doth blow,&lt;br /&gt;
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,&lt;br /&gt;
And birds sit brooding in the snow,&lt;br /&gt;
And Marian's nose looks red and raw&lt;br /&gt;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,&lt;br /&gt;
Then nightly sings the staring owl,&lt;br /&gt;
Tu-who;&lt;br /&gt;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,&lt;br /&gt;
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. &lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;William Shakespeare&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  (baptised 26 April 1564; died 23 April 1616) &lt;a href="http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/winter.html/"&gt;William Shakespeare &lt;/a&gt;was an &lt;a href="http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/winter.html"&gt;English poet&lt;/a&gt; and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet and the "&lt;a href="http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/winter.html"&gt;Bard of Avon&lt;/a&gt;". His surviving works, including some collaborations, consist of 38 plays,154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and several other poems. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright. Shakespeare was born and raised in Stratford-upon-Avon. At the age of 18, he married Anne Hathaway, who bore him three children Shakespeare produced most of his known work between 1590 and 1613. His early plays were mainly comedies and histories, genres he raised to the peak of sophistication and artistry by the end of the sixteenth century. He then wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608, including Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth, considered some of the finest works in the English language. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare"&gt;William Shakespeare&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Poetry Terminology:&lt;/b&gt; Elizabethan Poets-&lt;br /&gt;
Group of poets including Shakespeare, Sir Walter Ralegh, Sir Philip Sidney and Ben Jonson who were writing during the reign of Elizabeth I (1558-1603). &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; cleave \kleev\, verb:&lt;br /&gt;
1. To adhere closely; stick; cling.&lt;br /&gt;
2. To remain faithful.&lt;br /&gt;
3. To split or divide by or as if by a cutting blow, especially along a natural line of division, as the grain of wood.&lt;br /&gt;
4. To make by or as if by cutting.&lt;br /&gt;
5. To penetrate or pass through (air, water, etc.).&lt;br /&gt;
6. To cut off; sever.&lt;br /&gt;
7. To part or split, especially along a natural line of division.&lt;br /&gt;
8. To penetrate or advance by or as if by cutting.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
It bothers him as much as it bothers you, but he is a man of faith and the Bible says that a man should leave his mother and father and cleave unto his wife.&lt;br /&gt;
-- H.O. Fischer, For This Land&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  "This above all, to thine own self be true."&lt;br /&gt;
- William Shakespeare&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/3tuU6p6flEc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/3tuU6p6flEc/winter.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TLd2DmhpCKI/AAAAAAAAFZc/GCDPNj2JViE/s72-c/teagoldplate.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/winter.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-2641822831782268062</guid><pubDate>Sun, 08 Jan 2012 18:37:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-01-08T13:37:36.172-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Houseman A.E.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">seasons</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">love</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">20th C</category><title>Spring Morning</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TB_s6_a-Q-I/AAAAAAAAEqY/iV77UhaK5pw/s1600/teacupbl.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TB_s6_a-Q-I/AAAAAAAAEqY/iV77UhaK5pw/s1600/teacupbl.png" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 20th C, Houseman A.E.,  Love, Nature, Seasons--&amp;nbsp;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FqU0GL6je_Q/TwniZtWmZTI/AAAAAAAAH8A/H0Gy8LqHJcE/s1600/springmorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FqU0GL6je_Q/TwniZtWmZTI/AAAAAAAAH8A/H0Gy8LqHJcE/s320/springmorn.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Star and coronal and bell&lt;br /&gt;
April underfoot renews,&lt;br /&gt;
And the hope of man as well&lt;br /&gt;
Flowers among the morning dews.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Now the old come out to look,&lt;br /&gt;
Winter past and winter's pains,&lt;br /&gt;
How the sky in pool and brook&lt;br /&gt;
Glitters on the grassy plains.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Easily the gentle air&lt;br /&gt;
Wafts the turning season on;&lt;br /&gt;
Things to comfort them are there,&lt;br /&gt;
Though 'tis true the best are gone.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Now the scorned unlucky lad&lt;br /&gt;
Rousing from his pillow gnawn&lt;br /&gt;
Mans his heart and deep and glad&lt;br /&gt;
Drinks the valiant air of dawn.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Half the night he longed to die,&lt;br /&gt;
Now are sown on hill and plain&lt;br /&gt;
Pleasures worth his while to try&lt;br /&gt;
Ere he longs to die again.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Blue the sky from east to west&lt;br /&gt;
Arches, and the world is wide,&lt;br /&gt;
Though the girl he loves the best&lt;br /&gt;
Rouses from another's side.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Edward_Housman"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Alfred Edward Houseman&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  (26 March 1859 – 30 April 1936) Houseman usually known as A. E. Housman, was an English classical scholar and poet, best known for his cycle of poems A Shropshire Lad. Lyrical and almost epigrammatic in form, the poems were mostly written before 1900. Their wistful evocation of doomed youth in the English countryside, in spare language and distinctive imagery, appealed strongly to late Victorian and Edwardian taste, and to many early twentieth century English composers (beginning with Arthur Somervell) both before and after the First World War. Through its song-setting the poetry became closely associated with that era, and with Shropshire itself. Housman was counted one of the foremost classicists of his age, and has been ranked as one of the greatest scholars of all time.[1] He established his reputation publishing as a private scholar and, on the strength and quality of his work, was appointed Professor of Latin at University College London and later, at Cambridge. Read more at:&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Edward_Housman"&gt; A.E. Houseman&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; hiemal \HAHY-uh-muhl\, adjective:&lt;br /&gt;
Of or pertaining to winter; wintry.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
Since snow and frost lasted from October well into April, no wonder the mean of my school memories is definitely hiemal.&lt;br /&gt;
-- Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; "We can always choose to perceive things differently.&lt;br /&gt;
You can focus on what's wrong in your life, or you can focus on what's right."&lt;br /&gt;
- Marianne Williamson.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://coffeetablepoetry.com/"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Coffee Table Poetry for Tea Drinkers&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;b&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; is updated often.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Subscribe by selecting&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=CoffeeTablePoetry&amp;amp;loc=en_US"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt; E-mail&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;span style="color: black;"&gt;or&lt;/span&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds2.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetry"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;RSS Reader.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Also, come follow us on &lt;a href="http://twitter.com/coffeetablepoet"&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;Twitter&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; and &lt;a href="http://bit.ly/aEV6Eq"&gt;Facebook.&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt; Poets and Advertisers-please contact us to post your press releases, new book info, graphics and more at: &lt;/b&gt; &lt;a href="mailto:%20coffeetablepoet@gmail.com"&gt; &lt;span style="color: red; font-weight: bold;"&gt;coffeetablepoet@gmail.com&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/CeqzVAsQHGE" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/CeqzVAsQHGE/spring-morning.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TB_s6_a-Q-I/AAAAAAAAEqY/iV77UhaK5pw/s72-c/teacupbl.png" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/spring-morning.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-3222731704382047788</guid><pubDate>Sat, 07 Jan 2012 19:44:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-01-07T14:58:06.558-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Sadness</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Teasedale S.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">memories</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">love</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">20th C</category><title>My Heart is Heavy</title><description>&lt;center&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://s654.photobucket.com/albums/uu265/vickig423/?action=view&amp;amp;current=teablueflower-1.jpg" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i654.photobucket.com/albums/uu265/vickig423/teablueflower-1.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 20th C, Teasedale S., Love, Memories, Nature, Sadness--&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6QZBtxMux3c/Twih92Y0oaI/AAAAAAAAH64/t2btE6BdckA/s1600/mothsnight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="278" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6QZBtxMux3c/Twih92Y0oaI/AAAAAAAAH64/t2btE6BdckA/s320/mothsnight.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;My heart is heavy with many a song&lt;br /&gt;
Like ripe fruit bearing down the tree,&lt;br /&gt;
But I can never give you one --&lt;br /&gt;
My songs do not belong to me.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Yet in the evening, in the dusk&lt;br /&gt;
When moths go to and fro,&lt;br /&gt;
In the gray hour if the fruit has fallen,&lt;br /&gt;
Take it, no one will know. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Sarah Teasedale&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt; (August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933)&lt;a href="http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/my-heart-is-heavy.html"&gt; Sara Teasedale&lt;/a&gt; was an American lyrical poet. She was born Sarah Trevor Teasdale in St. Louis, Missouri. Throughout her life, Teasdale suffered poor health and it was only at age 9 that she was well enough to begin school. In 1898 she went to Mary Institute and to Hosmer Hall in 1899 where she finished in 1903. In 1913 Teasdale fell in love with poet Vachel Lindsay. He wrote her daily love letters, but nevertheless she married Ernst Filsinger in 1914 when she was 30; he was a rich businessman. Teasdale and Lindsay remained friends throughout their lives. In 1918, her poetry collection Love Songs won three awards: the Columbia University Poetry Society prize, the 1918 Pulitzer Prize for poetry and the annual prize of the Poetry Society of America. She was not happy in her marriage, becoming divorced in 1929. In 1933, she committed suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills. The poem "There Will Come Soft Rains" from her 1920 collection Flame and Shadow inspired and featured in a famous short story of the same name by Ray Bradbury. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale"&gt;Sara Teasedale&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; gasconade \gas-kuh-NEYD\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
1. Extravagant boasting; boastful talk.&lt;br /&gt;
verb:&lt;br /&gt;
1. To boast extravagantly; bluster.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
The British officers laugh, because they are well armed and many, and Kemal's men are pitifully few, but they enjoy and admire Kemal's swashbuckling gasconade, and they let his party pass.&lt;br /&gt;
-- Louis de Bernières, Birds Without Wings&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; "A good question is never answered.&lt;br /&gt;
It is not a bolt to be tightened into place&lt;br /&gt;
but a seed to be planted and to bear more seed&lt;br /&gt;
toward the hope of greening the landscape of idea."&lt;br /&gt;
- John Ciardi&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/IELv0IXzowg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/IELv0IXzowg/my-heart-is-heavy.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6QZBtxMux3c/Twih92Y0oaI/AAAAAAAAH64/t2btE6BdckA/s72-c/mothsnight.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/my-heart-is-heavy.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-203573229090791973</guid><pubDate>Mon, 02 Jan 2012 23:12:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2012-01-02T18:14:27.349-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Bryant W.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">19th C</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">hope</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">New Years</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">holidays</category><title>A Song for New Year's Eve</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: medium;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;"&lt;b&gt;Happy New Year 2012&lt;/b&gt; to our wonderful readers who enjoy and take delight as much as we do in finding beautiful poetry to savor! A happy, healthy and prosperous New Year to you all!" &lt;/i&gt;- From your Coffee Table Poetry staff&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMXobtocuE8/TwIzyUxotaI/AAAAAAAAH4M/kBvET8MfDbg/s1600/Happy-New-Year.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="180" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMXobtocuE8/TwIzyUxotaI/AAAAAAAAH4M/kBvET8MfDbg/s320/Happy-New-Year.jpg" width="260" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
-----------------------------------&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gl9F7lp05gU/TwI42rcbb8I/AAAAAAAAH4w/xVXUwcQWy1Q/s1600/tea2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="124" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gl9F7lp05gU/TwI42rcbb8I/AAAAAAAAH4w/xVXUwcQWy1Q/s200/tea2.png" width="160" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Description: &lt;/b&gt; 19th C, Bryant W., Holidays, Hope&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iL6YyOUyG0c/TwI4uXuAMRI/AAAAAAAAH4k/HIW05psiVFA/s1600/5new-year-5-2009.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="319" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iL6YyOUyG0c/TwI4uXuAMRI/AAAAAAAAH4k/HIW05psiVFA/s320/5new-year-5-2009.gif" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Stay yet, my friends, a moment stayâ€”&lt;br /&gt;
Stay till the good old year,&lt;br /&gt;
So long companion of our way,&lt;br /&gt;
Shakes hands, and leaves us here.&lt;br /&gt;
Oh stay, oh stay,&lt;br /&gt;
One little hour, and then away.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The year, whose hopes were high and strong,&lt;br /&gt;
Has now no hopes to wake;&lt;br /&gt;
Yet one hour more of jest and song&lt;br /&gt;
For his familiar sake.&lt;br /&gt;
Oh stay, oh stay,&lt;br /&gt;
One mirthful hour, and then away.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The kindly year, his liberal hands&lt;br /&gt;
Have lavished all his store.&lt;br /&gt;
And shall we turn from where he stands,&lt;br /&gt;
Because he gives no more?&lt;br /&gt;
Oh stay, oh stay,&lt;br /&gt;
One grateful hour, and then away.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Days brightly came and calmly went,&lt;br /&gt;
While yet he was our guest;&lt;br /&gt;
How cheerfully the week was spent!&lt;br /&gt;
How sweet the seventh day's rest!&lt;br /&gt;
Oh stay, oh stay,&lt;br /&gt;
One golden hour, and then away.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Dear friends were with us, some who sleep&lt;br /&gt;
Beneath the coffin-lid:&lt;br /&gt;
What pleasant memories we keep&lt;br /&gt;
Of all they said and did!&lt;br /&gt;
Oh stay, oh stay,&lt;br /&gt;
One tender hour, and then away.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Even while we sing, he smiles his last,&lt;br /&gt;
And leaves our sphere behind.&lt;br /&gt;
The good old year is with the past;&lt;br /&gt;
Oh be the new as kind!&lt;br /&gt;
Oh stay, oh stay,&lt;br /&gt;
One parting strain, and then away.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Cullen_Bryant"&gt;&lt;span style="color: brown; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;William Cullen Bryant&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;Did You Know: &lt;/b&gt;(November 3, 1794 – June 12, 1878) William Cullen Bryant was an American romantic poet, journalist, and long-time editor of the New York Evening Post.  Bryant was born on November 3, 1794, in a log cabin near Cummington, Massachusetts; the home of his birth is today marked with a plaque.  He was the second son of Peter Bryant (b Aug. 12, 1767, d. Mar. 20 1820) a doctor and later a state legislator, and Sarah Snell (b. Dec.4 1768 d. May 6 1847). His maternal ancestry traces back to passengers on the Mayflower; his father's, to colonists who arrived about a dozen years later.  Bryant and his family moved to a new home when he was two years old. The William Cullen Bryant Homestead, his boyhood home, is now a museum. After just two years at Williams College, he studied law in Worthington and Bridgewater in Massachusetts, and he was admitted to the bar in 1815. He then began practicing law in nearby Plainfield, walking the seven miles from Cummington every day. On one of these walks, in December 1815, he noticed a single bird flying on the horizon; the sight moved him enough to write "To a Waterfowl". Bryant developed an interest in poetry early in life. Under his father's tutelage, he emulated Alexander Pope and other Neo-Classic British poets. Read more at: &lt;a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Cullen_Bryant"&gt;William Cullen Bryant&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  This bright new year is given me&lt;br /&gt;
To live each day with zest&lt;br /&gt;
To daily grow and try to be&lt;br /&gt;
My highest and my best.&lt;br /&gt;
- William Arthur Ward&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/72hnTrqWBN8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/72hnTrqWBN8/song-for-new-years-eve.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMXobtocuE8/TwIzyUxotaI/AAAAAAAAH4M/kBvET8MfDbg/s72-c/Happy-New-Year.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2012/01/song-for-new-years-eve.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-6883904858134512147</guid><pubDate>Sat, 31 Dec 2011 18:38:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2011-12-31T13:40:24.833-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">joy</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Wilcox E.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">life</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">hope</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">20th C</category><title>A Golden Day</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://s654.photobucket.com/albums/uu265/vickig423/?action=view&amp;amp;current=teablueflower-1.jpg" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;img alt="Photobucket" src="http://i654.photobucket.com/albums/uu265/vickig423/teablueflower-1.jpg" border="0"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 20th C, Wilcox E.W., Hope, Joy, Life--&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/Spf8Dfjo90I/AAAAAAAACRM/6AdrFeQ_afU/s1600-h/goldenmorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/Spf8Dfjo90I/AAAAAAAACRM/6AdrFeQ_afU/s320/goldenmorn.jpg" border="0"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: rgb(120, 63, 4);"&gt;The subtle beauty of this day&lt;br /&gt;
Hangs o'er me like a fairy spell,&lt;br /&gt;
And care and grief have flown away,&lt;br /&gt;
And every breeze sings, "all is well."&lt;br /&gt;
I ask, "Holds earth or sin, or woe?"&lt;br /&gt;
My heart replies, "I do not know."&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Nay! all we know, or feel, my heart,&lt;br /&gt;
Today is joy undimmed, complete;&lt;br /&gt;
In tears or pain we have no part;&lt;br /&gt;
The act of breathing is so sweet,&lt;br /&gt;
We care no higher joy to name.&lt;br /&gt;
What reck we now of wealth or fame?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The past--what matters it to me?&lt;br /&gt;
The pain it gave has passed away.&lt;br /&gt;
The future--that I cannot see!&lt;br /&gt;
I care for nothing save today--&lt;br /&gt;
This is a respite from all care,&lt;br /&gt;
And trouble flies--I know not where.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Go on, oh noisy, restless life!&lt;br /&gt;
Pass by, oh, feet that seek for heights!&lt;br /&gt;
I have no part in aught of strife;&lt;br /&gt;
I do not want your vain delights.&lt;br /&gt;
The day wraps round me like a spell&lt;br /&gt;
And every breeze sings, "All is well." &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ella_Wheeler_Wilcox"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(120, 63, 4);"&gt;Ella Wheeler Wilcox&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt; (November 5, 1850–October 30, 1919)Wilcox was an American author and poet. Her best-known work was Poems of Passion. Her most enduring work was "Solitude", which contains the lines: "Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone". Her autobiography, The Worlds and I, was published in 1918, a year before her death. Ella Wheeler was born in 1850 on a farm in rural Johnstown, Wisconsin, east of Janesville, the youngest of four children. The family soon moved to north of Madison. She started writing poetry at a very early age, and was well known as a poet in her own state by the time she graduated from high school. When about 28 years of age, she married Robert Wilcox. They had one child, a son, who died shortly after birth. Not long after their marriage, they both became interested in Theosophy, New Thought, and Spiritualism.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; stultify \STUHL-tuh-fahy\, (verb):&lt;br /&gt;
1. To render useless or ineffectual; cripple.&lt;br /&gt;
2. To cause to appear stupid, inconsistent, or ridiculous.&lt;br /&gt;
3. Law To allege or prove insane and so not legally responsible.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
The word "civilization" to my mind is coupled with death. When I use the word, I see civilization as a crippling, thwarting thing, a stultifying thing. For me it was always so. I don't believe in the golden ages, you see... civilization is the arteriosclerosis of culture.&lt;br /&gt;
-Henry Miller&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; A sense of humor... is needed armor. Joy in one's heart and some laughter on one's lips is a sign that the person down deep has a pretty good grasp of life.&lt;br /&gt;
Hugh Sidey &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/7heGoZIos7Y" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/7heGoZIos7Y/golden-day.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/Spf8Dfjo90I/AAAAAAAACRM/6AdrFeQ_afU/s72-c/goldenmorn.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2011/12/golden-day.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-8562268544134575449</guid><pubDate>Fri, 30 Dec 2011 01:16:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2011-12-29T20:20:39.419-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">night</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">nature</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Tu Fu</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">celestial</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">love</category><title>Moonlit Night</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_D1ilXiJ9fk/TcvNPPDwFPI/AAAAAAAAGtg/AZfzpnIpnUQ/s1600/teacupgreen.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_D1ilXiJ9fk/TcvNPPDwFPI/AAAAAAAAGtg/AZfzpnIpnUQ/s1600/teacupgreen.png" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: Tu Fu, Celestial, Love, Nature, Night--&amp;nbsp;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IUIfVFfD1Og/Tv0QpOXCIdI/AAAAAAAAH2w/iO0ZpYj07dw/s1600/moonchina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="238" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IUIfVFfD1Og/Tv0QpOXCIdI/AAAAAAAAH2w/iO0ZpYj07dw/s320/moonchina.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Tonight at Fu-chou, this moon she watches&lt;br /&gt;
Alone in our room. And my little, far-off&lt;br /&gt;
Children, too young to understand what keeps me&lt;br /&gt;
Away, or even remember Chang'an. By now,&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Her hair will be mist-scented, her jade-white&lt;br /&gt;
Arms chilled in its clear light. When&lt;br /&gt;
Will it find us together again, drapes drawn&lt;br /&gt;
Open, light traced where it dries our tears? &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Du_Fu"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Tu Fu&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  Tu Fu, 712–770) Du Fu (Tu Fu) was a prominent Chinese poet of the Tang Dynasty. Along with Li Bai (Li Bo), he is frequently called the greatest of the Chinese poets. His greatest ambition was to serve his country as a successful civil servant, but he proved unable to make the necessary accommodations. His life, like the whole country, was devastated by the An Lushan Rebellion of 755, and his last 15 years were a time of almost constant unrest. Although initially he was little known to other writers, his works came to be hugely influential in both Chinese and Japanese literary culture. Of his poetic writing, nearly fifteen hundred poems have been preserved over the ages. He has been called the "Poet-Historian" and the "Poet-Sage" by Chinese critics, while the range of his work has allowed him to be introduced to Western readers as "the Chinese Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Shakespeare, Milton, Burns, Wordsworth, Béranger, Hugo or Baudelaire".  Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Du_Fu"&gt;Du Fu&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; hiemal \HAHY-uh-muhl\, adjective:&lt;br /&gt;
Of or pertaining to winter; wintry.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
Since snow and frost lasted from October well into April, no wonder the mean of my school memories is definitely hiemal.&lt;br /&gt;
-- Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree&lt;br /&gt;
is the presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other.&lt;br /&gt;
- Burton Hills&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://coffeetablepoetry.com/"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Coffee Table Poetry for Tea Drinkers&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;b&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 19th C, Rossetti C., Nature, Seasons-- &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-75ZEh64nxq0/TvqIBKTCVzI/AAAAAAAAH1s/uk3BkAYXifs/s1600/winterday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="280" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-75ZEh64nxq0/TvqIBKTCVzI/AAAAAAAAH1s/uk3BkAYXifs/s320/winterday.jpg" width="360" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not:&lt;br /&gt;
I am no summer friend, but wintry cold,&lt;br /&gt;
A silly sheep benighted from the fold,&lt;br /&gt;
A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot.&lt;br /&gt;
Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot,&lt;br /&gt;
Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold;&lt;br /&gt;
Lest you with me should shiver on the wold,&lt;br /&gt;
Athirst and hungering on a barren spot.&lt;br /&gt;
For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge,&lt;br /&gt;
I live alone, I look to die alone:&lt;br /&gt;
Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge,&lt;br /&gt;
Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back,&lt;br /&gt;
My heart goes sighing after swallows flown&lt;br /&gt;
On sometime summer's unreturning track. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina_Rossetti"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Christina Georgina Rossetti&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  (5 December 1830 – 29 December 1894)&lt;a href="http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2011/11/study-soul.html"&gt; Christina Rossetti &lt;/a&gt;was a British poet, who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems. She is best known for her long poem Goblin Market, her love poem "Remember", and for the words of what became the popular Christmas carol "In the Bleak Midwinter". Rossetti was born in London and educated at home by her mother. Her siblings were the artist and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Michael Rossetti, and Maria Francesca Rossetti. Their father, Gabriele Rossetti, was an Italian poet and a political asylum seeker from Naples; their mother, Frances Polidori, was the sister of Lord Byron's friend and physician, John William Polidori, author of The Vampyre. In the 1840s her family was stricken with severe financial difficulties due to the deterioration of her father's physical and mental health. When she was 14, Rossetti suffered a nervous breakdown and left school. In the early 20th century Rossetti's popularity faded as many respected Victorian writers' reputations suffered from Modernism's backlash. Rossetti remained largely unnoticed and unread until the 1970s when feminist scholars began to recover and comment on her work. In the last few decades Rossetti's writing has been rediscovered and she has regained admittance into the Victorian literary canon. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina_Rossetti"&gt;Christina Rossetti&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  gangrel \GANG-gruhl\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
1. A lanky, loose-jointed person.&lt;br /&gt;
2. A wandering beggar; vagabond; vagrant.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
Patrick had a likeness to his father, but was still just a gangrel of a boy with long arms and a slouching posture.&lt;br /&gt;
-- David Farland, Worlds of the Golden Queen&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  Sometimes you get the results you wanted,&lt;br /&gt;
sometimes you don't.&lt;br /&gt;
What matters is that you did your best.&lt;br /&gt;
- Jonathan Lockwood Huie&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://coffeetablepoetry.com/"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Coffee Table Poetry for Tea Drinkers&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;b&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; is updated often.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Subscribe by selecting&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=CoffeeTablePoetry&amp;amp;loc=en_US"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt; E-mail&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;span style="color: black;"&gt;or&lt;/span&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds2.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetry"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;RSS Reader.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Also, come follow us on &lt;a href="http://twitter.com/coffeetablepoet"&gt; &lt;span style="color: #0b5394;"&gt;Twitter&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; and &lt;a href="http://bit.ly/aEV6Eq"&gt;Facebook.&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt; Poets and Advertisers-please contact us to post your press releases, new book info, graphics and more at: &lt;/b&gt; &lt;a href="mailto:%20coffeetablepoet@gmail.com"&gt; &lt;span style="color: red; font-weight: bold;"&gt;coffeetablepoet@gmail.com&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/xbsghj-4nj0" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/xbsghj-4nj0/from-sunset-to-star-rise.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TNma-kDWwiI/AAAAAAAAFm4/nVIb-W7cNfI/s72-c/teacupbing3.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2011/12/from-sunset-to-star-rise.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-6673384100561369427</guid><pubDate>Sun, 25 Dec 2011 02:57:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2011-12-24T22:13:41.243-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Shostakovich</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">christianity</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">20th C</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">holidays</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Christmas</category><title>May You Walk Among the Stars of Morning</title><description>&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: green; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: large"&gt;~ A SPECIAL NOTE TO YOU!&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Merry Christmas and Seasons Greetings to all our friends and loyal readers!  We have enjoyed hearing from you and trying to find lovely, classical and modern poems to entertain you.  Enjoy a safe, healthy and happy holiday!&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JWzuTuGCvW8/TvaN_OqBYRI/AAAAAAAAHz0/SVcy-ZV_TAs/s1600/x-mas-img.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JWzuTuGCvW8/TvaN_OqBYRI/AAAAAAAAHz0/SVcy-ZV_TAs/s320/x-mas-img.gif" width="250" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
----------------------------------------------------------&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/S_V7saFhq1I/AAAAAAAAEn8/GVvYG0nwk5c/s1600/teacups3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/S_V7saFhq1I/AAAAAAAAEn8/GVvYG0nwk5c/s1600/teacups3.png" border="0"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;center&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="color: #990000;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 20th C, Shostakovich D., Christmas, Holidays--&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SVA2Zm5jHnI/AAAAAAAAAJk/GRKZr4cZ49I/s1600-h/christmas-eve-scene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SVA2Zm5jHnI/AAAAAAAAAJk/GRKZr4cZ49I/s320/christmas-eve-scene.jpg" vi="true" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;M&lt;/strong&gt;ay you walk among the stars of morning,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;E&lt;/strong&gt;den waiting silent for the dawn,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;R&lt;/strong&gt;eady to unravel without warning,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;R&lt;/strong&gt;estless with the urge to be reborn.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Y&lt;/strong&gt;ears of longing pale into beauty;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;C&lt;/strong&gt;hristmas is a never-realized dream.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;H&lt;/strong&gt;owever much devoted to your duty,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;R&lt;/strong&gt;emember that the flow is not the stream.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I&lt;/strong&gt;n my heart you wear a crown of glory&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;S&lt;/strong&gt;o radiant that time must turn away.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;T&lt;/strong&gt;he vision rises from the untold story&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;M&lt;/strong&gt;ore lovely than what sees the light of day.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;A&lt;/strong&gt;s you can never know just who you are,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #134f5c;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: #38761d;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;S&lt;/strong&gt;o let my love become your eastern star&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: #134f5c;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dmitri_Shostakovich"&gt;Dimitri Shostakovich&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;Copyright by &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;Nicholas Gordon&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;25 September 1906 – 9 August 1975) Dmitri Shoskakovich was a Soviet Russian composer and one of the most celebrated composers of the 20th century. Shostakovich achieved fame in the Soviet Union under the patronage of Leon Trotsky's chief of staff Mikhail Tukhachevsky, but later had a complex and difficult relationship with the government. Nevertheless, he also received accolades and state awards and served in the Supreme Soviet of the RSFSR (1947–1962) and the USSR (from 1962 until death). After a period influenced by Sergei Prokofiev and Igor Stravinsky, Shostakovich developed a hybrid style, as exemplified by Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District (1934). This single work juxtaposed a wide variety of trends, including the neo-classical style (showing the influence of Stravinsky) and post-Romanticism (after Gustav Mahler). Sharp contrasts and elements of the grotesque[2] characterize much of his music. Shostakovich's orchestral works include 15 symphonies and six concerti. Music for chamber ensembles includes 15 string quartets, a piano quintet, two pieces for a string octet, and two piano trios. For the piano he composed two solo sonatas, an early set of preludes, and a later set of 24 preludes and fugues. Other works include three operas, and a substantial quantity of film music. read more at: &lt;a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dmitri_Shostakovich"&gt;Dmitri Shostakovich&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;Quote:&lt;/b&gt; Christmas is the season for kindling the fire of hospitality in the hall, the genial flame of charity in the heart.  ~Washington Irving&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;a href="http://coffeetablepoetry.com/"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; color: red;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Coffee Table Poetry for Tea Drinkers&lt;/span style&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;b&gt; &lt;span style="color: rgb(11, 83, 148);"&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; is updated often.&lt;/span style&gt;&lt;span style="color: black;"&gt; Subscribe by selecting&lt;/span style&gt;&lt;/span style&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=CoffeeTablePoetry&amp;amp;loc=en_US"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt; E-mail&lt;/span style&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;span style="color: black;"&gt;or&lt;/span style&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds2.feedburner.com/CoffeeTablePoetry"&gt;&lt;span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"&gt;RSS Reader.&lt;/span style&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color: black; "&gt; Also, come follow us on &lt;a href="http://twitter.com/coffeetablepoet"&gt; &lt;span style="color: rgb(11, 83, 148);"&gt;Twitter&lt;/a&gt; and &lt;a href="http://bit.ly/aEV6Eq"&gt;Facebook.&lt;/span style&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; Poets and Advertisers-please contact us to post your press releases, new book info, graphics and more at: &lt;/b&gt; &lt;a href="mailto: coffeetablepoet@gmail.com"&gt; &lt;span style="color: red; font-weight: bold;"&gt;coffeetablepoet@gmail.com&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/Am1j-qjAiGc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/Am1j-qjAiGc/may-you-walk-among-stars-of-morning.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JWzuTuGCvW8/TvaN_OqBYRI/AAAAAAAAHz0/SVcy-ZV_TAs/s72-c/x-mas-img.gif" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2008/12/may-you-walk-among-stars-of-morning.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-648011151079115019</guid><pubDate>Thu, 22 Dec 2011 01:01:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2011-12-21T20:03:26.953-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">17th C</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Herrick R.</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">seasons</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">holidays</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Christmas</category><title>Ceremonies for Christmas</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://s654.photobucket.com/albums/uu265/vickig423/?action=view&amp;amp;current=teablueflower-1.jpg" target="_blank"&gt;&lt;img alt="Photobucket" src="http://i654.photobucket.com/albums/uu265/vickig423/teablueflower-1.jpg" border="0"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 17th C, Herrick R., Christmas, Holidays, Seasons--&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SylTcb6ryEI/AAAAAAAADPE/XM3nUtnEp7o/s1600-h/santaengl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SylTcb6ryEI/AAAAAAAADPE/XM3nUtnEp7o/s1600/santaengl.jpg" border="0"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(120, 63, 4);"&gt;Come, bring with a noise,&lt;br /&gt;
My merry, merry boys,&lt;br /&gt;
The Christmas log to the firing,&lt;br /&gt;
While my good dame, she&lt;br /&gt;
Bids ye all be free,&lt;br /&gt;
And drink to your heart’s desiring.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
With the last year’s brand&lt;br /&gt;
Light the new block, and&lt;br /&gt;
For good success in his spending,&lt;br /&gt;
On your psalteries play,&lt;br /&gt;
That sweet luck may&lt;br /&gt;
Come while the log is a-teending.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Drink now the strong beer,&lt;br /&gt;
Cut the white loaf here,&lt;br /&gt;
The while the meat is a-shredding;&lt;br /&gt;
For the rare mince-pie,&lt;br /&gt;
And the plums stand by,&lt;br /&gt;
To fill the paste that’s a kneading.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Herrick_%28poet%29"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(120, 63, 4);"&gt;Robert Herrick&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt; (baptized 24 August 1591 – buried 15 October 1674) Herrick was a 17th century English poet.  Born in Cheapside, London, he was the seventh child and fourth son of Nicholas Herrick, a prosperous goldsmith, who fell out of a window when Robert was a year old (whether this was suicide remains unclear). The tradition that Herrick received his education at Westminster is groundless. It is more likely that (like his uncle's children) he attended The Merchant Taylors' School. In 1607 he became apprenticed to his uncle, Sir William Herrick, who was a goldsmith and jeweler to the king. The apprenticeship ended after only six years when Herrick, at age twenty-two, matriculated at St John's College, Cambridge. He graduated in 1617. Robert Herrick became a member of the Sons of Ben, a group centered upon an admiration for the works of Ben Jonson. Herrick took holy orders in 1623, and became vicar of Dean Prior in Devonshire, but lost his position because of his Royalist bent.  Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Herrick_%28poet%29"&gt;Robert Herrick&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; ratiocination \rash-ee-ah-suh-NAY-shun; rash-ee-oh-\, noun:&lt;br /&gt;
The process of logical reasoning.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
For all their vaunted powers of ratiocination, grand masters of chess tend to be a skittery lot.&lt;br /&gt;
-"People", Time, October 26, 1987&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; Christmas is a season for kindling the fire for hospitality in the hall, the genial flame of charity in the heart.&lt;br /&gt;
-Washington Irving&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~4/LGt8GW28MRE" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/CoffeeTablePoetry/~3/LGt8GW28MRE/ceremonies-for-christmas.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (V. Mahfood)</author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SylTcb6ryEI/AAAAAAAADPE/XM3nUtnEp7o/s72-c/santaengl.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://www.coffeetablepoetry.com/2009/12/ceremonies-for-christmas.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8083953159111148026.post-7215244625386381945</guid><pubDate>Wed, 14 Dec 2011 21:12:00 +0000</pubDate><atom:updated>2011-12-14T16:12:41.332-05:00</atom:updated><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">17th C</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">love</category><category domain="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#">Donne J.</category><title>Confined Love</title><description>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/S2N5Y7LNvJI/AAAAAAAADh8/MIyLu2fONsg/s1600/teacupasia.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/S2N5Y7LNvJI/AAAAAAAADh8/MIyLu2fONsg/s1600/teacupasia.png" border="0"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 17th C, Donne J., Love-- &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SsoSk9JioYI/AAAAAAAACmU/b1VxKi64UMQ/s1600/deathdomin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/SsoSk9JioYI/AAAAAAAACmU/b1VxKi64UMQ/s320/deathdomin.jpg" border="0" height="256" width="320"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="color: rgb(120, 63, 4);"&gt;Some man unworthy to be possessor &lt;br /&gt;
Of old or new love, himself being false or weak, &lt;br /&gt;
Thought his pain and shame would be lesser &lt;br /&gt;
If on womankind he might his anger wreak, &lt;br /&gt;
And thence a law did grow, &lt;br /&gt;
One might but one man know; &lt;br /&gt;
But are other creatures so? &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Are Sun, Moon, or Stars by law forbidden &lt;br /&gt;
To smile where they list, or lend away their light? &lt;br /&gt;
Are birds divorced, or are they chidden &lt;br /&gt;
If they leave their mate, or lie abroad a-night? &lt;br /&gt;
Beasts do no jointures lose &lt;br /&gt;
Though they new lovers choose, &lt;br /&gt;
But we are made worse than those. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Who e'er rigged fair ship to lie in harbours &lt;br /&gt;
And not to seek new lands, or not to deal withal? &lt;br /&gt;
Or built fair houses, set trees, and arbors, &lt;br /&gt;
Only to lock up, or else to let them fall? &lt;br /&gt;
Good is not good unless &lt;br /&gt;
A thousand it possess, &lt;br /&gt;
But dost waste with greediness. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(120, 63, 4);"&gt;John Donne&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt; Donne was an English Jacobean poet, preacher and a major representative of the metaphysical poets of the period. His works are notable for their realistic and sensual style and include sonnets, love poetry, religious poems, Latin translations, epigrams, elegies, songs, satires and sermons. His poetry is noted for its vibrancy of language and inventiveness of metaphor, especially as compared to those of his contemporaries. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne"&gt;John Donne&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  eidetic \ahy-DET-ik\, adjective:&lt;br /&gt;
1. Of, pertaining to, or constituting visual imagery vividly experienced and readily reproducible with great accuracy and in great detail.&lt;br /&gt;
2. Marked by or involving extraordinarily accurate and exacting recall especially of visual images.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
I've been writing about the future of e-books for many years now, and I bought the Amazon Kindle when it first arrived, and I sent it back as the latency when going from page to page was awful for me since I have a pseudo-eidetic memory, which basically means every latent image gets burned into my brain and sticks there and I see it in my mind and that conflicts with visualizing a faraway place in the story I'm reading.&lt;br /&gt;
-Christopher Simmons, "Waking up to the iPad Wi-Fi+3G â€“ Part One", Publishers Newswire. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  Looking back, I have this to regret, that too often when I loved, I did not say so.&lt;br /&gt;
-Ray Stannard Baker [David Grayson] &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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&lt;span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Description: 20th C, Kipling R., Humor, Love, Marriage-- &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TAVe76QcV6I/AAAAAAAAEpE/Ko5BUU-Jw5w/s1600/betrothed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="272" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_VpTJUcCWU4s/TAVe76QcV6I/AAAAAAAAEpE/Ko5BUU-Jw5w/s320/betrothed.jpg" width="363" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;OPEN the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,&lt;br /&gt;
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
We quarreled about Havanas – we fought o'er a good cheroot,&lt;br /&gt;
And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Open the old cigar-box  –  let me consider a space;&lt;br /&gt;
In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Maggie is pretty to look at – Maggie's a loving lass,&lt;br /&gt;
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay,&lt;br /&gt;
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away – &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown –&lt;br /&gt;
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Maggie, my wife at fifty – gray and dour and old –&lt;br /&gt;
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And the light of the Days that have Been, the dark of the Days that Are,&lt;br /&gt;
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar – &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket –&lt;br /&gt;
With never a new one to light tho' its charred and black to the socket.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Open the old cigar-box – let me consider a while –&lt;br /&gt;
Here is a mild Manila – there is a wifely smile.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Which is the better portion – bondage bought with a ring,&lt;br /&gt;
Or a harem of dusky beauties  –  fifty tied in a string?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Counsellors cunning and silent – comforters true and tried,&lt;br /&gt;
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,&lt;br /&gt;
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,&lt;br /&gt;
With only a Suttee's passion – to do their duty and burn.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,&lt;br /&gt;
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,&lt;br /&gt;
When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I will take no heed for their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,&lt;br /&gt;
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,&lt;br /&gt;
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read the tale of my brides.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between&lt;br /&gt;
The wee little whimpering Love, and the great god Nick o' Teen.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,&lt;br /&gt;
But I have been priest of Partagas a matter  of seven year;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light&lt;br /&gt;
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,&lt;br /&gt;
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'the-Wisp of Love.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave  me bogged in the mire?&lt;br /&gt;
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Open the old cigar-box – let me consider anew – &lt;br /&gt;
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;&lt;br /&gt;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Light me another Cuba; I hold to my first-sworn vows,&lt;br /&gt;
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse!  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;span style="color: #783f04;"&gt;Rudyard Kipling&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="text-align: justify;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;--Did You Know:&lt;/b&gt;  (30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936) Kipling was a British author and poet. Born in Bombay, in British India, he is best known for his works of fiction The Jungle Book (1894) (a collection of stories which includes Rikki-Tikki-Tavi), Kim (1901) (a tale of adventure), many short stories, including The Man Who Would Be King (1888); and his poems, including Mandalay (1890), Gunga Din (1890), and If— (1910). He is regarded as a major "innovator in the art of the short story"; his children's books are enduring classics of children's literature; and his best works speak to a versatile and luminous narrative gift. Kipling was one of the most popular writers in English, in both prose and verse, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The author Henry James said of him: "Kipling strikes me personally as the most complete man of genius (as distinct from fine intelligence) that I have ever known." In 1907, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, making him the first English language writer to receive the prize, and to date he remains its youngest recipient. Among other honours, he was sounded out for the British Poet Laureateship and on several occasions for a knighthood, all of which he declined. Read more at: &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling"&gt;Rudyard Kipling&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Poetry Terminology:&lt;/b&gt;  Well Versed -&lt;br /&gt;
Somebody proficient in the rules of prosody. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Word of the Day:&lt;/b&gt; regnant \REG-nuhnt\, adjective:&lt;br /&gt;
1. Prevalent; widespread.&lt;br /&gt;
2. Reigning; ruling (usually used following the noun it modifies): a queen regnant.&lt;br /&gt;
3. Exercising authority, rule, or influence.&lt;br /&gt;
Example:&lt;br /&gt;
The mere fact that it was the regnant authority in the State of Louisiana at that time does not give validity or legality to its acts or its officers.&lt;br /&gt;
-Isaac Grant Thompson, Irving Browne, The American Reports (Volume 20);   &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;--Quote of the Day:&lt;/b&gt;  "To cease smoking is the easiest thing I ever did.  I ought to know because I've done it a thousand times."  &lt;br /&gt;
~Mark Twain, attributed &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
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