Low on her little stool she sits
To make a nursing lap,
And cares for nothing but the form
Her little arms enwrap.
With hairless skull that gapes apart,
A broken plaster ball,
One chipped glass eye that squints askew,
And ne’er a nose at all-
No raddle left on grimy cheek,
No mouth that one can see-
It scarce discloses, at a glance,
What it was meant to be.
But something in the simple scheme
As it extends below
(It is the “tidy” from my chair
That she is rumpling so)-
A certain folding of the stuff
That winds the thing about
(But still permits the sawdust gore
To trickle down and out)-
The way it curves around her waist,
On little knees outspread-
Implies a body frail and dear,
Whence one infers a head.
She rocks the scarecrow to and fro,
With croonings soft and deep,
A lullaby designed to hush
The bunch of rags to sleep.
I ask what rubbish has she there.
“My dolly,” she replies,
But tone and smile and gesture say,
“My angel from the skies.”
Ineffable the look of love
Cast on the hideous blur
That somehow means a precious face,
Most beautiful, to her.
The deftness and the tenderness
Of her caressing hands . . . . . .
How can she possibly divine
For what the creature stands?
Herself a nurseling, that has seen
The summers and the snows
Of scarce five years of baby life.
And yet she knows-she knows.
Just as a puppy of the pack
Knows unheard huntsman’s call,
And knows it is a running hound
Before it learns to crawl.
Just as she knew, when hardly born,
The breast unseen before,
And knew-how well!-before they touched,
What milk and mouth were for.
So, by some mystic extra-sense
Denied to eyes and ears,
Her spirit communes with its own
Beyond the veil of years.
She hears unechoing footsteps run
On floors she never trod,
Sees lineaments invisible
As is the face of God-
Forms she can recognise and greet,
Though wholly hid from me.
Alas! a treasure that is not,
And that may never be.
The majesty of motherhood
Sits on her baby brow;
Before her little three-legged throne
My grizzled head must bow.
That dingy bundle in her arms
Symbols immortal things-
A heritage, by right divine,
Beyond the claims of kings.
A few random poems:
- My Girl she’s Airy: A Fragment by Robert Burns
- The Evenèn Star O’ Zummer by William Barnes
- My Rival by Rudyard Kipling
- Владимир Маяковский – Врангель – фон… (РОСТА №472)
- Ballad on Mr. Heron’s Election—No. 4 by Robert Burns
- Sonnet 75: So are you to my thoughts as food to life by William Shakespeare
- Зинаида Александрова – Колокольчики
- Владимир Маяковский – Для чего оттягивают паны мириться?.. (РОСТА №264)
- For Sale by Shel Silverstein
- Song—Blythe hae I been on yon hill by Robert Burns
- Bombardment by Siegfried Sassoon
- Metaphors by Sylvia Plath
- Владимир Британишский – Март солнечный
- The Grasshopper
- Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog) poem – A. Van Jordan poems
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- To Sleep poem – John Keats poems
- To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent poem – John Keats poems
- To My Brothers poem – John Keats poems
- To My Brother George poem – John Keats poems
- To Mrs Reynolds’ Cat poem – John Keats poems
- To John Hamilton Reynolds poem – John Keats poems
- To Hope poem – John Keats poems
- To Homer poem – John Keats poems
- To Haydon poem – John Keats poems
- To G.A.W. poem – John Keats poems
- To Fanny poem – John Keats poems
- To Byron poem – John Keats poems
- To Autumn poem – John Keats poems
- To Ailsa Rock poem – John Keats poems
- To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown poem – John Keats poems
- To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses poem – John Keats poems
- To poem – John Keats poems
- This Living Hand poem – John Keats poems
- Think Of It Not, Sweet One poem – John Keats poems
- The Human Seasons poem – John Keats poems
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Ada Cambridge (1844 – 1926), also known as Ada Cross, was an English-born Australian author and poetess. She wrote more than 25 works of fiction, three volumes of poetry and two autobiographical works.