In poetry mood ...: I learnt this poem... - Lung Conditions C...

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In poetry mood ...

10 years ago•17 Replies

I learnt this poem as a child at school, and have always loved it. W.B.Yeats is a favourite poet and this is called 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree'. You may have heard it, it is well known.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

and I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Written by

Lyd12

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17 Replies

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hufferpuffer10 years ago

Thank you Iris I love it! Funny we are both thinking about poems learnt at school

I was thinking of Rudyard Kipling and Gunga Din ......

You may talk o’ gin and beer

When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,

An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;

But when it comes to slaughter

You will do your work on water,

An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.

Now in Injia’s sunny clime,

Where I used to spend my time

A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,

Of all them blackfaced crew

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din,

He was ‘Din! Din! Din!

‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!

‘Hi! Slippy hitherao

‘Water, get it! Panee lao,

‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’

The uniform ’e wore

Was nothin’ much before,

An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,

For a piece o’ twisty rag

An’ a goatskin water-bag

Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.

When the sweatin’ troop-train lay

In a sidin’ through the day,

Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,

We shouted ‘Harry By!’

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!

‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?

‘You put some juldee in it

‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute

‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’

’E would dot an’ carry one

Till the longest day was done;

An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin’ nut,

’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.

With ’is mussick a on ’is back,

’E would skip with our attack,

An’ watch us till the bugles made 'Retire,’

An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide

’E was white, clear white, inside

When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’

With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.

When the cartridges ran out,

You could hear the front-ranks shout,

‘Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!’

I shan’t forgit the night

When I dropped be’ind the fight

With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.

I was chokin’ mad with thirst,

An’ the man that spied me first

Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.

’E lifted up my ’ead,

An’ he plugged me where I bled,

An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green.

It was crawlin’ and it stunk,

But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,

I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was 'Din! Din! Din!

‘’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;

‘’E's chawin’ up the ground,

‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:

‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’

’E carried me away

To where a dooli lay,

An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.

’E put me safe inside,

An’ just before ’e died,

'I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.

So I’ll meet ’im later on

At the place where ’e is gone—

Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.

’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals

Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,

An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!

Yes, Din! Din! Din!

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,

By the livin’ Gawd that made you,

You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

xxx

Lyd12• in reply tohufferpuffer10 years ago

Oh, thanks so much for that one Huff. did enjoy it, lots to type! I remember the Title but not the whole poem. I hope children are still introduced to the great poets, those lessons stay with us throughout our lives and we are the richer for it. Love Iris x

hufferpuffer• in reply toLyd1210 years ago

Delighted you enjoyed it, I loved your poem, I think W.B .Yeats is so romantic! I 'pasted' and 'copied' it into my computer... Love huff xxx

10 years ago

My mum taught me "Some one" by Walter De La Mer.

Some one came knocking

At my wee, small door;

Someone came knocking;

I'm sure-sure-sure;

I listened, I opened,

I looked to left and right,

But nought there was a stirring

In the still dark night;

Only the busy beetle

Tap-tapping in the wall,

Only from the forest

The screech-owl's call,

Only the cricket whistling

While the dewdrops fall,

So I know not who came knocking,

At all, at all, at all.

Also like Silver and The Listener by him too.

• in reply to10 years ago

The Listener is another long time favourite of mine...quite creepy though

scorpiolass10 years ago

Hi all thanks for the Sunday poems. Here is one by Emily Dickinson; at sad times it has comforted me.

Parting

My life closed twice before its close;

It yet remains to see

If Immortality unveil

A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,

As these that twice befell.

Parting is all we know of heaven,

And all we need of hell.

Love Margaret x

• in reply toscorpiolass10 years ago

Emily Dickenson...this poem is lovely

Puffthemagicdragon10 years ago

I remember it ( The Lake ) from school too. Thanks for the reminder.

10 years ago

This is one of my all time favourites...we live very near Yeats burial place.

helingmic10 years ago

Very romantic.

Can I put in answer a poem that as always put some courage in my boots!

If by Rudyard Kipling.

IF you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Take courage, everyone! Mic

Lyd12• in reply tohelingmic10 years ago

thats a wonderful poem Mic, a classic that will never fade. love Iris x

Lyd1210 years ago

Vashti, do you know the poem, called Warning by Jenny Joseph? somehow when I read it today I thought it would be one that might especially appeal to you?

when I am an old woman I shall wear purple

with a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

and I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

and hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

but now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

but maybe I ought to practice a little now?

so people who know me are not too shocked or surprised

when suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

• in reply toLyd1210 years ago

I've started already Lyd. Already grown fat, and I hoard pens, notebooks and diaries.

Lyd12• in reply to10 years ago

I too am a hoarder Poems, and I think of my mother in law, long gone,who rather disapproved of my collecting, and reduced her belongings to the bare minimum, probably to stop me adding them to my collection!

scorpiolass10 years ago

Hi Lyd, I have this one framed....

Love Margaret x

10 years ago

What wonderful poems. I am certainly getting my inner culture vulture excited My favourite poem is 'The Charge of the Light Brigade' and my mothers was the Daffodil one and she loved the book Lorna Doone. She was always quoting those bless her. x

• in reply to10 years ago

Oh yes, Charge of the light brigade. I love anything by Tennyson. The Lady of Shallott, Marianna, The Kraken Awakes. Brilliant.

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