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Post by adcooper on Feb 21, 2008 8:05:59 GMT -5
Oooh! Creepy cool!
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Post by niaru on Feb 21, 2008 9:00:19 GMT -5
Ooooh! You guys are too cool!! I love it!
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Post by Bara on Feb 21, 2008 11:40:11 GMT -5
Oooh, that's wonderful, Shannon. It rings a vague, but dim and distant bell - is it about the 'barrow-wights'?
That sounds perfect for Lynne's Furnival!
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Post by bindi on Feb 23, 2008 23:15:51 GMT -5
How on earth did you girls get to appreciate poetry?? Do you think that it is something genetical you are born with or can it be developed???  |
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Post by Bara on Feb 24, 2008 8:20:09 GMT -5
You just need to read it sloooowwly, Bindi!
What shall we start her on, Girls? Something horsey ..
ANNNNN??
Here's my offering, Bindi, mentioned before ... It's got everything. Tall dark handsome hero - beautiful girl - gallant horse - love, sacrifice and tragedy!
The Highwayman
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair
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Post by adcooper on Feb 24, 2008 18:00:37 GMT -5
Yes, Binid, it IS genetical! But it's also contagious. ;D
Bara, I love that old Highwayman!
And I've posted this one before. How can exracers not love...
A DAY AT THE RACES
There they were
coming around the far turn
with the one I bet on
dead last.
I staked everything I had
on Poetry,
but there she was
trailing Science & Technology,
with Making Money
far out front,
leading by nine lengths.
I looked to see if the jockey
was holding Poetry back,
if he was waiting
for the last minute
stretch drive,
but, no,
Making Money
won going away;
Science & Technology
finished Place & Show.
Some horse called Education
pulled up lame
& had to be walked away.
But there was my horse,
taking her time,
lopping in dead last
as if she weren't costing
anybody anything.
A 3 year old claiming race
& I had all those losing tickets
on her. I tell you, though,
when the saddle's off her
& the bit out of her mouth,
when she's alone in a green field,
she runs & runs & runs.
----Louis Phillips
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Post by bindi on Feb 24, 2008 18:14:55 GMT -5
okie.... educating bindi - what a challenge!  I shall print them out, take them home and read them s-l-o-w-l-y. In my torment of being a teenager I tried writing poetry. It was all very deep and probably to anyone else meant nothing!. |
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Post by Goalie on Feb 24, 2008 18:24:47 GMT -5
Oh bara I hadn't read that in such a loong time. Thank you for the memories as I read it again. It was one of my moms favorites.
S afely out & home again
A round the oval track
F inding strength to persevere
E merging from the Pack
T hrough the race protect them lord
R eturn them to the barn
I nstill in them our loving thoughts
P rotect them from all harm
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Post by Bara on Feb 24, 2008 18:44:24 GMT -5
Ha ha! You can't read Ann's slowly, Bindi - you have to read it as a racing commentary.
Perfect, Ann!
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