And every orchid, sedge and rush, Each moss and fern, each tree and bush Will wither for the want of care, Since no one noticed they were there. Or even worse, were smothered under Concrete thanks to lack of wonder. Our world would then be all the poorer Without our precious British flora.
Gather ye rosebuds if ye must But never give your love to just The cultivated trees and flowers For nature's blooms are rightly ours. To cherish and to then hand on To generations when we're gone. Watch them, love them, serve them well, Burdock, daisy, pimpernel.
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Bluebell, nettle, Queen Anne's lace, Each one here deserves its place. Let them thrive and drop their seeds And never call them dreadful weeds. For weeds are just a man's invention, Thwarting now his best intention. Find a spot to show their worth. Like you, they own a place on earth. Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning : How do I love thee? Let me count the ways Read by Anne-Marie Minhall.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints — I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. WHAT is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare? A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain.
Wilfred Owen enlisted in the British army in He wrote poems throughout the length of the war.
They show how the devout Christian faith of his youth was challenged, rethought and all-but lost. In this poem of September a funeral takes place not in a church but on a godless battlefield. He died in one week before the ceasefire.
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes. Moved by the fact that poppies grew in abundance in Flanders during the warm summer months of the war, she wrote this poem in November and made a pledge always to wear a red silk poppy to remember those who had died.
She campaigned for the poppy to be adopted as a national symbol of remembrance, which happened first in the US in and then internationally. We caught the torch you threw And holding high, we keep the faith With all who died.
In the Midst of Desolation — Memoriam. Слушать онлайн на Яндекс.Музыке
We cherish, too, the poppy red That grows on fields where valour led; It seems to signal to the skies That blood of heroes never dies, But lends a lustre to the red Of the flower that blooms above the dead In Flanders Fields. And now the torch and poppy red We wear in honour of our dead. I call on the Lord in my distress, and he answers me. Save me, Lord, from lying lips and from deceitful tongues.
For the Fallen
What will he do to you, and what more besides, you deceitful tongue? Woe to me that I dwell in Meshek, that I live among the tents of Kedar! Too long have I lived among those who hate peace. I am for peace; but when I speak, they are for war. About a thousand years before Jesus the temple authorities compiled a book of songs for use in worship by the Jewish people.
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Although the music is lost, the poetry is preserved in the Bible in the book called Psalms. Skip to content. Share This Post:.