THE SNOW STORM

THE  SNOW  STORM

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,

And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.

The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet

Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north wind's masonry.

Out of an unseen quarry evermore

Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer

Curves his white bastions with projected roof

Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.

Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work

So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he

For number or proportion. Mockingly,

On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;

A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;

Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,

Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,

A tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are numbered, and the world

Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art

To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,

Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,

The frolic architecture of the snow.

                               Ralph Waldo Emerson

THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR

THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR

'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor

With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?

She 'as ships on the foam - she 'as millions at 'ome,

An' she pays us poor beggars in red.

(Ow, poor beggars in red!)

There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,

There's 'er mark on the medical stores -

An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind

That takes us to various wars.

(Poor beggars! - barbarious wars!)

Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,

An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,

The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces

O' Missis Victorier's sons.

(Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)

Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,

For 'alf o' Creation she owns:

We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,

An' we've salted it down with our bones.

(Poor beggars! - it's blue with our bones!)

Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,

Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,

For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown

When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!

(Poor beggars! - we're sent to say "Stop"!)

Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,

From the Pole to the Tropics it runs -

To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,

An' open in form with the guns.

(Poor beggars! - it's always they guns!)

We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,

It's safest to let 'er alone:

For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land

Wherever the bugles are blown.

(Poor beggars! - an' don't we get blown!)

Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',

An' flop round the earth till you're dead;

But you won't get away from the tune that they play

To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.

(Poor beggars! - it's 'ot over'ead!)

Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,

Wherever, 'owever they roam.

'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require

A speedy return to their 'ome.

(Poor beggars! - they'll never see 'ome!)

                               Rudyard Kipling

THE LONG TRAIL

THE LONG TRAIL

There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,

And the ricks stand grey to the sun,

Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,

"And your English summer's done."

 

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,

And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song - how long? how long?

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,

We've seen the seasons through,

And it's time to turn the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new!

It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun

Or South to the blind Horn's hate;

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,

Or West to the Golden Gate -

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,

And the wildest tales are true,

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail - the trail that is always new.

 

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;

And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll

Of a black Bilbao tramp,

With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,

And a drunken Dago crew,

And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail

From Cadiz south on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.

 

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,

Or the way of a man with a maid;

But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea

In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass.

And the drum of the racing screw,

As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail - the trail that is always new?

 

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,

And the fenders grind and heave,

And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,

And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;

It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass,

It's "Hawsers warp her through!"

And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We're backing down on the Long Trail - the trail that is always new.

 

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,

And the sirens hoot their dread,

When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless, viewless deep

To the sob of the questing lead!

It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,

With the Gunfleet Sands in view,

Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail - the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light

That holds the hot sky tame,

And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors

Where the scared whale flukes in flame!

Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass

And her ropes are taut with the dew,

For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We're sagging south on the Long Trail - the trail that is always new.

 

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,

And the shouting seas drive by,

And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,

And the Southern Cross rides high!

Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,

That blaze in the velvet blue.

They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

They're God's own guides on the Long Trail - the trail that is always new.

 

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start -

We're steaming all too slow,

And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle

Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

You have heard the call of the off-shore wind

And the voice of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song - how long? - how long?

Pull out on the trail again!

 

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,

And The Deuce knows what we may do -

But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We're down, hull-down, on the Long Trail - the trail that is always new!

 

                                Rudyard Kipling

 

THE GIPSY TRAIL

THE GIPSY TRAIL

The white moth to the closing bine,

The bee to the opened clover,

And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood

Ever the wide world over.

Ever the wide world over, lass,

Ever the trail held true,

Over the world and under the world,

And back at the last to you.

Out of the dark of the gorgio camp,

Out of the grime and the gray

(Morning waits at the end of the world),

Gipsy, come away!

The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp

The red crane to her reed,

And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,

By the tie of a roving breed.

The pied snake to the rifted rock,

The buck to the stony plain,

And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,

And both to the road again.

Both to the road again, again!

Out on a clean sea-track -

Follow the cross of the gipsy trail

Over the world and back!

Follow the Romany patteran

North where the blue bergs sail,

And the bows are grey with the frozen spray,

And the masts are shod with mail.

Follow the Romany patteran

Sheer to the Austral Light,

Where the besom of God is the wild South wind,

Sweeping the sea-floors white.

Follow the Romany patteran

West to the sinking sun,

Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift.

And the east and west are one.

Follow the Romany patteran

East where the silence broods

By a purple wave on an opal beach

In the hush of the Mahim woods.

"The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,

The deer to the wholesome wold,

And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,

As it was in the days of old."

The heart of a man to the heart of a maid -

Light of my tents, be fleet.

Morning waits at the end of the world,

And the world is all at our feet!

                               Rudyard Kipling

THE CHANGELINGS

THE CHANGELINGS

R.N.V.R.

“ SEA CONSTABLES “

Or ever the battered liners sank

With their passengers to the dark

I was head of a Walworth Bank,

And you were a grocer's clerk.

I was a dealer in stocks and shares,

And you in butters and teas;

And we both abandoned our own affairs

And took to the dreadful seas.

Wet and worry about our ways-

Panic, onset and flight-

Had us in charge for a thousand days

And thousand-year-long night.

We saw more than the nights could hide-

More than the waves could keep-

And--certain faces over the side

Which do not go from our sleep.

We were more tired than words can tell

While the pied craft fled by,

And the swinging mounds of the Western swell

Hoisted us Heavens-high...

Now there is nothing - not even our rank-

To witness what we have been;

And I am returned to my Walworth Bank

And you to your margarine!

                                 Rudyard Kipling

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION

The poem “ THE CHANGELINGS “ was used by Kipling at the beginning of the short story “ SEA CONSTABLES a tale of 1915 “. This story was included in the book of Kipling’s short stories “ DEBITS AND CREDITS “ which was published in 1926.

The abbreviation R.N.V.R. is for Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve which was formed in 1903 and administered by the British Royal Navy. During World War Two the R.N.V.R. became the main route for wartime officer entry into the Royal Navy. The service was called the “wavy navy” after the wavy sleeve stripes on the R.N.V.R. officers uniforms to differentiate them from the other naval officers.

SNOW GEESE

SNOW GEESE

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!

What a task

to ask

of anything, or anyone,

yet it is ours,

and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

One fall day I heard

above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound

I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was

a flock of snow geese, winging it

faster than the ones we usually see,

and, being the color of snow, catching the sun

so they were, in part at least, golden. I

held my breath

as we do

sometimes

to stop time

when something wonderful

has touched us

as with a match,

which is lit, and bright,

but does not hurt

in the common way,

but delightfully,

as if delight

were the most serious thing

you ever felt.

The geese

flew on,

I have never seen them again.

Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.

Maybe I won't.

It doesn't matter.

What matters

is that, when I saw them,

I saw them

as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

 

                              Mary Oliver