Year+4+-+Poetry+for+Atmosphere

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==  BBC ==

The Listeners
"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grass Of the forest's ferny floor; And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- "Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Walter de la Mare ||  || ==Silver==

Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon; This way, and that, she peers, and sees Silver fruit upon silver trees; One by one the casements catch Her beams beneath the silvery thatch; Couched in his kennel, like a log, With paws of silver sleeps the dog; From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep Of doves in silver feathered sleep A harvest mouse goes scampering by, With silver claws, and silver eye; And moveless fish in the water gleam, By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Walter de la Mare ||
 * ==Hide and Seek==

All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, All the flocks of fleecy clouds have wandered past the hill; Through the noonday silence, down the woods of June, Hark, a little hunter's voice comes running with a tune. "Hide and seek! "When I speak, "You must answer me: "Call again, "Merry men, "Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!" Now I hear his footsteps, rustling through the grass: Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass? Just a low, soft whistle,--quick the hunter turns, Leaps upon me laughing, rolls me in the ferns. "Hold him fast, "Caught at last! "Now you're it, you see. "Hide your eye, "Till I cry, "Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"

II

Long ago he left me, long and long ago: Now I wander through the world and seek him high and low; Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place,-- Ah, if I could hear his voice, I soon should find his face. Far away, Many a day, Where can Barney be? Answer, dear, Don't you hear? Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!

Birds that in the spring-time thrilled his heart with joy, Flowers he loved to pick for me, mind me of my boy. Surely he is waiting till my steps come nigh; Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die. Heart, be glad, The little lad Will call some day to thee: "Father dear, "Heaven is here, "Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"

Henry Van Dyke ||  || ==Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening==

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost ||
 * ==The Bookworm==

A moth, I thought, munching a word. How marvellously weird! a worm Digesting a man's sayings -- A sneakthief nibbling in the shadows At the shape of a poet's thunderous phrases -- How unutterably strange! And the pilfering parasite none the wiser For the words he has swallowed.

Anonymous Olde English ||  || =Ode to Marbles= By [| Max Mendelsohn] I love the sound of marbles scattered on the worn wooden floor, like children running away in a game of hide-and-seek. I love the sight of white marbles, blue marbles, green marbles, black, new marbles, old marbles, iridescent marbles, with glass-ribboned swirls, dancing round and round. I love the feel of marbles, cool, smooth, rolling freely in my palm, like smooth-sided stars that light up the worn world. Poem copyright ©2004 by The Children’s Art Foundation. Reprinted from Stone Soup, May/June, 2004, by permission of the publisher, www.stonesoup.com. ||
 * =The Man from Snowy River=

[[image:Snowy_River_from_McKillops_Road.jpg width="400" height="197" align="right"]]
There was a movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -- He would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand, He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> He was something like a racehorse undersized, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least -- <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die -- <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> There was courage in his quick impatient tread; <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the old man said, "That horse will never do <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Those hills are far too rough for such as you." <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend -- <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"I think we ought to let him come," he said; <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> For both his horse and he are mountain bred."

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The man that holds his own is good enough. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Where the river runs those giant hills between; <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -- <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">They raced away towards the mountain's brow, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">No use to try for fancy riding now. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Where the best and boldest riders take their place, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Resounded to the thunder of their tread, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">No man can hold them down the other side."

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It well might make the boldest hold their breath, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">While the others stood and watched in very fear. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -- <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At the bottom of that terrible descent.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">With the man from Snowy River at their heels. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He followed like a bloodhound on their track, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And alone and unassisted brought them back. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Their torn and rugged battlements on high, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

Banjo Paterson
In the ballads and poetry of Banjo Paterson are captured the spirit of the Australian Outback, and the essences of the bushmen and women who pioneered it. The vast distances, the droughts, the floods, the flies, the heat ... and the harsh and beautiful places of Outback Australia were brought to the city people of the late 1880's through the writings of Andrew Barton Paterson.

A true folk poet, a recorder and publisher of Australian Bush Songs, Banjo brought the legendary magic of the Australian bush into the household, the schools and the government. His mythical ballad //Waltzing Matilda// would be described as Australia's unofficial national anthem, and there is no doubt he contributed much to Australia's heritage. The Man from Snowy River, tells the story of a young mountain lad, mounted on a small mountain pony, who rides out with the experienced stockmen in pursuit of a runaway horse. Because of his size, and the size of his pony he is first rediculed, but when the wild bush horses take to the wild and rugged mountain tracts, he and his pony grow in stature .... Banjo Paterson ||  || =The Ballad Of The Drover= Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse Is trotting by his knee.

Up Queensland way with cattle He travelled regions vast; And many months have vanished Since home-folk saw him last. He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune.

Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies And yon blue line of ranges The homestead station lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune.

An hour has filled the heavens With storm-clouds inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track; But Harry pushes onward, His horses' strength he tries, In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise.

The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents falls the rain. And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud.

Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains, And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes; `We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!'

The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle-horse is failing, And only half-way o'er!

When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank. But in the lonely homestead The girl will wait in vain -- He'll never pass the stations In charge of stock again.

The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles He fights with failing strength, Till, borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length.

Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home. And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; While hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily.

. . . ..

The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain. But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds.

Henry Lawson : []* Back to the poem's page > [] || <span style="display: block; height: 1px; left: -40px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; top: 575px; width: 1px;"> Project Gutenberg //ebook// of Collected //Poems//
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