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Post Posted:: October 2nd, 2017, 10:16 pm 

Joined: April 5th, 2013, 8:28 pm
Posts: 959
Location: Coastal Alaska Rainforest
Hathitrust has works by George Herbert -;view=1up;seq=5;view=1up;seq=11
et al.

The Collar is in both of these.


"A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules."


Post Posted:: October 4th, 2017, 5:31 pm 
LibriVox Admin Team

Joined: July 14th, 2008, 4:54 pm
Posts: 11797
Location: Nottawasaga Bay
Thanks Phil, but I get a
This item is not available online ( Limited - search only) due to copyright restrictions. Learn More »
on both those links, maybe a Canada PD thing. :roll:

David Lawrence

* Weekly & Fortnightly Poetry - Check out the Short Works forum for the latest projects!

Post Posted:: October 4th, 2017, 6:35 pm 

Joined: April 5th, 2013, 8:28 pm
Posts: 959
Location: Coastal Alaska Rainforest
Hmmm - I see a note on them - "Public Domain in the United States, Google-digitized." Phoo! :? Seems funny that you can't access it for just being east of the border.


"A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules."


Post Posted:: October 16th, 2017, 6:07 am 

Joined: August 27th, 2015, 8:33 am
Posts: 1217
The Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse
[editor's note: The king addressed in the 'Lenvoy' is probably Henry IV]

TO you, my purse, and to none other wight
Complain I, for you be my lady dear!
I am so sorry, now that you be light;
For certain, but you make me heavy cheer,
Me were as lief be laid upon my bier;
For which unto your mercy thus I cry:
Be heavy again, or else might I die!

Now voucheth safe this day, or be it night,
That I of you the blissful sound may hear,
Or see your colour like the sun bright,
That of yellowness had never peer.
You be my life, you be mine heart's steer*,     *helmsman
Queen of comfort and of good company:
Be heavy again, or else might I die!

Now, purse, that be to me my life's light
And saviour, as done in this world here,
Out of this town help me through your might,
Since that you will not be my treasurer;
For I am shaved as nigh as any friar.
But yet I pray unto your courtesy:
Be heavy again, or else might I die!

     Lenvoy de Chaucer

O conqueror of Brute's Albion*,     *England
Which that by line and free election
Be very king, this song to you I send;
And you, that may all our harms amend,
Have mind upon my supplication!

Geoffrey Chaucer

Tony Addison.

Post Posted:: October 22nd, 2017, 6:47 pm 

Joined: April 5th, 2013, 8:28 pm
Posts: 959
Location: Coastal Alaska Rainforest

I just spent a very enjoyable afternoon at the symphony. The highlight was a work by Ralph Vaughn Williams called The Lark Ascending with the violin solo played by a remarkable young woman named Fabiola Kim. It was achingly beautiful; she had half the audience in tears. It turns out Williams based his work on a poem by George Meredith by the same title I'd like to suggest as a fortnightly poem.

The Lark Ascending by George Meredith;view=1up;seq=80

A bit of sweetness before winter has us in its firm grip. One recording of this is already in the catalog for a short poetry collection about 4 years ago.


"A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules."


Post Posted:: October 23rd, 2017, 1:05 pm 

Joined: February 17th, 2015, 7:22 am
Posts: 1822
I'm coming in with an early suggestion for poems to mark 11 November. There are two by Sara Teasdale, 'There Will Come Soft Rains' and 'Winter Stars', both from They have been done as weekly poems before, but in 2010 and 2014 respectively.

"There Will Come Soft Rains"
(War Time)

  There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
  And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
  And frogs in the pools singing at night,
  And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;
  Robins will wear their feathery fire
  Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
  And not one will know of the war, not one
  Will care at last when it is done.
  Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
  If mankind perished utterly;
  And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
  Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Winter Stars

  I went out at night alone;
   The young blood flowing beyond the sea
  Seemed to have drenched my spirit's wings—
   I bore my sorrow heavily.
  But when I lifted up my head
   From shadows shaken on the snow,
  I saw Orion in the east
   Burn steadily as long ago.
  From windows in my father's house,
   Dreaming my dreams on winter nights,
  I watched Orion as a girl
   Above another city's lights.
  Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too,
   The world's heart breaks beneath its wars,
  All things are changed, save in the east
   The faithful beauty of the stars.


Post Posted:: October 29th, 2017, 5:02 am 

Joined: November 10th, 2016, 3:54 am
Posts: 398
Location: LONDON UK
I was wondering about this poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge? Either weekly or fortnightly poems. Not sure if its been done before or how recently.

A very great poem. (In my opinion).

Frost at Midnight

THE Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by an wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud--and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mick study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity, doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether summer clothe the general earth
With greeness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Project Catalogue

Post Posted:: October 29th, 2017, 12:57 pm 

Joined: January 17th, 2013, 9:16 pm
Posts: 2144
Location: Rochester, NY
I just came across this poem which struck me as both lovely and unusual, and suitable for this harvest time of year.

Hurrahing in Harvest
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?

I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
And, éyes, heárt, what looks, what lips yet gave you a
Rapturous love’s greeting of realer, of rounder replies?

And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic—as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet!—
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.


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Post Posted:: November 23rd, 2017, 2:29 pm 

Joined: February 17th, 2015, 7:22 am
Posts: 1822
I'd like to suggest 'The End of the Play' by Thackeray as a seasonal offering - perhaps it's a more suitable length for a fortnightly than a weekly, but it doesn't look as if it's been a weekly/fortnightly December offering before:


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