Favourite wildlife poems

[hobble]

I heard this read out loud on Radio 4 many years ago, It really moved me.
It has to be my favourite wild life poem.
Do you have any to share?


Mrs Malone by Eleanor Farjeon


Mrs. Malone
Lived hard by a wood
All on her lonesome
As nobody should. With her crust on a plate
And her pot on the coal
And none but herself
To converse with, poor soul.
In a shawl and a hood She got sticks out-o’-door,
On a bit of old sacking
She slept on the floor,
And nobody, nobody
Asked how she fared Or knew how she managed,
For nobody cared.
Why make a pother
About an old crone?
What for should they bother
With Mrs. Malone?

One Monday in winter
With snow on the ground
So thick that a footstep
Fell without sound,
She heard a faint frostbitten
Peck on the pane
And went to the window
To listen again.
There sat a [censored]-sparrow
Bedraggled and weak,
With half-open eyelid
And ice on his beak.
She threw up the sash
And she took the bird in,
And numbled and fumbled it
Under her chin.
'Ye’re all of a smother,
Ye’re fair overblown!
I’ve room fer another,'
Said Mrs. Malone.

Come Tuesday while eating
Her dry morning slice
With the sparrow a-picking
('Ain’t company nice!')
She heard on her doorpost
A curious scratch,
And there was a cat
With its claw on the latch.
It was hungry and thirsty
And thin as a lath,
It mewed and it mowed
On the slithery path.
She threw the door open
And warmed up some pap,
And huddled and cuddled it
In her old lap.
'There, there, little brother,
Ye poor skin-an’-bone,
There’s room fer another,'
Said Mrs. Malone.

Come Wednesday while all of them
Crouched on the mat
With a crumb for the sparrow,
A sip for the cat,
There was wailing and whining
Outside in the wood,
And there sat a vixen
With six of her brood.
She was haggard and ragged
And worn to shred,
And her half-dozen babies
Were only half-fed,
But Mrs. Malone, crying
'My! ain’t they sweet!'
Happed them and lapped them
And gave them to eat.
'You warm yerself, mother,
Ye’re cold as a stone!
There’s room fer another,'
Said Mrs. Malone.

Come Thursday a donkey
Stepped in off the road
With sores on his withers
From bearing a load.
Come Friday when icicles
Pierced the white air
Down from the mountainside
Lumbered a bear.
For each she had something,
If little, to give—
'Lord knows, the poor critters
Must all of ’em live.'
She gave them her sacking,
Her hood and her shawl,
Her loaf and her teapot—
She gave them her all.
'What with one thing and t’other
Me fambily’s grown,
And there’s room fer another,'
Said Mrs. Malone.

Come Saturday evening
When time was to sup
Mrs. Malone
Had forgot to sit up.
The cat said meeow,
And the sparrow said peep,
The vixen, she’s sleeping,
The bear, let her sleep.
On the back of the donkey
They bore her away,
Through trees and up mountains
Beyond night and day,
Till come Sunday morning
They brought her in state
Through the last cloudbank
As far as the Gate.
'Who is it,' asked Peter,
'You have with you there?'
And donkey and sparrow,
Cat, vixen and bear

Exclaimed, 'Do you tell us
Up here she’s unknown?
It’s our mother, God bless us!
It’s Mrs. Malone
Whose havings were few
And whose holding was small
And whose heart was so big
It had room for us all.'
Then Mrs. Malone
Of a sudden awoke,
She rubbed her two eyeballs
And anxiously spoke:
'Where am I, to goodness,
And what do I see?
My dears, let’s turn back,
This ain’t no place fer me!'
But Peter said, 'Mother
Go in to the Throne.
There’s room for another
One, Mrs. Malone.'

[tufftie]

Mines The Way Through the Woods by Kipling. Only I can't remember it well enough to put on here and my book is now in a friends cellar

[Meta menardi]

Sounds rather like Charles Causley, great poet.

On a lighter note

There was a young man from Dundee
Who was stung on the nose by a wasp
When asked "Does it hurt?"
He said "Not at all,
It can do it again if it likes!"

[Meta menardi]

Originally Posted by tufftie

Mines The Way Through the Woods by Kipling. Only I can't remember it well enough to put on here and my book is now in a friends cellar

I am a complete poetical poltroon, but isn't that Robert Frost?

[tufftie]

Originally Posted by Meta menardi

I am a complete poetical poltroon, but isn't that Robert Frost?

Not the one i'm thinking of - definitely Kipling

On silly ones i also like Ogden Nash but have the same problem with quoting!!
Do you know any?

[Bub-les]

My favorite is Silver by Walter De La Mare


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.

I first came across it at school I remember having to learn it off by heart. Even so I still think its a wonderful poem.

Barbara

[Meta menardi]

Originally Posted by tufftie

Not the one i'm thinking of - definitely Kipling

On silly ones i also like Ogden Nash but have the same problem with quoting!!
Do you know any?

You are right, I humble myself.

The Way Through the Woods.

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the Badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the Otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods. . . .
But there is no road through the woods.

I was thinking of this. (Robert Frost

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.


But I like the Kipling very much.

[tigger]

I read this last year, just after the death of my brother in law. It really seemed to sum up how I felt at the time.

The Oak by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Live thy Life,
Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;

Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed
Soberer-hued
Gold again.

All his leaves
Fall’n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough
Naked strength.

[Meta menardi]

Originally Posted by Bub-les

My favorite is Silver by Walter De La Mare


Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon....

That was like a rocket up my trouser leg. I learnt it (and then forgot it) for Elecution classes about 50 years ago, meant to give me confidence and to stop me talking common. Didn't work, but seeing that poem just brought it all back. I done all right, and Mum bought me a plastic Zorro sword as a reward!

Thanks, that was quite a blast.

[Meta menardi]

And just before I go to bed, one from Charles Causley.


I Saw A Jolly Hunter


I saw a jolly hunter
With a jolly gun
Walking in the country
In the jolly sun.

In the jolly meadow
Sat a jolly hare.
Saw the jolly hunter.
Took jolly care.

Hunter jolly eager-
Sight of jolly prey.
Forgot gun pointing
Wrong jolly way.

Jolly hunter jolly head
Over heels gone.
Jolly old safety catch
Not jolly on.

Bang went the jolly gun.
Hunter jolly dead.
Jolly hare got clean away.
Jolly good, I said.

Charles Causley

[tufftie]

Argghh - it's so frustrating MM - all my books are packed away. Had to go for weight so all taking with me is essential id books and games.

[pressld2]

Originally Posted by Meta menardi

On a lighter note

There was a young man from Dundee
Who was stung on the nose by a wasp
When asked "Does it hurt?"
He said "Not at all,
It can do it again if it likes!"

Love it! Was that Spike Milligan by any chance?

One of my favourites since I was about five is The Eagle by Tennyson, short and simple but very evocative...

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Dave P.

[pressld2]

And speaking of Spike Milligan, I've just remembered this one (not in the least bit funny)...

A baby Rabbit with eyes full of pus
Is the work of scientific us.

My diagnosis
Myxomatosis.

And this one (much funnier)...

There was a baboon who one afternoon
Said "I think I will fly to the sun".
So with two great palms strapped to his arms
He started his take-off run.

Mile after mile he galloped in style
But never once left the ground.
"You're running too slow" said a passing crow,
"Try reaching the speed of sound."

So he put on a spurt (by God, how it hurt!)
The soles of his feet caught fire.
There were great clouds of steam as he raced through a stream
But he still didn't get any higher.

Racing on through the night both his knees caught alight
And smoke billowed out from his rear.
Quick to his aid came the fire brigade
Who chased him for over a year!

Many moons passed by, did baboon ever fly?
Did he ever get to the sun?
Well I've just heard today that he's well on his way,
He'll be passing through Acton at one.

Dave P.

[Diane1715]

Classic ha ha