Our latest autumn poetry selection
Our poetry is chosen from the work of both well-known and new poets, and assessed by a practising psychotherapist for suitability for patients waiting to see their doctor. We hope you enjoy our latest selection.
from The Lady of the Lake
And now, to issue from the glen,
No pathway meets the wanderer’s ken,
Unless he climb, with footing nice
A far projecting precipice.
The broom’s tough roots his ladder made,
The hazel saplings lent their aid;
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnished sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,
In all her length far winding lay,
With promontory, creek, and bay,
And islands that, empurpled bright,
Floated amid the livelier light,
And mountains, that like giants stand,
To sentinel enchanted land.
Walter Scott (1771-1832)
And now, to issue from the glen,
No pathway meets the wanderer’s ken,
Unless he climb, with footing nice
A far projecting precipice.
The broom’s tough roots his ladder made,
The hazel saplings lent their aid;
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnished sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,
In all her length far winding lay,
With promontory, creek, and bay,
And islands that, empurpled bright,
Floated amid the livelier light,
And mountains, that like giants stand,
To sentinel enchanted land.
Walter Scott (1771-1832)
Ruth
She stood breast hight among the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek and autumn flush,
Deeply ripened; –such a blush
In the misdst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light,
That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:
Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.
Thomas Hood (1799 – 1845)
She stood breast hight among the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek and autumn flush,
Deeply ripened; –such a blush
In the misdst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light,
That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:
Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.
Thomas Hood (1799 – 1845)
Colour
What is pink? a rose is pink
By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Just an orange!
Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
What is pink? a rose is pink
By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Just an orange!
Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
The source
The sleep that flits on baby's eyes--does anybody know from where
it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where,
in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with
glow-worms, there hang two shy buds of enchantment. From there it
comes to kiss baby's eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps--does
anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young
pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn
cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew
washed morning--the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he
sleeps.
The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs--does
anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was
a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent
mystery of love--the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on
baby's limbs.
Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941)
The sleep that flits on baby's eyes--does anybody know from where
it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where,
in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with
glow-worms, there hang two shy buds of enchantment. From there it
comes to kiss baby's eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps--does
anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young
pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn
cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew
washed morning--the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he
sleeps.
The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs--does
anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was
a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent
mystery of love--the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on
baby's limbs.
Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941)
Green
The dawn was apple-green,
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,
The moon was a golden petal between.
She opened her eyes, and green
They shone, clear like flowers undone
For the first time, now for the first time seen.
D H Lawrence (1885-1930)
The dawn was apple-green,
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,
The moon was a golden petal between.
She opened her eyes, and green
They shone, clear like flowers undone
For the first time, now for the first time seen.
D H Lawrence (1885-1930)
November Blue
O, Heavenly colour! London town
Has blurred it from her skies;
And hooded in an earthly brown,
Unheaven'd the city lies.
No longer standard-like this hue
Above the broad road flies;
Nor does the narrow street the blue
Wear, slender pennon-wise.
But when the gold and silver lamps
Colour the London dew,
And, misted by the winter damps,
The shops shine bright anew -
Blue comes to earth, it walks the street,
It dyes the wide air through;
A mimic sky about their feet,
The throng go crowned with blue.
Alice Meynell (1847 - 1922)
O, Heavenly colour! London town
Has blurred it from her skies;
And hooded in an earthly brown,
Unheaven'd the city lies.
No longer standard-like this hue
Above the broad road flies;
Nor does the narrow street the blue
Wear, slender pennon-wise.
But when the gold and silver lamps
Colour the London dew,
And, misted by the winter damps,
The shops shine bright anew -
Blue comes to earth, it walks the street,
It dyes the wide air through;
A mimic sky about their feet,
The throng go crowned with blue.
Alice Meynell (1847 - 1922)
Bossington Hill (Exmoor)
Remember when we followed the sheep path to eternity
you and me
stumbling and laughing
walking higher and higher
heads full of love
shoes tacky with briars
the higher we walked the lighter our step
gasping for breath
stood in silence
(September was warm that year)
a host of hirondelles flew past like a whisper
milk-white breast of downey feathers
tug at the heart
you showed me a fern
whose leaves when crushed
smell of citrus
shared like a secret
Saffron Summerfield
Remember when we followed the sheep path to eternity
you and me
stumbling and laughing
walking higher and higher
heads full of love
shoes tacky with briars
the higher we walked the lighter our step
gasping for breath
stood in silence
(September was warm that year)
a host of hirondelles flew past like a whisper
milk-white breast of downey feathers
tug at the heart
you showed me a fern
whose leaves when crushed
smell of citrus
shared like a secret
Saffron Summerfield
Coming home
It’s later now. The sun has wedged itself
in between the rooftops,
bathing the garden russet leaves in gold.
Branches shiver and the evening air
nibbles your fingers as you get closer to home.
You know warmth waits for you.
It’s later now. The sun has ducked low
beneath the roofs and you hug your teacup
steam mingling with the lamplight.
Outside, squirrels circle the tree trunks,
their reddish tails making patterns in the dusk.
Freyer Jeffries (1994 --
It’s later now. The sun has wedged itself
in between the rooftops,
bathing the garden russet leaves in gold.
Branches shiver and the evening air
nibbles your fingers as you get closer to home.
You know warmth waits for you.
It’s later now. The sun has ducked low
beneath the roofs and you hug your teacup
steam mingling with the lamplight.
Outside, squirrels circle the tree trunks,
their reddish tails making patterns in the dusk.
Freyer Jeffries (1994 --
Editor: Isobel Montgomery Campbell
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2020. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2020. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
