Our latest summer 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.
The Linden Tree
The wind, with a sway and rustle,
Toss'd the leaves of the linden tree,
And, deep in the silvery shadow,
A treasure was shown to me.
A little brown nest, soft laden,
Wee pearlies, one, two, three;
But oh! the eyes of the watcher
That perch'd on the linden tree!
Little heart! in the flowery summer,
Thy nestlings shall sing to me;
Fold thy wings in the leafy shadow,
Love hallows the linden tree!
Eliza Craven Green (1803-1866)
The wind, with a sway and rustle,
Toss'd the leaves of the linden tree,
And, deep in the silvery shadow,
A treasure was shown to me.
A little brown nest, soft laden,
Wee pearlies, one, two, three;
But oh! the eyes of the watcher
That perch'd on the linden tree!
Little heart! in the flowery summer,
Thy nestlings shall sing to me;
Fold thy wings in the leafy shadow,
Love hallows the linden tree!
Eliza Craven Green (1803-1866)
A June Day
The very spirit of summer breathes to-day,
Here where I sun me in a dreamy mood,
And laps the sultry leas, and seems to brood
Tenderly o'er those hazed hills far away.
The air is fragrant with the new-mown hay,
And drowsed with hum of myriad flies pursued
By twittering martins. All yon hillside wood
Is drowned in sunshine till its green looks grey.
No scrap of cloud is in the still blue sky,
Vaporous with heat, from which the foreground trees
Stand out--each leaf cut sharp. The whetted scythe
Makes rustic music for me as I lie,
Watching the gambols of the children blythe,
Drinking the season's sweetness to the lees.
John Todhunter (1839-1916)
The very spirit of summer breathes to-day,
Here where I sun me in a dreamy mood,
And laps the sultry leas, and seems to brood
Tenderly o'er those hazed hills far away.
The air is fragrant with the new-mown hay,
And drowsed with hum of myriad flies pursued
By twittering martins. All yon hillside wood
Is drowned in sunshine till its green looks grey.
No scrap of cloud is in the still blue sky,
Vaporous with heat, from which the foreground trees
Stand out--each leaf cut sharp. The whetted scythe
Makes rustic music for me as I lie,
Watching the gambols of the children blythe,
Drinking the season's sweetness to the lees.
John Todhunter (1839-1916)
The Daring One
I would my soul were like the bird
That dares the vastness undeterred.
Look, where the bluebird on the bough
Breaks into rapture even now!
He sings, tip-top, the tossing elm
As tho he would a world o’erwhelm.
Indifferent to the void he rides
Upon the wind’s eternal tides.
He tosses gladly on the gale,
For well he knows he can not fail-
Know if the bough breaks, still his wings
Will bear him upward while he sings!
Edwin Markham (1852-1940)
I would my soul were like the bird
That dares the vastness undeterred.
Look, where the bluebird on the bough
Breaks into rapture even now!
He sings, tip-top, the tossing elm
As tho he would a world o’erwhelm.
Indifferent to the void he rides
Upon the wind’s eternal tides.
He tosses gladly on the gale,
For well he knows he can not fail-
Know if the bough breaks, still his wings
Will bear him upward while he sings!
Edwin Markham (1852-1940)
The Barley Fields
The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge,
Saffron pale, where a star of white
Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe
Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.
O the green of the barley fields grows deep,
The breath of the barley fields grows rare;
There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep-
The wind is holding high revel there,
Singing the song it has often sung-
Hark to the troubadour glad and bold:
'Sweet is the earth when the summer is young
And the barley fields are green and gold!'
Jean Blewitt (1862-1934)
The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge,
Saffron pale, where a star of white
Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe
Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.
O the green of the barley fields grows deep,
The breath of the barley fields grows rare;
There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep-
The wind is holding high revel there,
Singing the song it has often sung-
Hark to the troubadour glad and bold:
'Sweet is the earth when the summer is young
And the barley fields are green and gold!'
Jean Blewitt (1862-1934)
To the muses
You are the breeze
in the copper beech
the dewdrops
on a summer day
The cold sea
on our bare feet
the salt spray
on our waiting skin
the pine breath
of a forest coast
the velvet brush
of a breeze’s touch
the swing of silk satin
and the silent sunlight
splicing this still air
Martha Pollard (1968- )
You are the breeze
in the copper beech
the dewdrops
on a summer day
The cold sea
on our bare feet
the salt spray
on our waiting skin
the pine breath
of a forest coast
the velvet brush
of a breeze’s touch
the swing of silk satin
and the silent sunlight
splicing this still air
Martha Pollard (1968- )
Where we Lay our Towels
Reading water all day I bend inland.
carrying a piece of wind in my ear,
salt between lashes.
A lush garden, already alight
with yesterday’s dreams
tacitly welcomes me.
It’s called the berm,
where we lay our towels.
It swirls like fire, marks infinity,
shifts shape so that asking
where does ocean meet sky?is like asking
where isn’t beautiful life?
Tonight I’m transfixed by a halo of fire circling
someone
- the colour of love - in that same garden;
plucked, an Icelandic fiddle warbles
lullabies about whales.
Choose a point for focus, my teacher says.
It will stabilise the waves.
Eva Hibbs ( 1989 - )
Reading water all day I bend inland.
carrying a piece of wind in my ear,
salt between lashes.
A lush garden, already alight
with yesterday’s dreams
tacitly welcomes me.
It’s called the berm,
where we lay our towels.
It swirls like fire, marks infinity,
shifts shape so that asking
where does ocean meet sky?is like asking
where isn’t beautiful life?
Tonight I’m transfixed by a halo of fire circling
someone
- the colour of love - in that same garden;
plucked, an Icelandic fiddle warbles
lullabies about whales.
Choose a point for focus, my teacher says.
It will stabilise the waves.
Eva Hibbs ( 1989 - )
Editor: Helen Lee
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2022. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2022. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors
