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.
Noon
The mid-day hour of twelve the clock counts o’er,
A sultry stillness lulls the air asleep;
The very buzz of flies is heard no more,
Nor faintest wrinkles o’er the waters creep.
Like one large sheet of glass the waters shine,
Reflecting on their face the burnt sunbeam:
The very fish their sporting play decline,
Seeking the willow-shadows ‘side the stream.
And, where the hawthorn branches o’er the pool,
The little bird, forsaking song and nest,
Flutters on dripping twigs his limbs to cool,
And splashes in the stream his burning breast.
O, free from thunder, for a sudden shower,
To cherish nature in this noon-day hour!
John Clare (1793-1864)
The mid-day hour of twelve the clock counts o’er,
A sultry stillness lulls the air asleep;
The very buzz of flies is heard no more,
Nor faintest wrinkles o’er the waters creep.
Like one large sheet of glass the waters shine,
Reflecting on their face the burnt sunbeam:
The very fish their sporting play decline,
Seeking the willow-shadows ‘side the stream.
And, where the hawthorn branches o’er the pool,
The little bird, forsaking song and nest,
Flutters on dripping twigs his limbs to cool,
And splashes in the stream his burning breast.
O, free from thunder, for a sudden shower,
To cherish nature in this noon-day hour!
John Clare (1793-1864)
Sun and Shower
1.
We travel’d o’er the purple rim
Of hills that fade in olden time,
And heard the birds rejoicing hymn,
Melodious in the morning chime.
We wander’d through the forests green,
The glad leaves twitter’d in the breeze;
The broad light shiver’d far between,
And shadows fell on sunny leas.
The branches of the tufted shade
Bent down, and soft our faces fann’d;
The rustling trees and brooklets made
A pleasant murmur in the land.
The sky was loving- earth was gay--
While, hand in hand together,
We bask’d in love the live-long day,
And it was glorious weather!
John Nichol (1833-1894)
1.
We travel’d o’er the purple rim
Of hills that fade in olden time,
And heard the birds rejoicing hymn,
Melodious in the morning chime.
We wander’d through the forests green,
The glad leaves twitter’d in the breeze;
The broad light shiver’d far between,
And shadows fell on sunny leas.
The branches of the tufted shade
Bent down, and soft our faces fann’d;
The rustling trees and brooklets made
A pleasant murmur in the land.
The sky was loving- earth was gay--
While, hand in hand together,
We bask’d in love the live-long day,
And it was glorious weather!
John Nichol (1833-1894)
In The Garden
iv The Singer
“That was the thrush’s last good-night,” I
thought,
And heard the soft descent of summer rain
In the droop’d garden leaves; but hush! again
The perfect iterance,— freer than unsought
Odours of violets dim in woodland ways,
Deeper than coiled waters laid a-dream
Below moss’d ledges of a shadowy stream,
And faultless as blown roses in June days.
Full-throat’d singer! art thou thus anew
Voiceful to hear how round thyself alone
The enriched silence drops for thy delight
More soft than snow, more sweet than honey-dew?
Now cease: the last faint western streak is gone,
Stir not the blissful quiet of the night.
Edward Dowden (1843-1913)
iv The Singer
“That was the thrush’s last good-night,” I
thought,
And heard the soft descent of summer rain
In the droop’d garden leaves; but hush! again
The perfect iterance,— freer than unsought
Odours of violets dim in woodland ways,
Deeper than coiled waters laid a-dream
Below moss’d ledges of a shadowy stream,
And faultless as blown roses in June days.
Full-throat’d singer! art thou thus anew
Voiceful to hear how round thyself alone
The enriched silence drops for thy delight
More soft than snow, more sweet than honey-dew?
Now cease: the last faint western streak is gone,
Stir not the blissful quiet of the night.
Edward Dowden (1843-1913)
At Night
To W.M.
Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
Hither the soft wings sweep;
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
The dovecote doors of sleep.
Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light
Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and swiftest flight?
Your words to me, your words!
Alice Meynell (1847-1922)
To W.M.
Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
Hither the soft wings sweep;
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
The dovecote doors of sleep.
Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light
Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and swiftest flight?
Your words to me, your words!
Alice Meynell (1847-1922)
Evening in the Forest of Meuden
(Seine Et Oise)
Returning sometimes from the fields of sleep,
I seem to see that twilight once again,
That twilight as mysterious, rich, and deep,
As yonder blackbird’s strain.
I see the sombre loveliness around;
I feel the sense of awe, the enthralling peace,
Of Nature’s woodland silence, for no sound
Makes here that silence cease.
Anon I see the waters of the lake
Gleam in the last hues of the sunset glow,
While here and there the lazy cattle slake
Their thirst, and homeward go.
But hear, O hear, that sudden burst of song,
At last it is the full-voiced nightingales!
While mellow cuckoos sing, and so prolong
Music as daylight fails.
Long hours have passed, and man and beast and
bird
Rest; yet my heart is filled with pure delight;
And lo, a single nightingale is heard
Amid the moonless night.
Mackenzie Bell (1856-1930)
(Seine Et Oise)
Returning sometimes from the fields of sleep,
I seem to see that twilight once again,
That twilight as mysterious, rich, and deep,
As yonder blackbird’s strain.
I see the sombre loveliness around;
I feel the sense of awe, the enthralling peace,
Of Nature’s woodland silence, for no sound
Makes here that silence cease.
Anon I see the waters of the lake
Gleam in the last hues of the sunset glow,
While here and there the lazy cattle slake
Their thirst, and homeward go.
But hear, O hear, that sudden burst of song,
At last it is the full-voiced nightingales!
While mellow cuckoos sing, and so prolong
Music as daylight fails.
Long hours have passed, and man and beast and
bird
Rest; yet my heart is filled with pure delight;
And lo, a single nightingale is heard
Amid the moonless night.
Mackenzie Bell (1856-1930)
From Summer and Winter
A shadowed garden in the cool of the day,
Faint from June heat: the last birds on the wing
Noiseless: and where the yellow evening
Melted to blue, the first pale stars astray.
Silent we sate, for silence seemed to say
One word: and quietly, like a hidden spring,
Rippled the sound of garden-watering;
Bells through the soft air sounded, far away.
John WIlliam Mackail ( 1859-1945)
A shadowed garden in the cool of the day,
Faint from June heat: the last birds on the wing
Noiseless: and where the yellow evening
Melted to blue, the first pale stars astray.
Silent we sate, for silence seemed to say
One word: and quietly, like a hidden spring,
Rippled the sound of garden-watering;
Bells through the soft air sounded, far away.
John WIlliam Mackail ( 1859-1945)
CXLIII
Guy’s Cliffe At Night
Heavily plumed the stately elm-tree hung,
The sentinel fir stood straight.
A star went in and out the boughs among.
On the live air the evening there was flung
The scent of the tall lily, white and great,
The garden’s altar candle, shining late!
Far, far away I heard a distant bell,
Faint,— and again more loud,--
The waters of the dim weir rose and fell.
All other things were silent. Who can tell
The murmur of the wind that fell and rose?
And whence he came,— whither he went,— who
knows?
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge (1861-1907)
Guy’s Cliffe At Night
Heavily plumed the stately elm-tree hung,
The sentinel fir stood straight.
A star went in and out the boughs among.
On the live air the evening there was flung
The scent of the tall lily, white and great,
The garden’s altar candle, shining late!
Far, far away I heard a distant bell,
Faint,— and again more loud,--
The waters of the dim weir rose and fell.
All other things were silent. Who can tell
The murmur of the wind that fell and rose?
And whence he came,— whither he went,— who
knows?
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge (1861-1907)
Waters West
The heron across the lily ponds
squawks with indifference
and ruffles his feathers
with a dignified shimmy.
Beneath, the frogs are ribbiting,
too lazy to jump today,
they swagger like the mafia
to their watered hideout.
Something is bubbling below
the surface. The midge-clouds
are unavoidable. But to carry on
around these humid green pools
of life, and over the cliffs
takes us to the breeze of the coast:
the marram grass whipped dunes,
the sea-spray from its inky waters.
Helen Grant (1992-)
The heron across the lily ponds
squawks with indifference
and ruffles his feathers
with a dignified shimmy.
Beneath, the frogs are ribbiting,
too lazy to jump today,
they swagger like the mafia
to their watered hideout.
Something is bubbling below
the surface. The midge-clouds
are unavoidable. But to carry on
around these humid green pools
of life, and over the cliffs
takes us to the breeze of the coast:
the marram grass whipped dunes,
the sea-spray from its inky waters.
Helen Grant (1992-)
Editor: Helen Lee
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2024. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2024. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors
