Love and Friendship
Emily Jane Bronte

Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree --
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most contantly?

The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who wil call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.


Come, Walk With Me,
by Emily Jane Brontë

Come, walk with me,
There's only thee
To bless my spirit now -
We used to love on winter nights
To wander through the snow;
Can we not woo back old delights?
The clouds rush dark and wild
They fleck with shade our mountain heights
The same as long ago
And on the horizon rest at last
In looming masses piled;
While moonbeams flash and fly so fast
We scarce can say they smiled -

Come walk with me, come walk with me;
We were not once so few
But Death has stolen our company
As sunshine steals the dew -
He took them one by one and we
Are left the only two;
So closer would my feelings twine
Because they have no stay but thine -

'Nay call me not - it may not be
Is human love so true?
Can Friendship's flower droop on for years
And then revive anew?
No, though the soil be wet with tears,
How fair soe'er it grew
The vital sap once perished
Will never flow again
And surer than that dwelling dread,
The narrow dungeon of the dead
Time parts the hearts of men -'


Kubla Khan
Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
     Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
     The shadow of the dome of pleasure
     Floated midway on the waves;
     Where was heard the mingled measure
     From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

     A damsel with a dulcimer
     In a vision once I saw:
     It was an Abyssinian maid,
     And on her dulcimer she played,
     Singing of Mount Abora.
     Could I revive within me
     Her symphony and song,
     To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.


The Bell

Ralph Waldo Emmerson

I love thy music, mellow bell,
I love thine iron chime,
To life or death, to heaven or hell,
Which calls the sons of Time.

Thy voice upon the deep
The home-bound sea-boy hails,
It charms his cares to sleep,
It cheers him as he sails.

To house of God and heavenly joys
Thy summons called our sires,
And good men thought thy sacred voice
Disarmed the thunder's fires.

And soon thy music, sad death-bell,
Shall lift its notes once more,
And mix my requiem with the wind
That sweeps my native shore.

Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
   Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
   But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
   Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
   And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
   If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
   And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
   Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
   And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
   And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
   And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
   To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
   Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
   Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
   If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
   With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
   And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son.



Love's Philosophy
Percy Bysshe Shelly

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another's being mingle--
Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?


Annabel Lee
Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love --
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me --
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we --
Of many far wiser than we --
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -- my darling --my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea --
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

The Loom of Time
Man's life is laid in the loom of time
To a pattern he does not see.
While the weavers work and the shuttles fly
Til the dawn of eternity.
Some shuttles are filled with silver threads,
And some with threads of gold.
While often but the darker hues
Are all that they may hold.
But the weaver watches with skilful eye,
Each shuttle fly to and fro,
And sees the pattern so deftly wrought
As the loom moves sure and slow.
God surely planned the pattern,
Each thread the  dark and fair,
Is chosen by His master skill
And placed in the web with care.
He only knows it's beauty,
And guides the shuttles which hold
The threads so unattractive,
as well as threads of gold.
Not til each loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly.
Shall god reveal the pattern
And explain the reason why
The dark threads were as needful
In the weaver's skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
For the pattern which he planned.


"A Joyful heart is good medicine"
It heals the body when its down and lifts the spirit from within.
It will bring a smile to others.
As you journey on your way, pass the cup of kindness,
love someone today.

It takes only one small candle to show you the way.
It takes just a kind word to help someone today.
Reach out to others, show that you care .
For like a burning candle ~ It may not always be there



Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hovering there,

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

This poem was found in the possessions of John Gilespie Magee, Jr, a pilot in the Canadian Air Force, during WW2.  He was shot down.





~ M. Louise Hoskins -

I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year,
"Give me light that I may tread safely into the unknown",
And he replied, "Go out into the darkness and put your
hand into the hand of God, That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way!"
So I went forth  and finding the Hand of God
trod gladly into the night.
This poem was broadcast to the British people by King George V1 on New Year's Eve 1940.


Oh to be in England

 (1812-1889), from "Home-thoughts, from Abroad" ~ Robert Browning

 Oh, to be in England
 Now that April's there,
 And whoever wakes in England
 Sees, some morning, unaware,
 That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
 Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
 While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
 In England - now!!

 And after April, when May follows,
 And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
 Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
 Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
 Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent spray's edge -
 That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
 Lest you should think he never could recapture
 The first fine careless rapture!
 And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
 All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
 The buttercups, the little children's dower
 - Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!



DAFFODILS ~ William Wordsworth


I wandered, lonely as a cloud
Which floats on high oe'r vale and hills
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never ending line,
Along the margin of the bay,
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves besides them danced,
but they out-did the sparkling waves in glee,
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company.
I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth to me the show had brought
For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye,
Which is the bliss of solitude.
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.



This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi paradise,
This fortress built by nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or a moat defensive to a house.
Against the envy of less happy lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

by John Masefield (1903)

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a wetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover,
And a quiet sleep and a sweat dream when the long trick's over.



'The West Wind' by John Masefield

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills.
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.

It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.

"Will ye not come home brother? ye have been long away,
It's April, and blossom time, and white is the may;
And bright is the sun brother, and warm is the rain,--
Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again?

"The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run.
It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,
To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.

"Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,
So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?
I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,
To the violets, and the warm hearts, and the thrushes' song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong


Break, Break Break  ~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Break, break, break,
    On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
    The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman’s boy,
    That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
    That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
    To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
    And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break
    At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
    Will never come back to me

The Desiderata
(Max Ehrmann)

Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story....  Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.... Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe. No less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you perceive him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.


           My Yorkshire

By field and fell and leafy dell,
Majestic, glorious moors;
By far green hills and gaping ghylls,
Yorkshire‘s realm allures.
In rugged dales and gentle vales,
Where tiny hamlets rest;
These acres broad that know no lord
Are surely England‘s best.
A land so bold, wonders unfold,
Both savage and serene;
Staunch citadels, great abbey shells
Sleep ruined, yet supreme.
On mountains bleak oft every peak
Hides shrouded, deep in mist;
Sweet rain does sweep, the hillsides weep,
By falling tears are kissed.

Dry-stone walls and marbled halls
In stately homes so grand;
Deep pothole caves and North Sea waves
Cascade on satin sand.
By rocky shore and mournful moor
Stride rough-hewn friendly tracks,
Where curlew fly beyond the sky,
Cliffs tall as chimney stacks.
In sprawling dales and wooded vales
'neath canopy of stars,
Squeeze bubbling becks through rocky necks
Of grey-white limestone scars.
Where twisting lanes bring driving pains,
And secret little hollows,
Round every bend there waits a friend,
In goodwill the stranger wallows.

Grit Pennine hills frown down on mills,
Where weavers toiled their lives;
Another age, another page
Of history survives. 
From York‘s fair vale to far Teesdale,
Once Roman legions trod;
Atop the world with flags unfurled,
Closer still to God.
To shires broad there came a horde
Of Norsemen fierce and wild;
Their battle cry and will to die
Begat the Yorkshire child.
Through all the years, in hopes and fears,
Much bloodshed here was spilled;
Yet Yorkshire folk threw off their yoke,
A people iron-willed.


I've Learned

I've learned that you cannot make someone love you.
All you can do is be someone who can be loved. The rest is up to them.
I've learned that no matter how much I care,
some people just don't care back.
I've learned that it takes years to build up trust, and only seconds to destroy it.
I've learned that it's not what you have in your life but whom you have in your life that counts.
I've learned that you can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes.
After that, you'd better know something.
I've learned that you shouldn't compare yourself to the best others can do.
I've learned that you can do something in an instant that will give you heartache for life.
I've learned that it's taking me a long time to become the person I want to be.
I've learned that you should always leave loved ones with loving words.
It may be the last time you see them.
I've learned that you can keep going long after you think you can't.
I've learned that we are responsible for what we do, no matter how we feel.
I've learned that either you control your attitude or it controls you.
I've learned that heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.
I've learned that money is a lousy way of keeping score.
I've learned that sometimes the people you expect to kick you when you're down will be the ones to help you get back up.
I've learned that sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry, but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.
I've learned that true friendship continues to grow, even over the longest distance. Same goes for true love.
I've learned that just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
I've learned that maturity has more to do with what types of experiences you've had and what you've learned from them and less to do with how many birthdays you've celebrated.
I've learned that you should never tell a child their dreams are unlikely or outlandish. Few things are more humiliating, and what a tragedy it would be if they believed it.
I've learned that your family won't always be there for you.
It may seem funny, but people you aren't related to can take care of you and love you and teach you to trust people again. Families aren't biological.
I've learned that no matter how good a friend is, they're going to hurt you every once in a while and you must forgive them for that.
I've learned that it isn't always enough to be forgiven by others. Sometimes you have to learn to forgive yourself.
I've learned that no matter how bad your heart is broken the world doesn't stop for your grief.
I've learned that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.
I've learned that just because two people argue, it doesn't mean they don't love each other And just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.
I've learned that we don't have to change friends if we understand that friends change.
I've learned that you shouldn't be so eager to find out a secret. It could change your life forever.
I've learned that two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.
I've learned that no matter how you try to protect your children, they will eventually get hurt and you will hurt in the process.
I've learned that people who don't even know you can change your life in a matter of hours.
I've learned that even when you think you have no more to give, when a friend cries out to you, you will find the strength to help.
I've learned that it's hard to determine where to draw the line between being nice and not hurting people's feelings and standing up for what you believe

As summer slowly slinks away
Autumn sun slants through the oaks
heavy with acorns, squirrels winter forage.
A kingfisher statue still,
feathers flashing iridescent blue,
surveys the scene with gleaming eye.
Beneath the hawthorn hedge
one last red rose peeps shyly.
Blackberries glisten heavy
with last night’s dew.
High, invisible, above it all
A skylark sings.
The jingling harness,
of a farm cart, calls to mind
Roman chariots
that rampaged through this dale.
But this fair land,
resilient and strong,
throws off the ravages of time.
My birthplace. My homeland.
Copyright.......Kath O'Sullivan.
Kath is a member of the YorkshireExpats Forum and has kindly given me permission to reproduce her beautiful poem.
Thank you Kath


Reflections from Retirement.

Many long years now since underground,
A lifetime never forgotten.
More than a lifetime, a life in fact.
Thoughts of mates, laughs and fears.
Anger and frustration, effort, hurt and tears.
Reflections of these seen everyday.
A love, a fear, an acceptance of nature.

The induction of excitement,
The proud following of dad and greater fathers.
Chattering as if in knowledge, first time at the pit
Terrified of the vertical dives
A daily trip for the rest of our lives.
Thought we knew just what we faced.
They say it becomes as easy as breathing.

Easier lessons learned early,
Thirty years to learn the harder bits.
Firstly how to speak to who,
Later, who to speak to about how.
With respect but never kowtow.
Often bullied sometimes pushed,
Pulled from stupid danger many times.

Soon to grasp a comradeship
A two-way dependence on each other,
The world upon a young man’s shoulders.
From schoolboy to man in a single drop.
Passed through a barrier now never to stop.
Kidnapped in childhood, held in youth
Released only in the remnants of manhood.

Lessons of life learned in one fell swoop
Listened to stories of life as it really was
Not really related in Biblical fashion.
Birds and bees theories put to flight
Youth clubs and Tizer disowned as if overnight.
Suits, ties, beer and suspenders become the goal
In timely order of a young collier’s merit.

Astronauts and explorers a challenge meet
To go where no other has ever trod.
Yet a miner’s toil in headline rarely seen
Daily walks where no one else has ever been.
In a world before even ancients
Sterile ground never known to others
In places created before Adam or sin.

The smell and the taste of virgin coal
Mingled with the stench of human toil.
Permanent stains upon the soul, never forgotten.
The taste of joy, excitement, fulfilment
Offset those of fear, failure and discontentment.
Realising a miner’s happiness does not exist
Without the filth he labours in.

Only a miner knows a miner’s effort in trying
Straining to limits, but then boundaries yielding.
Human enduring versus nature’s resistance
Wanting more, stretching further, striving for what?
A little improvement on what we’d got.
At times confused betwixt need and greed.
Working harder living easier, bereft of all thinking logic.

Such work was never likely easy.
As time goes on the going gets harder.
The daily effort of an impossible chase
To capture the advancement of a working face.
Day by day, step by step the trial increases.
Weeks and years, yards and miles
The mine and miner grow older together.

All workers strive to score retirement’s goal
Of well-earned peace and idle moments.
A miner skips the thoughts of golden stashes
Carries a hope of at last achieving
A few years rest with ease of breathing.
To reach works end with limbs and lungs
A lifetime’s lottery with very few prizes.

And now reflections on what has gone
Many thoughts scrolling through my ease.
Remembering mates, good times and hates
Tragedies, successes, hardships, flashes of wealth
Some I would exchange for different health.
But the trust and faith of comrades in toil
Could not, ever, be bought.

written by "Daz" from the yorkshire expats forum.


Thank you, Daz.


Ode To Autumn
by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies


"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
- Marianne Williamson