Monday, February 23, 2015

Lost Origins

No one can tell me,
Nobody knows,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.

It's flying from somewhere
As fast as it can,
I couldn't keep up with it,
Not if I ran.

But if I stopped holding
The string of my kite,
It would blow with the wind
For a day and a night.

And then when I found it,
Wherever it blew,
I should know that the wind
Had been going there too.

So then I could tell them
Where the wind goes...
But where the wind comes from
Nobody knows.
- Alan Alexander Milne, "Wind on the Hill"


FreeThinke said...

_________ TOYLAND _________

When you've grown up, my dears,
And are as old as I,
You'll often ponder on the years
That roll so swiftly by, my dears,
That roll so swiftly by.

And all the many lands
You will have journeyed through
You'll oft recall,
The best of all,
The land your childhood knew
Your childhood knew.

Toyland, toyland,
Little girl and boy land,
While you dwell within it,
You are ever happy then.
Childhood, joyland,
Mystic merry toyland,
Once you pass its borders,
You can ne'er return again

~ Victor Herbert (1903)

FreeThinke said...

Where I come from
Nobody knows ––
Where I'm going
Everyone goes.
The wind blows ––
The sea flows ––
And nobody knows.

~ Robert Nathan, Portrait of Jennie

-FJ said...

Cool additions, Thanks!

FreeThinke said...

Could it be
We need our fantasies
And fond illusions
More than we need
Mundane reality?

Did ancient astronauts
Visit Earth aeons ago,
Plant Colonies - perform
Wondrous Feats of Engineering
Still unexplained?

The eternal Mystery of
The Pyramids - The Sphinx
Stonehenge - Gigantic Chalk Figures,
Discernible only from great heights -
Easter Island - Machu Pichu?

The Origin of Man -
The miracles of Music -
Painting - Sculpture -
Poetry and Thought.

The Star of Bethlehem -
The Virgin Birth - The Magi -
Betrayal, Death and Resurrection?

Patterns of Migration?
Courtship Rituals?
Attachment - Dependency -
Illness - Abandonment -
Grief - Tedium -
Decline - Decay -

The eternal Search
For Acceptance - Appreciation -
Affection - Understanding -


~ FreeThinke

FreeThinke said...

_________ Lucy Gray _________

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
--The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

“To-night will be a stormy night—
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow.”

“That, Father! will I gladly do:
’Tis scarcely afternoon—
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!”

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;—and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.

They wept—and, turning homeward, cried,
“In heaven we all shall meet;”
—When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy’s feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill’s edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed:
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none!

—Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O’er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

~ William Wordsworth (1799)