"There's a very popular poem about how passion goes with age, something about the fireside in it. I cannot for the life of me remember it. Can anyone help?"
Passion blossoms with age
Like a fire blazing
But then the petals fall
And the embers die down
The tree is bare
And the house cold
It is that one? |
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I had a jar of passion fruit jam
Someone left the lid off
Although it wasn’t very old
It had gone bad with mould
In my ire, I threw it on the fire
It shattered and the glass
Hit me in the ass
Which caused a passion ration |
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"I thought mine encapsulated middle class/age ennui perfectly  "
it was good. It’s a pity you didn’t use a capital s on sage because then it could have been a persons name and suggested that the older married couple have, in fact, got an extra lady in the house for sexual gymnastics. But you didn’t. |
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By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago
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"I thought mine encapsulated middle class/age ennui perfectly it was good. It’s a pity you didn’t use a capital s on sage because then it could have been a persons name and suggested that the older married couple have, in fact, got an extra lady in the house for sexual gymnastics. But you didn’t. "
That would have been far too exciting and hence unrealistic. |
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"There's a very popular poem about how passion goes with age, something about the fireside in it. I cannot for the life of me remember it. Can anyone help?
Passion blossoms with age
Like a fire blazing
But then the petals fall
And the embers die down
The tree is bare
And the house cold
It is that one?"
No. When I find it (I'm currently searching my books) it probably won't be anything like I described it. It has a similar feel to Jenny Kiss'd Me |
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"There's a very popular poem about how passion goes with age, something about the fireside in it. I cannot for the life of me remember it. Can anyone help?
Passion blossoms with age
Like a fire blazing
But then the petals fall
And the embers die down
The tree is bare
And the house cold
It is that one?
No. When I find it (I'm currently searching my books) it probably won't be anything like I described it. It has a similar feel to Jenny Kiss'd Me"
I wrote that. |
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When You Are Old W.B Yeats.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. |
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"There's a very popular poem about how passion goes with age, something about the fireside in it. I cannot for the life of me remember it. Can anyone help?
Passion blossoms with age
Like a fire blazing
But then the petals fall
And the embers die down
The tree is bare
And the house cold
It is that one?
No. When I find it (I'm currently searching my books) it probably won't be anything like I described it. It has a similar feel to Jenny Kiss'd Me I wrote that. "
You wrote Jenny Kiss'd Me!?  |
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"There's a very popular poem about how passion goes with age, something about the fireside in it. I cannot for the life of me remember it. Can anyone help?
Passion blossoms with age
Like a fire blazing
But then the petals fall
And the embers die down
The tree is bare
And the house cold
It is that one?
No. When I find it (I'm currently searching my books) it probably won't be anything like I described it. It has a similar feel to Jenny Kiss'd Me I wrote that.
You wrote Jenny Kiss'd Me!? "
no! The one above that but! |
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By *icketysplitsWoman
over a year ago
Way over Yonder, that's where I'm bound |
"When You Are Old W.B Yeats.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars."
That's so beautiful.
|
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"There's a very popular poem about how passion goes with age, something about the fireside in it. I cannot for the life of me remember it. Can anyone help?
Passion blossoms with age
Like a fire blazing
But then the petals fall
And the embers die down
The tree is bare
And the house cold
It is that one?
No. When I find it (I'm currently searching my books) it probably won't be anything like I described it. It has a similar feel to Jenny Kiss'd Me I wrote that.
You wrote Jenny Kiss'd Me!? no! The one above that but! "
I know I'm joshing ya. I guessed it was yours  |
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"When You Are Old W.B Yeats.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
That's so beautiful.
"
Isn't it |
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This is the best thread in ages! I’ve discovered two wonderful poems, already, and one has made me cry.
(The jam explosion is not one of them, apologies)
Why are there not more threads about poetry?
I think I already know the answer, sadly. |
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"This is the best thread in ages! I’ve discovered two wonderful poems, already, and one has made me cry.
(The jam explosion is not one of them, apologies)
Why are there not more threads about poetry?
I think I already know the answer, sadly."
There are threads about poetry now and again.
Feel free to add your favourites to this one
Estragon and Brighton Steve even wrote their own |
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This is the one I’m planning to have on my celebration of life thingy service memorial whatsit.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. |
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"This is the one I’m planning to have on my celebration of life thingy service memorial whatsit.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Cue thumping sounds from your coffin. |
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"In the Yeats poem, did the man who truly loved her die? If his face is in the stars, and he’s fled to pace the mountains overhead, this is what I assumed.
Anyone know?
Or is it love that's died?
"
It can be what you want it to be. That's the pleasure in poetry |
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"In the Yeats poem, did the man who truly loved her die? If his face is in the stars, and he’s fled to pace the mountains overhead, this is what I assumed.
Anyone know?
Or is it love that's died?
It can be what you want it to be. That's the pleasure in poetry"
I guess so.
I despised poetry until my son started bringing his English homework to me for help. Now we both love it. Thank God people change with age, eh?
Here’s one I always sniffle at.
Twould ring the bells of Heaven
The wildest peal for years,
If Parson lost his senses
And people came to theirs,
And he and they together
Knelt down with angry prayers
For tamed and shabby tigers
And dancing dogs and bears,
And wretched, blind, pit ponies,
And little hunted hares.
|
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"In the Yeats poem, did the man who truly loved her die? If his face is in the stars, and he’s fled to pace the mountains overhead, this is what I assumed.
Anyone know?
Or is it love that's died?
It can be what you want it to be. That's the pleasure in poetry
I guess so.
I despised poetry until my son started bringing his English homework to me for help. Now we both love it. Thank God people change with age, eh?
Here’s one I always sniffle at.
Twould ring the bells of Heaven
The wildest peal for years,
If Parson lost his senses
And people came to theirs,
And he and they together
Knelt down with angry prayers
For tamed and shabby tigers
And dancing dogs and bears,
And wretched, blind, pit ponies,
And little hunted hares.
"
That's lovely.
I've got my poetry books out again off the back of this thread. |
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By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying -
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
Dorothy Parker
For the more cynical among us  |
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By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago
|
"In the Yeats poem, did the man who truly loved her die? If his face is in the stars, and he’s fled to pace the mountains overhead, this is what I assumed.
Anyone know?
Or is it love that's died?
It can be what you want it to be. That's the pleasure in poetry
I guess so.
I despised poetry until my son started bringing his English homework to me for help. Now we both love it. Thank God people change with age, eh?
Here’s one I always sniffle at.
Twould ring the bells of Heaven
The wildest peal for years,
If Parson lost his senses
And people came to theirs,
And he and they together
Knelt down with angry prayers
For tamed and shabby tigers
And dancing dogs and bears,
And wretched, blind, pit ponies,
And little hunted hares.
"
For me, The Good Morrow.
x |
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"By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying -
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
Dorothy Parker
For the more cynical among us "
Dorothy Parker was a GENIUS.
“If I didn't care for fun and such,
I'd probably amount to much.
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn.”
Also,
'Tell him I was too fucking busy — or vice versa.'
|
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"In the Yeats poem, did the man who truly loved her die? If his face is in the stars, and he’s fled to pace the mountains overhead, this is what I assumed.
Anyone know?
Or is it love that's died?
It can be what you want it to be. That's the pleasure in poetry
I guess so.
I despised poetry until my son started bringing his English homework to me for help. Now we both love it. Thank God people change with age, eh?
Here’s one I always sniffle at.
Twould ring the bells of Heaven
The wildest peal for years,
If Parson lost his senses
And people came to theirs,
And he and they together
Knelt down with angry prayers
For tamed and shabby tigers
And dancing dogs and bears,
And wretched, blind, pit ponies,
And little hunted hares.
For me, The Good Morrow.
x"
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