When all is said and done...
When all is said an’ done, my luve
And we come near this journey’s end
When we have little left to prove
In clamoring for boasts of men
Will we, when all is said and tried
As twilight edges to the deep
Will we, my luve, be satisified
When we submit to that last sleep?
When all is said and done, my luve
And we are nothing but their tears
As petals whither on a grave
And bygones echo in their ears
Oh, will it be a kind caress
The cadence of that silent song
As tenderly they reminisce
My luve, when all is said an’ done?
When all is said and done, my luve
And swallows skim the vernal crest
Where thence we’ll rest; then tender youth
Will rise to greet life’s luring quest
Shod with the immortality
That slips away beneath the sun
As they advance toward the lea
My luve, when all is said and done
© Janet Martin
I am at a stage in life where my ears are filled with grand hopes
and dreams of my own children and their friends as they ‘plan’. Yesterday I
chuckled quietly as I listened to their well-laid ‘dreams’. Life, the great
Teacher patiently and subtly plies her touch.
I felt like adding a teeny '
Burns' flavor to the poem this morning in memory of him. He was born on Jan. 25. 1759. In my mind there is no other poet quite like Robert Burns.
From my book- Songs from Robert Burns here is a fav...
Now Westlin Winds
(Robert Burns)
Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns
Bring August's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather;
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary Farmer;
The moon shines bright, as I rove at night,
To muse upon my Charmer.
The Pairtrick lo'es the fruitfu' fells;
The Plover lo'es the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lanely dells;
The soaring Hern the fountains:
Thro' lofty groves, the Cushat roves,
The path o'man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the Thrush,
The spreading thorn the Linnet.
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The Sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gorg pinion!
But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming Swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms o' Nature:
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn
And ilka happy creature.
We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
While the silent moon shines clearly;
I'll clasp thy waist, and fondly prest,
Swear how I lo'e thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the Farmer,
So dear can be, as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely Charmer!
