One poem from another

As you might imagine, that brings to mind The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam as "transmogrified" by Edward Fitzgerald.
Here is quatrain 71 from the first edition:-

And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,

And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour--well,

I often wonder what the Vintners buy

One half so precious as the Goods they sell.

Only a couple of days late

All Souls Day in a German Town ~ Margaret Fairless Barber

The leaves fall softly: a wind of sighs
Whispers the world’s infirmities,
Whispers the tale of the waning years,
While slow mists gather in shrouding tears
On All Souls’ Day; and the bells are slow
In steeple and tower. Sad folk go
Away from the township, past the mill,
And mount the slope of a grassy hill
Carved into terraces broad and steep,
To the inn where wearied travellers sleep,
Where the sleepers lie in ordered rows,
And no man stirs in his long repose.
They wend their way past the haunts of life,
Father and daughter, grandmother, wife,
To deck with candle and deathless cross,
The house which holds their dearest loss.
I, who stand on the crest of the hill,
Watch how beneath me, busied still,
The sad folk wreathe each grave with flowers.
Awhile the veil of the twilight hours
Falls softly, softly, over the hill,
Shadows the cross:—creeps on until
Swiftly upon us is flung the dark.
Then, as if lit by a sudden spark,
Each grave is vivid with points of light,
Earth is as Heaven’s mirror to-night;
The air is still as a spirit’s breath,
The lights burn bright in the realm of Death.
Then silent the mourners mourning go,
Wending their way to the church below;
While the bells toll out to bid them speed,
With eager Pater and prayerful bead,
The souls of the dead, whose bodies still
Lie in the churchyard under the hill;
While they wait and wonder in Paradise,
And gaze on the dawning mysteries,
Praying for us in our hours of need;
For us, who with Pater and prayerful bead
Have bidden those waiting spirits speed.

 
Echoes of Wordsworth there - The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending we lay waste our powers. . .

I guess the message here is similar:-

Leisure - William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Changed my mind, as this just popped up on Facebook.

Once A Day ~ Donna Ashworth

Don’t miss me more than once a day,
For life is moving fast.
Don’t wish all of your time away,
Dreaming of the past.

Don’t waste the moment looking at,
The things I left behind me.
I’m not there anymore my love,
Your heart is where you’ll find me.

Don’t dread to say my name, sweet one,
Don’t fear the wrath of sadness.
Just take the love you had for me,
And turn it into gladness.

Some days your anger will rush out,
Your tears will find their way.
To me, wherever I am then,
I’ll soothe them all away.

When I am gone don’t miss me more,
Than once, or twice a day.
There’s so much life to live, my love.
I’m with you, all the way.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat ~ Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are!
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!’

Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl!’
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long have we tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?’

They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring in the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

‘Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?’ Said the Piggy, ‘I will.’
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree ~ William Butler Yeats


I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

The Soldier ~ Rupert Brooke


If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

I've always found Emily Dickinson a bit of a struggle, but at least her style is very identifiable.

A few more quatrains from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, first edition, as "transmogrified" by Edward Fitzgerald.

37

Ah, fill the Cup: - what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn TO-M0RROW, and dead YESTERDAY,
Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet !

38

One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste -
The Stars are setting and the Caravan
Starts for the Dawn of Nothing - Oh, make haste !

39

How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute?
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.