Thu. Sep 24th, 2020

5 thoughts on “Poem: Home-Thoughts, From Abroad by Robert Browning

  1. its an old peom my father likes. and i also. btw i also planted 2 pear trees last year in the garden.^^

    https://underagreysky.files.wordpress.com/2013/07/rib4.jpg

    Squire von Ribbeck at Ribbeck in Havelland (theodor fontane) (havelland = havel (river close to berlin) country)

    Squire von Ribbeck at Ribbeck in Havelland,
    In his garden there stood a pear tree grand,
    And when autumn came round, the golden tide,
    And pears were glowing far and wide,
    Squire von Ribbeck, when noon rang out, would first
    Fill both his pockets full to burst.
    And then, when a boy in his clogs came there,
    He called: ”My lad, do you want a pear?”
    He would hail a girl that chanced to pass:
    “Come over, I have a pear, little lass!”

    Many years thus went, till the noble and high
    Squire von Ribbeck at Ribbeck came to die.
    He felt his end. It was autumntide.
    Again pears were smiling far and wide.
    “I depart now this life” von Ribbeck said.
    I wish that a pear in my grave be laid”.
    And after three days, from this mansard roofed hall,
    Squire von Ribbeck was carried out, `neath a pall.
    All farmers and cottagers, solemm-faced,
    Sang: ”Jesus, in Thee my trust is placed”,
    And the children lamented, with hearts like lead:
    “Who`ll give us a pear, now that he is dead.?”
    So the children lamented. It was unkind,

    As they did not know old Ribbeck´s mind.
    True, the new one is skimping niggardly,
    Keeps park and pears tree `neath lock and key;
    But having forebodings, the older one,
    And full of distrust for his proper son,
    Knew well what he did, when the order he gave,
    That a pear should be laid in his grave.

    From the silent dwelling, after three years,
    The tip of a pear tree seedling appears.
    And year after year, the seasons go round,
    Long since a pear tree is shading the mound.

    And in the golden autumntide
    Again it is glowing far and wide.
    When a boy is crossing the churchyard there,
    The tree is whispering: Want a pear?”
    And when a girl chances to pass,
    It whispers: “Come here for a pear, little lass.”

    Thus blessings still dispensses the hand
    Of von Ribbeck at Ribbeck in Havelland.

  2. -Tell me: why are you crying?
    -For a lost illusion
    from a recent injury,
    for a new disenchantment …
    Well, don’t cry anymore … and forget.

    -Why are you crying, flower of flowers?
    -Because the one who owned me,
    the one who talked to me about love,
    kills me with another love …
    -Well, forget it … and don’t cry.

    -Why are you sobbing now?
    -Oh! Dawn no longer lights
    nor give. flowers my garden …
    I cry for the dead …
    -Remember whose fault it was.

  3. Thank you frank I will read this again and again.
    You planted 2 trees Is that your garden? If so I want to know you better!
    Here is one beloved by my grandfather and a part of it recited at his funeral.He often recited it as his favourite poem as it chimed well with his socialistic views.

    Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
    BY THOMAS GRAY

    The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
    The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
    The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
    And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

    Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight,
    And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
    Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
    And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

    Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
    The moping owl does to the moon complain
    Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r,
    Molest her ancient solitary reign.

    Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
    Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
    Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
    The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

    The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
    The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
    The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
    No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

    For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
    Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
    No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
    Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

    Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
    Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
    How jocund did they drive their team afield!
    How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

    Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
    Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
    Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
    The short and simple annals of the poor.

    The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
    And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
    Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.
    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Translate »