Norman Rowland Gale

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Norman Rowland Gale Poems

Have you seen the golfers airy
Prancing forth to their vagary,
Just as frisky in their gaiters
As a flock of Grecian Satyrs,

Last night some yellow letters fell
From out a scrip I found by chance;
Among them was the silent ghost,
The spirit of my first romance:

Bartholomew is very sweet,
From sandy hair to rosy feet.

I'm greedy by nature, and often in vain
Have lingered too long o'er the succulent hare,
Accepting the jelly, ignoring the pain,
Intent on receiving far more than my share.

HERE in the country’s heart
Where the grass is green,
Life is the same sweet life
As it e’er hath been.

O might I leave this grassy place
For spreading foam about my feet!
The splendid spray upon my face,
The flying brine itself were sweet

On Helen’s heart the day were night!
But I may not adventure there:
Here breast is guarded by a right,
And she is true as fair.


You voluble,
Vehement fellows
That play on your

In summer, when the grass is thick, if Mother has the time,
She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme,

If you passed her in your city
You would call her badly dressed,
But the faded homespun covers
Such a heart in such a breast!


Excuse me, Sweetheart, if I smear,
With wisdom learnt from ancient teachers,
Now winter time once more is here,

NATURE and he went ever hand in hand
Across the hills and down the lonely lane;
They captured starry shells upon the strand
And lay enchanted by the musing main.

If ever there was a Golden Game
To brace the nerves, to cure repining,
To put the Dumps to flight and shame,

The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely's bathing at the pool
With other virgins three.

GOD with His million cares
Went to the left or right,
Leaving our world; and the day
Grew night.

Shy maids have haunts of still delight,
The lover glades he never tells;
And one is mine where mass the bright
And odoured chimes of foxglove-bells.

All work is over at the farm
And men and maids are ripe for glee;
Love slips among them sly and warm
Or calls them to the chestnut-tree.

When red-nosed Winter takes the road,
An icicle his walking-stick,
When frost is on the woodman's load,
And snow is falling fast and thick,

WAIT but a little while—
The bird will bring
A heart in tune for melodies
Unto the spring,

IT hardly seems that he is dead,
So strange it is that we are here
Beneath this great blue shell of sky
With apple-bloom and pear:

Norman Rowland Gale Biography

Norman Rowland Gale (4 March 1862 – 7 October 1942) was a poet, story-teller and reviewer, who published many books over a period of nearly fifty years. His best-known poem is probably The Country Faith, which is in the Oxford Book of English Verse.)

The Best Poem Of Norman Rowland Gale

Golf Steals Our Youth

Have you seen the golfers airy
Prancing forth to their vagary,
Just as frisky in their gaiters
As a flock of Grecian Satyrs,
Looking everything heroic,
And magnificently stoic,
In a dress of such a pattern
As would fright the good God Saturn?

Have you heard them curse the sparrow
Fit to freeze your inmost marrow,
When the ball, that should be flitting,
On the grass remaineth sitting?
Have you watched their cheerful scrambles
In the soft and soothing brambles
While the foe, elate and sneering,
Passes gradually from hearing?

After blaming all the witches,
After rending holes in breeches,
After getting in a muddle
With each rivulet and puddle,
They return, a ll labour ended,
To record their prowess splendid,
And renew by dictionary
Their fatigued vocabulary.

Let these gentlemen ecstatic,
In their costumes so emphatic,
Crawl to find a rounded treasure
In the horse-pond at their pleasure.
What so good when time is sunny,
And the air as sweet as honey,
At the game of crease and wicket,
England's proper pastime--Cricket?

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