Sunday in Verse - 30 August 2015 | Castle Ward, Co. Down

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Accompanying this post are some photos from a trip to a National Trust property called Castle Ward. It sits on the banks of Strangford Lough and is actually the real-life location of Winterfell Castle in Game of Thrones. It's one of my favourite places in Northern Ireland, its grounds are so vast and so wild, there is ample space for hours of exploring. It's the kind of landscape I'll definitely miss when I'm in Spain.

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Sunday in Verse | Mount Stewart, Co. Down

The Rambler by Thomas Hardy

I do not see the hills around, 

Nor mark the tints the copses wear; 

I do not note the grassy ground 

And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note 

Of cuckoos hid on either hand, 

The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat 

When eve's brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree and mead-- 

All eloquent of love divine-- 

Receives their constant careful heed: 

Such keen appraisement is not mine.

The tones around me that I hear, 

The aspects, meanings, shapes I see, 

Are those far back ones missed when near, 

And now perceived too late by me! 

I just finished 'Far From the Madding Crowd' this past week, my first Thomas Hardy novel, which I feel will be the beginning of a very long and very fulfilling relationship. I can't wait to get stuck into more of his work. As such, I thought it would only be appropriate to feature one of his poems in this week's 'Sunday in Verse' alongside photos of a recent visit to Mount Stewart, a National Trust property, with my mum. I know the photos and poem don't match up too well this week but the notion of only appreciating the beauty of a moment or place on reflection of it really resonated with me. Especially in the Age of Instagram when we're in such a rush to share our experiences sometimes we fail to fully appreciate them.

Hope you've all had a lovely weekend!

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Sunday in Verse - 28th June 2015 | Tollymore Forest Park

The Song of Wandering Aengus by William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire aflame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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Sunday in Verse | 26th April 2015

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

   Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

   Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 

   The higher he’s a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

   And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

   When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

   Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time,

   And while ye may, go marry;

For having lost but once your prime,

   You may forever tarry.

I opted to take a little break from blogging these last couple of weeks and decided, for the first time ever, not to feel terribly guilty about it. Sometimes keeping up with my blog can feel like a huge amount of weight and pressure which has really started to take the enjoyment out of it for me, especially with all the other commitments I have in my life right now- I'm sure every blogger out there can relate!

These last couple of weeks in particular have been especially busy. Not only is exam-time currently looming (only 2 weeks to go!!), but I'm also loaning a pony this term at uni which is taking up a significant amount of my time. And so, at the moment I'm just going to let myself blog at whatever pace I can manage, whether that's once a week or once a fortnight. I'm hoping that removing that element of stress will really help me to appreciate blogging when I do have the time to do it. 

In any case, I'm back with a Sunday in Verse. This is one of my favourite poems; a reminder of the quick passing of time and very appropriate for me at the moment, I think.

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Sunday in Verse | Easter Sunday - 5 April 2015

Lines Written in Early Spring by William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And ’tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure:—

But the least motion which they made

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature’s holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

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Sunday in Verse | 22nd March 2015

When You Are Old by 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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