Norman Rowland Gale
Biography of Norman Rowland Gale
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.
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Norman Rowland Gale Poems
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,
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.
The Ballade Of The Glutton
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.
The Country Faith
HERE in the country’s heart Where the grass is green, Life is the same sweet life As it e’er hath been.
The Amateur Photographer
Beware of those who slyly pilch In many cunning ways; Beware of little lyres that filch From undisputed bays!
The Decimal Point
When first sent to School (now the Station was Rugby) I fancied my masters and took to the boys; I thought to myself--here 'tis plain I shall snug be Revolving at last in an orbit of joys:
On Seeing A Train Start For The Seaside
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
The First Kiss
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, Velvety Vehement fellows That play on your
The Fairy Book
In summer, when the grass is thick, if Mother has the time, She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme,
My Country Love
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!
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.
Excuse me, Sweetheart, if I smear, With wisdom learnt from ancient teachers, Now winter time once more is here,
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:
And in a faint blue envelope
A withered rose long lost to dew
Bore witness to the dashing days
When love was large and wits were few.