CHRISTMASTIDE

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

The rain-shafts splintered on me

As despondently I strode;

The twilight gloomed upon me

And bleared the blank high-road.

Each bush gave forth, when blown on

By gusts in shower and shower,

A sigh, as it were sown on

In handfuls by a sower.

A cheerful voice called, nigh me,

“A merry Christmas, friend!”

There rose a figure by me,

Walking with townward trend,

A sodden tramp’s, who, breaking

Into thin song, bore straight

Ahead, direction taking

Toward the Casuals’ gate.

[The Casual Ward was a place of refuge. Often, a queue of homeless people would form outside, waiting to get a bed for the night]

-o-0-o-

MINSTRELS
William Wordsworth 1770-1850

The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened? Till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "Merry Christmas" wished to all.

-o0o-

MISTLETOE
Walter de la Mare 1873-1956

Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen - and kissed me there.

-o0o-

A POEM FOR NEW YEAR
Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1850-1919

What can be said in New Year rhymes,

That's not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,

We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,

We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,

We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,

We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of the year.

-o0o-

THE NEXT POET HERE WILL BE ON FRIDAY 9TH JANUARY

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THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  1807-82

The tide rises, the tide falls,

The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;

Along the sea-sands damp and brown

The traveller hastens toward the town,

      And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,

But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;

The little waves, with their soft, white hands,

Efface the footprints in the sands,

      And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;

The day returns, but nevermore

Returns the traveller to the shore,

      And the tide rises, the tide falls.

-o0o-

YE BANKS AND BRAES
Robert Burns 1759-96

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu' o' care!
Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine:
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And fondly sae did I o' mine;
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree!
And my fause luver staw my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

-o0o-

TO A FAT LADY SEEN FROM THE TRAIN
Frances Cornford  1886-1960

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
And shivering sweet to the touch?
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?

-o0o-

THE FAT WHITE WOMAN SPEAKS
G.K.Chesterton  1874-1936

Why do you rush through the field in trains,
Guessing so much and so much?
Why do you flash through the flowery meads,
Fat-head poet that nobody reads;
And why do you know such a frightful lot
About people in gloves as such?
And how the devil can you be sure,
Guessing so much and so much,
How do you know but what someone who loves
Always to see me in nice white gloves
At the end of the field you are rushing by,
Is waiting for his Old Dutch?

-o0o-

THE FAIR SINGER

Andrew Marvell  1621-78

To make a final conquest of all me,

Love did compose so sweet an enemy,

In whom both beauties to my death agree,

Joining themselves in fatal harmony;

That while she with her eyes my heart does bind,

She with her voice might captivate my mind.

I could have fled from one but singly fair:

My disentangled soul itself might save,

Breaking the curled trammels of her hair.

But how should I avoid to be her slave,

Whose subtle art invisibly can wreath

My fetters of the very air I breath?

-o0o-

BAGS OF MEAT

Thomas Hardy  1840-1928

“Here’s a fine bag of meat,” 

   Says the master-auctioneer, 

   As the timid, quivering steer, 

   Starting a couple of feet 

   At the prod of a drover’s stick, 

   And trotting lightly and quick, 

   A ticket stuck on his rump, 

Enters with a bewildered jump. 

   ”Where he’s lived lately, friends, 

   I’d live till lifetime ends: 

   They’ve a whole life everyday 

   Down there in the Vale, have they! 

   He’d be worth the money to kill 

And give away Christmas for goodwill.” 

   ”Now here’s a heifer - worth more 

   Than bid, were she bone-poor; 

   Yet she’s round as a barrel of beer”; 

"She’s a plum," said the second auctioneer. 

"Now this young bull - for thirty pound? 

   Worth that to manure your ground!” 

   ”Or to stand,” chimed the second one, 

   ”And have his picter done!” 

The beast was rapped on the horns and snout 

   To make him turn about. 

"Well," cried a buyer, "another crown - 

Since I’ve dragged here from Taunton Town!” 

   ”That calf, she sucked three cows, 

   Which is not matched for bouse 

   In the nurseries of high life 

By the first-born of a nobleman’s wife!” 

The stick falls, meaning, “A true tale’s told,” 

On the buttock of the creature sold, 

   And the buyer leans over and snips 

His mark on one of the animal’s hips. 

   Each beast, when driven in, 

Looks round at the ring of bidders there 

With a much-amazed reproachful stare, 

   As at unnatural kin, 

For bringing him to a sinister scene 

So strange, unhomelike, hungry, mean; 

His fate the while suspended between 

   A butcher, to kill out of hand, 

   And a farmer, to keep on the land; 

One can fancy a tear runs down his face 

When the butcher wins, and he’s driven from the place.

-o0o-

I KNOW A BANK

from "A Midsummer Night's Dream" spoken by Oberon

William Shakespeare  1564-1616

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

-o0o-

I BENDED UNTO ME A BOUGH

Thomas Edward Brown  1830-97  

I bended unto me a bough of May,

That I might see and smell:

It bore it in a sort of way,

It bore it very well.

But, when I let it backward sway,

Then it were hard to tell

With what a toss, with what a swing,

The dainty thing

Resumed its proper level,

And sent me to the devil.

I know it did - you doubt it?

I turned, and saw them whispering about it. 

-o0o-

THE BLOG WITHOUT A NAME HAS BEEN UPDATED TODAY

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THE VISIONARY

Emily Jane Bronte and Charlotte Bronte

Silent is the house,

All are laid asleep,

One alone looks out

O'er the snow wreaths deep.

Watching every cloud,

Dreading every breeze

That whirls the wildering drifts

And bends the groaning trees.

Cheerful is the hearth,

Soft the matted floor,

Not one shivering gust

Creeps through pane and door.

The little lamp burns straight,

Its rays shoot strong and far.

I trim it well to be

The wanderers guiding star,

Frown my haughty sire,

Chide my angry dame,

Set your slaves to spy,

Threaten me with shame.

But neither sire nor dame

Nor prying serf shall know

What angel nightly tracks

That waste of winter snow.

What I love shall come

Like visitant of air,

Safe in secret power

From lurking human snare.

Who loves me no word of mine

Shall e'er betray,

Though for faith unstained

My life must forfeit pay.

Burn then little lamp,

Glimmer straight and clear,

Hush a rusting wind stirs

Methinks the air.

He for whom I wait

Thus ever comes to me,

Strange power! I trust your might,

Trust thou my constancy.

-o0o-

ZUMMER AN' WINTER

William Barnes  1801-86

When I led by zummer streams

The pride o' Lea, as naighbours thought her,

While the zun, wi' evenen beams,

Did cast our sheades athirt the water;

Winds a-blowen,

Streams a-flowen,

Skies a-glowen,

Tokens ov my jay zoo fleeten,

Heightened it, that happy meeten.

Then, when maid an' man took pleaces,

Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances,

Showen in their merry feaces

Kindly smiles an' glisnen glances;

Stars a-winken,

Day a-shrinken,

Sheades a-zinken,

Brought anew the happy meeten,

That did meake the night too fleeten. 

-o0o-

SONG
John  Clare  1793-1864

Soft falls the sweet evening
Bright shines the one star
The night clouds they're leaning
On mountains afar
The moon in dim brightness
The fern in its lightness
Tinge the valley with whiteness
Both near and afar

O soft falls the evening
Around those sweet glens
The hill's shadows leaning
Half over the glen
There meet me my deary
I'm lonely and weary
And nothing can cheer me
So meet me agen

The gate it clap'd slightly
The noise it was small
The footstep fell lightly
And she pass'd the stone wall
And is it my deary
I'm no longer weary
But happy and cheery
For in thee I meet all

-o0o-

WHEN THEY BEGIN THE BEGUINE
Cole Porter  1891-1964

When they begin the beguine,
It brings back the sound of music so tender,
It brings back a night of tropical splendour,
It brings back a memory ever green.

I'm with you once more under the stars
And down by the shore an orchestra's playing
And even the palms seem to be swaying,
When they begin the beguine.

To live it again is past all endeavour
Except when that tune clutches my heart,
And there we are swearing to love forever
And promising never, never to part.

What moments divine, what rapture serene,
Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted
And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,
I know but too well what they mean.

So don't let them begin the beguine,
Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember,
Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember,
When they begin the beguine.

Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play
Till the stars that were there before return above you,
Till you whisper to me once more, darling I love you,
And we suddenly know what heaven we're in,
When they begin the beguine.

-o0o-

Now Online
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IN REFERENCE TO HER CHILDREN

Anne Bradstreet  1612-72

I had eight birds hatched in one nest,

Four cocks there were, and hens the rest.

I nursed them up with pain and care,

Nor cost, nor labour did I spare,

Till at the last they felt their wing,

Mounted the trees, and learned to sing;

Chief of the brood then took his flight

To regions far and left me quite.

My mournful chirps I after send,

Till he return, or I do end:

Leave not thy nest, thy dam and sire,

Fly back and sing amidst this choir.

My second bird did take her flight,

And with her mate flew out of sight;

Southward they both their course did bend,

And seasons twain they there did spend,

Till after blown by southern gales,

They norward steered with filled sails.

A prettier bird was no where seen,

Along the beach among the treen.

I have a third of colour white,

On whom I placed no small delight;

Coupled with mate loving and true,

Hath also bid her dam adieu;

And where Aurora first appears,

She now hath perched to spend her years.

One to the academy flew

To chat among that learned crew;

Ambition moves still in his breast

That he might chant above the rest

Striving for more than to do well,

That nightingales he might excel.

My fifth, whose down is yet scarce gone,

Is 'mongst the shrubs and bushes flown,

And as his wings increase in strength,

On higher boughs he'll perch at length.

My other three still with me nest,

Until they're grown, then as the rest,

Or here or there they'll take their flight,

As is ordained, so shall they light.

If birds could weep, then would my tears

Let others know what are my fears

Lest this my brood some harm should catch,

And be surprised for want of watch,

Whilst pecking corn and void of care,

They fall un'wares in fowler's snare,

Or whilst on trees they sit and sing,

Some untoward boy at them do fling,

Or whilst allured with bell and glass,

The net be spread, and caught, alas.

Or lest by lime-twigs they be foiled,

Or by some greedy hawks be spoiled.

O would my young, ye saw my breast,

And knew what thoughts there sadly rest,

Great was my pain when I you fed,

Long did I keep you soft and warm,

And with my wings kept off all harm,

My cares are more and fears than ever,

My throbs such now as 'fore were never.

Alas, my birds, you wisdom want,

Of perils you are ignorant;

Oft times in grass, on trees, in flight,

Sore accidents on you may light.

O to your safety have an eye,

So happy may you live and die.

Meanwhile my days in tunes I'll spend,

Till my weak lays with me shall end.

In shady woods I'll sit and sing,

And things that past to mind I'll bring.

Once young and pleasant, as are you,

But former toys (no joys) adieu.

My age I will not once lament,

But sing, my time so near is spent.

And from the top bough take my flight

Into a country beyond sight,

Where old ones instantly grow young,

And there with seraphims set song;

No seasons cold, nor storms they see;

But spring lasts to eternity.

When each of you shall in your nest

Among your young ones take your rest,

In chirping language, oft them tell,

You had a dam that loved you well,

That did what could be done for young,

And nursed you up till you were strong,

And 'fore she once would let you fly,

She showed you joy and misery;

Taught what was good, and what was ill,

What would save life, and what would kill.

Thus gone, amongst you I may live,

And dead, yet speak, and counsel give:

Farewell, my birds, farewell adieu,

I happy am, if well with you. 

-o0o-

Born in Northampton in England, Anne Bradstreet was the most prominent of early English poets of North America and first female writer in the British North American colonies to be published.

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THE INCHCAPE ROCK

Robert Southey 1774-1843

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,

The Ship was still as she could be;

Her sails from heaven received no motion, 

Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 

The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock; 

So little they rose, so little they fell, 

They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok 

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; 

On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 

And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell, 

The Mariners heard the warning Bell; 

And then they knew the perilous Rock, 

And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok

The Sun in the heaven was shining gay, 

All things were joyful on that day; 

The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round,

And there was joyaunce in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 

A darker speck on the ocean green; 

Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck, 

And fix’d his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring, 

It made him whistle, it made him sing; 

His heart was mirthful to excess, 

But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape Float; 

Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat, 

And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 

And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row, 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape Float. 

Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound, 

The bubbles rose and burst around; 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the Rock, 

Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.” 

Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away, 

He scour’d the seas for many a day; 

And now grown rich with plunder’d store, 

He steers his course for Scotland’s shore. 

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky, 

They cannot see the sun on high; 

The wind hath blown a gale all day, 

At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand, 

So dark it is they see no land. 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon, 

For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.” 

“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar? 

For methinks we should be near the shore.” 

“Now, where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.” 

They hear no sound, the swell is strong, 

Though the wind hath fallen they drift along; 

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, 

“Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!” 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, 

He curst himself in his despair; 

The waves rush in on every side, 

The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But even in his dying fear, 

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear; 

A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,

The Devil below was ringing his knell.

-o0o-

SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING
Lord Byron, George Gordon

So, we'll go no more a roving
   So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
   And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
   And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
   And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
   And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
   By the light of the moon.

-o0o-

MY PRETTY ROSE TREE
William Blake 1757-1827

A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said, 'I've a pretty rose tree,'
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

-o0o-

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A WINTER NIGHT

Sara Teasdale 1884-1933

My window-pane is starred with frost,

The world is bitter cold to-night,

The moon is cruel, and the wind

Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones,

The beggars pacing to and fro,

God pity all the poor to-night

Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

My room is like a bit of June,

Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,

But somewhere, like a homeless child,

My heart is crying in the cold. 

-o0o-

THE DARKLING THRUSH

Thomas Hardy  1840-1928

I leant upon a coppice gate

      When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

      The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

      Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

      Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be

      The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

      The wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

      Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

      Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among

      The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

      Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

      In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

      Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings

      Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

      Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

      His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

      And I was unaware.

-o0o-

From "The Merchant of Venice" Act 4 Scene 1

William Shakespeare  1564-1616

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this,

That, in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much

To mitigate the justice of thy plea;

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

-o0o-

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER
Thomas Moore  1779-1852

 'Tis the last rose of summer,
            Left blooming alone ;
      All her lovely companions
            Are faded and gone ;
      No flower of her kindred,
            No rose-bud is nigh,
      To reflect back her blushes,
            Or give sigh for sigh.

      I'll not leave thee, thou lone one !
            To pine on the stem ;
      Since the lovely are sleeping,
            Go sleep thou with them.
      Thus kindly I scatter
            Thy leaves o'er the bed,
      Where thy mates of the garden
            Lie scentless and dead.

      So soon may I follow,
            When friendships decay,
      And from Love's shining circle
            The gems drop away.
      When true hearts lie wither'd,
            And fond ones are flown,
      Oh ! who would inhabit
            This bleak world alone ?

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Four Poems by THOMAS HOOD  1789-1845

-o0o-

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 

I remember, I remember 

The house where I was born, 

The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn; 

He never came a wink too soon 

Nor brought too long a day; 

But now, I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember 

The roses red and white, 

The violets and the lily cups -

Those flowers made of light! 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 

The laburnum on his birthday,

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 

My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now, 

The summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky: 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy.

-o0o-

NO!

No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--
No "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--

No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!

No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

-o0o-

SILENCE

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave - under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d - no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan -
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

-o0o-

FLOWERS

I will not have the mad Clytie*,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of everyone.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand
The wolfsbane I should dread; -
Nor will I dreary rosemary
That always mourns the dead; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me -
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with blush,
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom's betrothed to the bee; -
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.

*In Greek mythology Clytie was a nymph was who was turned into a sunflower.

-o0o-

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

Edgar Allan Poe 1809-49

Take this kiss upon the brow!

          And, in parting from you now,

          Thus much let me avow -

          You are not wrong, who deem

          That my days have been a dream;

          Yet if hope has flown away

          In a night, or in a day,

          In a vision, or in none,

          Is it therefore the less gone?

          All that we see or seem

          Is but a dream within a dream.

          I stand amid the roar

          Of a surf-tormented shore,

          And I hold within my hand

          Grains of the golden sand -

          How few! Yet how they creep

          Through my fingers to the deep,

          While I weep - while I weep!

          O God! Can I not grasp

          Them with a tighter clasp?

          O God! Can I not save

          One from the pitiless wave?

          Is all that we see or seem

          But a dream within a dream?

-o0o-

INTERLUDE

Amy Lowell  1874-1925

When I have baked white cakes

And grated green almonds to spread upon them;

When I have picked the green crowns from the strawberries

And piled them, cone-pointed, in a blue and yellow platter;

When I have smoothed the seam of the linen I have been working;

What then?

To-morrow it will be the same:

Cakes and strawberries,

And needles in and out of cloth.

If the sun is beautiful on bricks and pewter,

How much more beautiful is the moon,

Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree;

The moon,

Wavering across a bed of tulips;

The moon,

Still,

Upon your face.

You shine, Beloved,

You and the moon.

But which is the reflection?

The clock is striking eleven.

I think, when we have shut and barred the door,

The night will be dark

Outside.

-o0o-

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

John Keats  1795-1821

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

So haggard and so woe-begone,

The squirrel's granary is full

And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever dew,

And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful, a faery's child:

Her hair was long, her foot was ligh,

And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long;

For sideways would she lean, and sing

A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew,

And sure in language strange she said,

"I love thee true!"

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she gazed and sighed deep,

And there I shut her wild, sad eyes -

So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,

And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide,

The latest dream I ever dreamed

On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

Who cried - "La belle Dame sans merci

Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill side.

And that is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing. 

-o0o-

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802
William Wordsworth  1770-1850

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

UNDER A SPREADING CHESTNUT TREE

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

-o0o-

Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

-o0o-

MINSTREL MAN

Langston Hughes 1902-67

Because my mouth

Is wide with laughter

And my throat

Is deep with song,

You do not think

I suffer after

I have held my pain

So long?

Because my mouth

Is wide with laughter,

You do not hear

My inner cry?

Because my feet

Are gay with dancing,

You do not know

I die?

-o0o-

Untitled

Rabindranath Tagore 1861-1941

I want to give you something, my child,

for we are drifting in the stream of the world.

Our lives will be carried apart,

and our love forgotten.

But I am not so foolish as to hope that

I could buy your heart with my gifts.

Young is your life, your path long, and

you drink the love we bring you at one draught

and turn and run away from us.

You have your play and your playmates.

What harm is there if you have no time

or thought for us.

We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age

to count the days that are past,

to cherish in our hearts what our

hands have lost for ever.

The river runs swift with a song,

breaking through all barriers.

But the mountain stays and remembers,

and follows her with his love.

-o0o-

HAPPY THE MAN

John Dryden 1631-1700

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call today his own;

He who, secure within, can say,

Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul or rain or shine

The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY

Oliver Goldsmith 1728-74

When lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt can cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,

To give repentance to her lover

And wring his bosom is - to die.

-o0o-

DRAKE’S DRUM

 Henry Newbolt 1862-1938

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)    

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.    

Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,             

    Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,    

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'    

    He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.    

  

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),      

Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,    

"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,    

    Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;    

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,      

    An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."     

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),    

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.      

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,    

    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;    

Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',    

    They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.    

-o=0=o-

ODE TO AUTUMN
John Keats 1795-1821 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

-o0o-

GOLDEN SLUMBERS

Thomas Dekker 1572-1632

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, 

Smiles awake you when you rise ; 

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby, 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you, 

You are care, and care must keep you ; 

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby, 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.   

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

SEA FEVER
John Masefield 1878-1967

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

-o0o-

THE RUINED MAID
Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

 "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

"At home in the barton you said thee and thou,
And thik oon, and theäs oon, and t'other; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"
"My dear a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.

-o0o-

SUNSET
Florence Peacock (dates not known)

"The setting sun of old age ever gilds with rosy tints the days gone by."

The setting sun of life gilds with its rays
The unforgotten but far distant days,
The days when youth and hope walked hand in hand.

It sheds around the past a rosy glow,
That past which never was a present, though
On looking back o'er life it seems to stand

Bathed in a crimson glory,--and old age
Lingers with loving fondness o'er the page
Thus lighted up by memory's golden rays.

-o0o-

SPEAKING TRUTH

Jesa MacBeth (dates not known)

It is possible to speak truth in anger.

When so done, people tend to hear the anger and not the truth.

It is possible to speak truth in arrogance.

When so done, people tend to hear the arrogance

and not the truth.

It is possible to speak truth in deceitful ways.

When so done, people tend to sense the deceit and take the truth for more deceit
It is possible to speak truth in loving kindness.

When so done, people tend to hear the love and the truth.

Or so it seems in my experience.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

MYFANWY

Richard Davies 1833-77

Why is it anger, O Myfanwy,

That fills your eyes so dark and clear?

Your gentle cheeks, O sweet Myfanwy,

Why blush they not when I draw near?

Where is the smile that once most tender

Kindled my love so fond, so true?

Where is the sound of your sweet words,

That drew my heart to follow you?

What have I done, O my Myfanwy,

To earn your frown? What is my blame?

Was it just play, my sweet Myfanwy,

To set your poet's love aflame?

You truly once to me were promised,

Is it too much to keep your part?

I wish no more your hand, Myfanwy,

If I no longer have your heart.

Myfanwy, may you spend your lifetime

Beneath the midday sunshine's glow,

And on your cheeks O may the roses

Dance for a hundred years or so.

Forget now all the words of promise

You made to one who loved you well,

Give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy,

But one last time, to say "farewell."

-o0o-

BALLADE OF AUTUMN
Andrew Lang 1844-1912

We built a castle in the air,
In summer weather, you and I,
The wind and sun were in your hair,
Gold hair against a sapphire sky:
When autumn came, with leaves that fly
Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh,
My Love returns no more again!

The windy lights of autumn flare:
I watch the moonlit sails go by;
I marvel how men toil and fare,
The weary business that they ply!
Their voyaging is vanity,
And fairy gold is all their gain,
And all the winds of winter cry,
"My Love returns no more again!"

Here, in my Castle of Despair,
I sit alone with memory;
The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,
To keep the outcast company.
The brooding owl he hoots hard by,
The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,
The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,
My Love returns no more again!

-o0o-

IT COULDN'T BE DONE
Edgar A. Guest 1881-1959

Somebody said that it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That maybe it couldn't, but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried, he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that -
At least no one ever has done it."
But he took off his coat and took off his hat
And the first thing he knew he'd begun it.

With the lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle right in with a bit of a grin,
Then take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
That cannot be done, and you'll do it.

-o0o-

I'M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU?
Emily Dickinson 1830-86

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

-o0o-

FAIRIES FANCIES AND FANTASIES will be updated tomorrow
http://fairiesfanciesandfantasies.blogspot.com

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

THE VERDICTS
(Jutland 1916)
Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936

Not in the thick of the fight,
    Not in the press of the odds,
Do the heroes come to their height,
    Or we know the demi-gods.

That stands over till peace.
    We can only perceive
Men returned from the seas,
    Very grateful for leave.

They grant us sudden days
    Snatched from their business of war;
But we are too close to appraise
    What manner of men they are.

And, whether their names go down
    With age-kept victories,
Or whether they battle and drown
    Unreckoned, is hid from our eyes.

They are too near to be great,
    But our children shall understand
When and how our fate
    Was changed, and by whose hand.

Our children shall measure their worth.
    We are content to be blind . . .
But we know that we walk on a new-born earth
    With the saviours of mankind.

-o0o-

THE WEST-OF-WESSEX GIRL
Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

A very West-of-Wessex girl,
   As blithe as blithe could be,
   Was once well-known to me,
And she would laud her native town,
   And hope and hope that we
Might sometime study up and down
   Its charms in company.

But never I squired my Wessex girl
   In jaunts to Hoe or street
   When hearts were high in beat,
Nor saw her in the marbled ways
   Where market-people meet
That in her bounding early days
   Were friendly with her feet.

Yet now my West-of-Wessex girl,
   When midnight hammers slow
   From Andrew's, blow by blow,
As phantom draws me by the hand
   To the place - Plymouth Hoe -
Where side by side in life, as planned,
   We never were to go!

-o0o-

A FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN
Anon

I'll sing you a good old song,
    Made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman,
    Who had an old estate;
And who kept up his old mansion
    At a bountiful old rate,
With a good old porter to relieve
    The old poor at his gate -
Like a fine old English gentleman,
    All of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around
    With pikes, and guns, and bows,
And swords and good old bucklers
    That had stood against old foes;
'Twas there "his worship" sat in state,
    In doublet and trunk hose,
And quaff'd his cup of good old sack
    To warm his good old nose -
Like a fine old English gentleman,
    All of the olden time.

When winter's cold brought frost and snow,
    He open'd his house to all;
And though three-score and ten his years,
    He featly led the ball.
Nor was the houseless wanderer
    E'er driven from his hall;
For while he feasted all the great,
    He ne'er forgot the small -
Like a fine old English gentleman,
    All of the olden time.

But time, though sweet, is strong in flight,
    And years roll swiftly by;
And autumn's falling leaves proclaim'd
    The old man - he must die!
He laid him down quite tranquilly,
    Gave up his latest sigh;
And mournful stillness reign'd around,
    And tears bedew'd each eye -
For this good old English gentleman,
    All of the olden time.

Now, surely this is better far
    Than all the new parade
Of theatres and fancy balls,
    "At home" and masquerade!
And much more economical,
    For all his bills were paid.
Then leave your new vagaries quite,
    And take up the old trade -
Of a fine old English gentleman,
    All of the olden time.

-o0o-

A new art blog begins tomorrow
FAIRIES FANCIES AND FANTASIES
http://fairiesfanciesandfantasies.blogspot.com

The Poetry Path continues to be updated every Friday

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 from AUTUMN*
John Clare 1793-1864

The summer-flower has run to seed,

And yellow is the woodland bough;

And every leaf of bush and weed

Is tipped with autumn’s pencil now.

And I do love the varied hue,

And I do love the browning plain;

And I do love each scene to view,

That’s marked with beauties of her reign.

The woodbine-trees red berries bear,
That clustering hang upon the bower;
While, fondly lingering here and there,
Peeps out a dwindling sickly flower.

The trees’ gay leaves are turned brown,
By every little wind undress’d;
And as they flap and whistle down,
We see the birds’ deserted nest.

No thrush or blackbird meets the eye,
Or fills the ear with summer’s strain;
They but dart out for worm and fly,
Then silent seek their rest again.

Beside the brook, in misty blue,
Bilberries glow on tendrils weak,
Where many a bare-foot splashes through,
The pulpy, juicy prize to seek:

For ’tis the rustic boy’s delight,
Now autumn’s sun so warmly gleams,
And these ripe berries tempt his sight,
To dabble in the shallow streams.

And oft his rambles we may trace,
Delv’d in the mud his printing feet,
And oft we meet a chubby face
All stained with the berries sweet.

More coldly blows the autumn-breeze;
Old winter grins a blast between;
The north-winds rise and strip the trees,
And desolation shuts the scene.

*The complete poem has 41 verses

-o0o-

PETALS
Amy Lowell 1874-1925

Life is a stream
On which we strew
Petal by petal the flower of our heart;
The end lost in dream,
They float past our view,
We only watch their glad, early start.
Freighted with hope,
Crimsoned with joy,
We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;
Their widening scope,
Their distant employ,
We never shall know. And the stream as it flows
Sweeps them away,
Each one is gone
Ever beyond into infinite ways.
We alone stay
While years hurry on,
The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

-o0o-

BY THE SEA
Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830-94

Why does the sea moan evermore?
Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,
It frets against the boundary shore;
All earth's full rivers cannot fill
The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.

Sheer miracles of loveliness
Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed:
Anemones, salt, passionless,
Blow flower-like; just enough alive
To blow and multiply and thrive.

Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike,
Encrusted live things argus-eyed,
All fair alike, yet all unlike,
Are born without a pang, and die
Without a pang, and so pass by.

-o0o-

I MEANT TO DO MY WORK TODAY
Richard LeGallienne 1866-1947

I meant to do my work today,
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand,
So what could I do but laugh and go?

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

THE RAVEN

Edgar Allan Poe 1809-49

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door -

Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow - vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-

This it is, and nothing more.'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you'- here I opened wide the door -

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,

fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!'

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!' -

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice:

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore -

'Tis the wind and nothing more.'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and

flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed

he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.

'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no

craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's *Plutonian shore!'

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.

*Plutonian - describes something associated with the underworld

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door -

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as 'Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -

Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown

before -

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never - nevermore'.'

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and

door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he

hath sent thee

Respite- respite and *nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!'

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

*Nepenthe - a drug described in Homer's Odyssey as banishing grief or trouble from a person's mind

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or

devil! -

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -

On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore -

Is there - is there balm in *Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

*Gilead - a region of ancient Palestine known for its balm (a fragrant ointment used to soothe or heal the skin.)

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or

devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant *Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

*Aidenn - paradise

'Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,' I shrieked,

upstarting -

'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my

door!'

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the

floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted - nevermore! 

-o0o-

MR. NOBODY

Anon

I know a funny little man,

As quiet as a mouse,

Who does the mischief that is done

In everybody's house!

There's no one ever sees his face,

And yet we all agree

That every plate we break was cracked

By Mr. Nobody.

Tis he who always tears our books,

Who leaves the door ajar,

He pulls the buttons from our shirts,

And scatters pine afar;

That squeaking door will always squeak,

For, prithee, don't you see,

We leave the oiling to be done

By Mr. Nobody.

He damps wood up the fire,

That kettles cannot boil;

His are the feet that brings in mud,

And all the carpet soil.

The papers always are mislaid,

Who had them last but he?

There's no one tosses them about

But Mr. Nobody.

The finger marks upon the door

By none of us are made;

We never leave the blind unclosed,

To let the curtains fade.

The ink we never spill. The boots,

That lying round you see,

Are not our boots; they all belong

To Mr. Nobody.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-