FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE 

William Barnes  1801-86

(The poet was a friend of both Thomas Hardy and Alfred, Lord Tennyson. This poem, like many of his other works, is in the Dorset dialect)

When I wer still a bwoy, an' mother'e pride,

A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like,

"If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride

In thease wheel-barrow here." Zoo I were blind-like

To what he had a-worken in his mind-like,

An' mounted vor a passenger inside;

An' comen to a puddle, perty wide,

He tipp'd me in, a-grinnen back behind-like.

Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like,

An' sheake my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by,

An' tell me he would do me this or that,

I can't help thinken o' the big bwoy's trick-like.

An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat

An' thank en, I do veel a little shy.

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THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER
Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1809-92

It is the miller’s daughter,
   And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
   That trembles at her ear:
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I’d touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle
   About her dainty, dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
   In sorrow and in rest:
And I should know if it beat right,
I’d clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,
   And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
   With her laughter or her sighs:
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasped at night.

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THE SANDS OF DEE
Charles Kingsley 1819-75

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
    And call the cattle home,
    And call the cattle home,
    Across the sands of Dee."
The western wind was wild and dark with foam,        
    And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
    And o'er and o'er the sand,
    And round and round the sand,
    As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
    And never home came she.

"O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair -
    A tress of golden hair,
    A drowned maiden's hair,
    Above the nets at sea?"
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
    Among the stakes of Dee.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
    The cruel crawling foam,
    The cruel hungry foam,
    To her grave beside the sea.
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
    Across the sands of Dee.

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A SUMMER EVENING CHURCHYARD, LECHLADE
Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822

The wind has swept from the wide atmosphere
Each vapour that obscured the sunset's ray,
And pallid Evening twines its beaming hair
In duskier braids around the languid eyes of Day:
Silence and Twilight, unbeloved of men,
Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest glen.

They breathe their spells towards the departing day,
Encompassing the earth, air, stars, and sea;
Light, sound, and motion, own the potent sway,
Responding to the charm with its own mystery.
The winds are still, or the dry church-tower grass
Knows not their gentle motions as they pass.

Thou too, aerial pile, whose pinnacles
Point from one shrine like pyramids of fire,
Obey'st I in silence their sweet solemn spells,
Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and distant spire,
Around whose lessening and invisible height
Gather among the stars the clouds of night.

The dead are sleeping in their sepulchres:
And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrilling sound,
Half sense half thought, among the darkness stirs,
Breathed from their wormy beds all living things around,
And, mingling with the still night and mute sky,
Its awful hush is felt inaudibly.

Thus solemnized and softened, death is mild
And terrorless as this serenest night.
Here could I hope, like some enquiring child
Sporting on graves, that death did hide from human sight
Sweet secrets, or beside its breathless sleep
That loveliest dreams perpetual watch did keep.

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A NEW BLOG "THE READING ROOM" BEGINS TOMORROW 1ST MARCH
http://publicdomainessays.blogspot.com

Both The Poetry Path and the new blog will normally be updated every weekend

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A CALENDAR OF SONNETS - FEBRUARY
Helen Hunt Jackson 1830-85

Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white;
And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still;
No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill,
And willow stems grow daily red and bright.
These are days when ancients held a rite
Of expiation for the old year's ill,
And prayer to purify the new year's will:
Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight,
Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste,
And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed
The ardent summer's joy to have and taste;
Fit days, to give to last year's losses heed,
To reckon clear the new life's sterner need;
Fit days, for Feast of Expiation placed!

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ITHACA
Constantine P. Cavafy 1863-1933

When you set out for Ithaka
ask that your way be long,
full of adventure, full of instruction.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - do not fear them:
such as these you will never find
as long as your thought is lofty, as long as a rare
emotion touch your spirit and your body.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - you will not meet them
unless you carry them in your soul,
unless your soul raise them up before you.

Ask that your way be long.
At many a Summer dawn to enter
with what gratitude, what joy -
ports seen for the first time;
to stop at Phoenician trading centres,
and to buy good merchandise,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensuous perfumes of every kind,
sensuous perfumes as lavishly as you can;
to visit many Egyptian cities,
to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.

Have Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But don't in the least hurry the journey.
Better it last for years,
so that when you reach the island you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.
Ithaka gave you a splendid journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She hasn't anything else to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka hasn't deceived you.
So wise you have become, of such experience,
that already you'll have understood what these Ithakas mean. 

Ithaka (1821)
Edward Dodwell

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DREAM VARIATIONS
Langston Hughes 1902-67

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
    Dark like me—
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance!  Whirl!  Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
    Black like me.

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THE SUN WAS SLUMBERING IN THE WEST
Thomas Hood 1799-1835

The sun was slumbering in the West,
My daily labours past;
On Anna's soft and gentle breast
My head reclined at last;
The darkness closed around, so dear
To fond congenial souls,
And thus she murmur'd at my ear,
"My love, we're out of coals!

"That Mister Bond has call'd again,
Insisting on his rent;
And all the Todds are coming up
To see us, out of Kent --
I quite forgot to tell you John
Has had a tipsy fall --
I'm sure there's something going on
WIth that vile Mary Hall!

"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk,
And I have bought the rest --
Of course, if we go out of town,
Southend will be the best.
I really think the Jones's house
Would be the thing for us;
I think I told you Mrs. Pope
Had parted with her hus --

"Cook , by the way, came up today,
To bid me suit myself --
And what d'ye think? The rats have gnaw'd
The victuals on the shelf,
And, lord! there's such a letter come,
Inviting you to fight!
Of course you don't intend to go --
God bless you, dear, good night!"

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MORE POETRY NEXT WEEKEND

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A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61

What was he doing, the great god Pan,
  Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat      
  With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
  From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,      
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
  Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan,
  While turbidly flowed the river:
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,      
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
  To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
  (How tall it stood in the river!)      
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
  In holes, as he sat by the river.

“This is the way,” laughed the great god Pan,      
  (Laughed while he sat by the river,)
“The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.”
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
  He blew in power by the river.      

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
  Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly      
  Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
  To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, -     
For the reed which grows nevermore again
  As a reed with the reeds in the river.

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WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING
William Wordsworth 1770-1850

I heard a thousand blended notes
  While in a grove I sat 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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GO, LOVELY ROSE

Edmund Waller 1606-87

Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

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THE LITTLE BOY AND THE OLD MAN

Shel Silverstein 1930-99

"Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."

Said the old man, "I do that too."

The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."

"I do that too," laughed the little old man.

Said the little boy, "I often cry."

The old man nodded, So do I."

"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems

Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."

And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.

"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

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MORE POETRY NEXT WEEKEND

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WE ARE THE MUSIC-MAKERS

William Arthur Edgar O'Shaughnessy 1844-81

We are the music-makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams.

World-losers and world-forsakers,

Upon whom the pale moon gleams,

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world forever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties

We build up the world's great cities,

And out of a fabulous story

We fashion an empire's glory:

One man with a dream, at pleasure,

Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

And three with a new song's measure

Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth,

Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself with our mirth;

And o'erthrew them with prophesying

To the old of the new world's worth;

For each age is a dream that is dying,

Or one that is coming to birth.

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AN INSINCERE WISH ADDRESSED TO A BEGGAR

Mary E. Coleridge 1861-1907

We are not near enough to love,

I can but pity all your woe;

For wealth has lifted me above,

And falsehood set you down below.

If you were true, we still might be

Brothers in something more than name;

And were I poor, your love to me

Would make our differing bonds the same.

But golden gates between us stretch,

Truth opens her forbidding eyes;

You can't forget that I am rich,

Nor I that you are telling lies.

Love never comes but at love's call,

And pity asks for him in vain;

Because I cannot give you all,

You give me nothing back again.

And you are right with all your wrong,

For less than all is nothing too;

May Heaven beggar me ere long,

And Truth reveal herself to you.

-o0o-

DAFFODILS

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of the bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed - and gazed - but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

-o0o-

AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN FIVE CHAPTERS
Portia Nelson 1920-2001

1
 I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk,
I fall in.
 I am lost . . .
I am hopeless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes for ever to find a way out.

2.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I'm in the same place.
But it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

3.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in . . . it's a habit.
My eyes are open; I know where I am;
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

4.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

5.
I walk down another street.

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MORE POEMS NEXT WEEKEND

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FAIRIES' SONG
Leigh Hunt 1784-1859

We the fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Through the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen be your apples.

When to bed the world is bobbing,
Then's the time for orchard robbing,
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling,
Were it not for stealing, stealing.

EXECUTIVE

John Betjeman 1906-84

I am a young executive. No cuffs than mine are cleaner;
I have a Slimline brief-case and I use the firm's Cortina.

In every roadside hostelry from here to Burgess Hill

The maitres d'hotel all know me well, and let me sign the bill.

You ask me what it is I do. Well, actually, you know,

I'm partly a liaison man, and partly P.R.O.

Essentially, I integrate the current export drive

And basically I'm viable from ten o'clock till five.

For vital off-the-record work - that's talking transport-wise -

I've a scarlet Aston-Martin - and does she go? She flies!

Pedestrians and dogs and cats, we mark them down for slaughter.

I also own a speedboat which has never touched the water.

She's built of fibre-glass, of course. I call her "Mandy Jane"

After a bird I used to know - no soda, please, just plain -

And how did I acquire her? Well, to tell you about that

And to put you in the picture, and I must wear my other hat.

I do some mild developing. The sort of place I need

Is a quiet country market town that's rather run to seed.

A luncheon and a drink or two, a little savoir faire -

I fix the Planning Officer, the Town Clerk and the Mayor.

And if some Preservationist attempts to interfere

A "dangerous structure" notice from the Borough Engineer

Will settle any buildings that are standing in our way,

The modern style, sir, with respect, has really come to stay.

A GARDEN SONG
Henry Austin Dobson 1840-1921

Here, in this sequestered close,
Bloom the hyacinth and rose;
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

Here, in alleys cool and green
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else - afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

WILD GEESE
Mary Oliver b.1935

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

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MORE POETRY NEXT WEEKEND

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