IN A BATH TEASHOP

John Betjeman 1906-84

"Let us not speak, for the love we bear one another - 

Let us hold hands and look."

She such a very ordinary little woman;

He such a thumping crook;

But both, for a moment, little lower than the angels

In the teashop's ingle-nook.

-o0o-

THE LAST LAUGH

John Betjeman 1906-84

I made hay while the sun shone.

My work sold.

Now, if the harvest is over

And the world cold,

Give me the bonus of laughter

As I lose hold.

-o0o-

DARK LOCHNAGAR
George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove,
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war,
Though cataracts foam ‘stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander’d,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid.
On chieftains long perish’d my memory ponder’d
As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade.
I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star,
For fancy was cheer’d by traditional story
Disclos’d by the natives of dark Lochnagar!

Shades of the dead! Have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o’er his own Highland vale.
Round Lochnagar while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car.
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Lochnagar.

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THE THOMAS HARDY POEM

A Wife in London
December 1899

I
She sits in the tawny vapour
That the Thames-side lanes have uprolled,
Behind whose webby fold-on-fold
Like a waning taper
The street-lamp glimmers cold.

A messenger's knock cracks smartly,
Flashed news in her hand
Of meaning it dazes to understand
Though shaped so shortly:
He - he has fallen - in the far South Land . . .

II
'Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker,
The postman nears and goes:
A letter is brought whose lines disclose
By the firelight flicker
His hand, whom the worm now knows:

Fresh - firm - penned in highest feather -
Page-full of his hoped return,
And of home-planned jaunts of brake and burn
In the summer weather,
And of new love that they would learn.

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YOUNG AND OLD

Charles Kingsley 1819-75

When all the world is young, lad,

  And all the trees are green,

And every goose a swan, lad,

  And every lass a queen,

Then hey for boot and horse, lad,

  And round the world away;

Young blood must have its course, lad,

  And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,

  And all the trees are brown;

And all the sport is stale, lad,

  And all the wheels run down,

Creep home, and take your place there,

  The spent and maimed among:

God grant you find one face there

  You loved when all was young.

-o0o-

LIFE

Daisaku Ikeda  b.1928

I will cast out

All the vagueness and indecision within me

Because my wish is to construct

The castle of my whole life

On the fulfilment of each promise that I make.

I want to live my life

As a surpassingly broadminded man

Known for being happy and honest

A person in whom people can have absolute trust.

I've put behind me

The age of dreaming about a rosy future

And with roots extended into life's reality

I realise that the power to create happiness

Derives from what we actually do today. 

-o0o-

ALL IN THE DOWNS

Thomas Hood (The Younger) 1835-74

I would I had something to do - or to think!

Or something to read, or to write!

I am rapidly verging on Lunacy’s brink,

Or I shall be dead before night.

In my ears has been ringing and droning all day,

Without ever a stop or a change,

That poem of Tennyson’s - heart-cheering lay! -

Of the Moated Monotonous Grange!

The stripes in the carpet and paper alike

I have counted, and counted all through.

And now I’ve a fervid ambition to strike

Out some path of wild pleasure that’s new.

They say if a number you count, and re-count,

That the time imperceptibly goes: -

Ah, I wish - how I wish! - I’d ne’er learnt the amount

Of my aggregate fingers and toes.

“Enjoyment is fleeting,” the proverbs all say,

“Even that, which it feeds upon, fails.”

I’ve arrived at the truth of the saying today,

By devouring the whole of my nails.

I have numbered the minutes, so heavy and slow,

Till of that dissipation I tire.

And as for exciting amusements - you know

One can’t ALWAYS be stirring the fire!

-o0o-

THE THOMAS HARDY POEM

A Broken Appointment

You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.

You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
-I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
You love not me.

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COTSWOLD LOVE
John Drinkwater 1882-1937

Blue skies are over Cotswold
 And April snows go by,
The lasses turn their ribbons
 For April's in the sky,
And April is the season
 When Sabbath girls are dressed,
From Rodboro' to Campden,
 In all their silken best.

An ankle is a marvel
 When first the buds are brown,
And not a lass but knows it
 From Stow to Gloucester town.
And not a girl goes walking
 Along the Cotswold lanes
But knows men's eyes in April
 Are quicker than their brains.

It's little that it matters,
 So long as you're alive,
If you're eighteen in April,
 Or rising sixty-five,
When April comes to Amberley
 With skies of April blue,
And Cotswold girls are briding
 With slyly tilted shoe.

-o0o-

THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61

What's the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;
Love, when, so, you're loved again.
What's the best thing in the world?
- Something out of it, I think.

-o0o-

SUMMER  (1865)
John Clare 1793-1864

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.

The clock-a-clay* is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast;
I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.

*The clock-a-clay or clock o'clay is a 19th century Northamptonshire slang word for ladybird or ladybug.

-o0o-

THE THOMAS HARDY POEM

Tess's Lament

I would that folk forgot me quite,
Forgot me quite!
I would that I could shrink from sight,
And no more see the sun.
Would it were time to say farewell,
To claim my nook, to need my knell,
Time for them all to stand and tell
Of my day's work as done.

Ah! dairy where I lived so long,
I lived so long;
Where I would rise up stanch and strong,
And lie down hopefully.
'Twas there within the chimney-seat
He watched me to the clock's slow beat,
Loved me, and learnt to call me sweet,
And whispered words to me.

And now he's gone; and now he's gone -
And now he's gone!
The flowers we potted p'rhaps are thrown
To rot upon the farm.
And where we had our supper-fire
May now grow nettle, dock, and briar,
And all the place be mould and mire
So cozy once and warm.

And it was I who did it all,
Who did it all;
'Twas I who made the blow to fall
On him who thought no guile.
Well, it is finished - past, and he
Has left me to my misery,
And I must take my Cross on me
For wronging him awhile.

How gay we looked that day we wed,
That day we wed!
"May joy be with ye!" all o'm said
A'standing by the durn.
I wonder what they say o's now,
And if they know my lot; and how
She feels who milks my favourite cow,
And takes my place at churn!

It wears me out to think of it,
To think of it;
I cannot bear my fate as writ,
I'd have my life unbe;
Would turn my memory to a blot,
Make every relic of me rot,
My doings be as they were not,
And what they've brought to me!

-o0o-

MORE POETRY NEXT FRIDAY

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REVERIE
Sophia Scott

The Campsie Fells lay dreaming in the soft sweet summer light,

Little breezes played and whispered round her knees,

She dreamed of days we knew not when the waters lapped her feet

And the glaciers slithered steeply from her sides -

Days when mammoths roamed the valley through the sand dunes weird and high,

And our coal was mosses, ferns and tropic trees.

The long low line of hills was swept by western winds,

And the bracken’s green was long since turned to brown,

Her dreams were sore and troubled, for she heard the tramp of feet

As the Romans marched to Cadder o’er the down;

Till they pitched their tents and sheltered from the winter’s wildest wrath,

And beneath her flanks they built for them a town.

All these days are long since over, long ago and far away,

Changeless still the Campsies lie in summer sheen;

We discover Roman forts and we dig up mammoth bones

In our age of petrol, aeroplanes and steam;

And we build our little houses and we live our little lives,

But the great hills hug their secrets still - and dream.

[The Campsie Fells lie to the north of Kirkintilloch where the late Mrs Scott lived for many years.]

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DESIDERATA (Desired Things)  pub.1927

Max Ehrmann 1872-1945

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,

and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,

be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly,

and listen to others,

even the dull and the ignorant;

they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;

they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,

you may become vain or bitter;

for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;

it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,

for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;

many persons strive for high ideals,

and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.

Especially do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love;

for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment

it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,

gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings;

many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,

be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,

no less than the trees and the stars;

you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,

no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,

whatever you conceive Him to be,

and whatever your labours and aspirations,

in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,

it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

-o0o-

NEUTRAL TONES
Thomas Hardy

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;
         – They had fallen from an ash, and were grey.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles of years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro
         On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
         Like an ominous bird a-wing . . .

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with greyish leaves.

      -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG has a new look and a new name

BLOGGING IS SUCH FUN
begins on Sunday 8th June
http://bloggingissuchfun.blogspot.com

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