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

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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

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 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?

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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.

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