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.

-o=0=o-

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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