Therefore, since the world has stillMuch good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endureLuck's a chance, but trouble's sure,I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good.
A.E. Housman
poetry poets
Along the field as we came byA year ago, my love and I, The aspen over stile and stoneWas talking to itself alone.'Oh who are these that kiss and pass?A country lover and his lass; Two lovers looking to be wed; And time shall put them both to bed, But she shall lie with earth above, And he beside another love.'And sure enough beneath the treeThere walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heavesIts rainy-sounding silver leaves; And I spell nothing in their stir, But now perhaps they speak to her, And plain for her to understandThey talk about a time at handWhen I shall sleep with clover clad, And she beside another lad.
poetry
When the lad for longing sighs, Mute and dull of cheer and pale, If at death's own door he lies, Maiden, you can heal his ail. Lovers' ills are all to buy: The wan look, the hollow tone, The hung head, the sunken eye, You can have them for your own. Buy them, buy them: eve and mornLovers' ills are all to sell. Then you can lie down forlorn; But the lover will be well.
When I examine my mind and try to discern clearly in the matter, I cannot satisfy myself that there are any such things as poetical ideas. No truth, it seems to me, is too precious, no observation too profound, and no sentiment too exalted to be expressed in prose. The utmost I could admit is that some ideas do, while others do not, lend themselves kindly to poetical expression; and that those receive from poetry an enhancement which glorifies and almost transfigures them, and which is not perceived to be a separate thing except by analysis.
If it chance your eye offends you, Pluck it out lad, and be sound: 'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you, And many a balsam grows on ground. And if your hand or foot offend you, Cut it off, lad, and be whole; But play the man, stand up and end you, When your sickness is your soul.
It nods and curtseys and recoversWhen the wind blows above, The nettle on the graves of loversThat hanged themselves for love. The nettle nods, the wind blows over, The man, he does not move, The lover of the grave, the loverThat hanged himself for love.
Up, lad: thews that lie and cumberSunlit pallets never thrive; Morns abed and daylight slumberWere not meant for man alive.
You must log in to post a comment.
There are no comments yet.