Game of the week

Yesterday was Spassky’s 84th birthday.

Poem of the day

Richard Cory
by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked ;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich,—yes, richer than a king, —
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Poem of the day

On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday
by Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;
         Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of Life—
         It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Poem of the day

What Do I Care?
by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,
⁠         That my songs do not show me at all?
For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire,
⁠         I am an answer, they are only a call.

But what do I care, for love will be over so soon,
⁠         Let my heart have its say and my mind stand idly by,
For my mind is proud and strong enough to be silent,
⁠         It is my heart that makes my songs, not I.

Poem of the day

The Second Coming
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Poem of the day

The Crocodile
by Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)

How doth the little crocodile
      Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
      On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin,
      How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
      With gently smiling jaws!

Poem of the day

Forget Not Yet
by Thomas Wyatt (1503-15421)

Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
      Forget not yet!

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since when
The suit, the service, none tell can;
      Forget not yet!

Forget not yet the great essays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in denays,
      Forget not yet!

Forget not yet, forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never meant amiss–
      Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved:
      Forget not this!

Poem of the day

Nine Inch Will Please a Lady
by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

“Come rede me, dame, come tell me, dame,
      “My dame, come tell me truly,
“What length o’ graith, when weel ca’d hame,
      “Will ser’e a woman duly?”
The carlin clew her wanton tail,
      Her wanton tail sae ready—
I learn’t a sang in Annandale,
      Nine inch will please a lady.—

But for a countrie cunt like mine,
      In sooth we’re nae sae gentle;
We’ll tak’ twa thumb-bread to the nine,
      And that’s a sonsie pintle.
O leeze me on my Charlie lad!
      I’ll ne’er forget my Charlie!
Twa roarin’ handfu’ and a daud,
      He nidg’t it in fu’ rarely.—

But weary fa’ the laithern doup,
      And may it ne’er ken thrivin’!
It’s no the length that gars me loup,
      But it’s the double drivin’.—
Come nidge me Tam, come nodge me Tam,
      Come nidge me o’er the nyvle!
Come louse and lug your batterin’ ram,
      And thrash him at my gyvel.