Felix Randal
by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

Felix Randal, the farrier, he is dead then? my duty all ended,
Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome
Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it and some
Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended?

Sickness broke him. Impatient he cursed at first, but mended
Being anointed and all; though a heavenlier heart began some
Months earlier, since I had our sweet reprieve and ransom
Tendered to him. Ah well, God rest him all road ever he offended!

This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears.
My tongue had taught thee comfort, touch had quenched thy tears,
Thy tears that touched my heart, child, Felix, poor Felix Randal;

How far from then forethought of, all thy more boisterous years,
When thou at the random grim forge, powerful amidst peers,
Didst fettle for the great grey drayhorse his bright and battering sandal!

Views: 20

Cassandra Drops Into Verse
by Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)

We’d break the city’s unfeeling clutch
      And back to good Mother Earth we’d go,
With Birds and blossoms and such-and-such,
      And love and kisses and so-and-so.
We’d build a bungalow, white and green,
      With rows of hollyhocks, all sedate.
And you’d come out on the five-eighteen
      And meet me down at the garden gate.
We’d leave the city completely flat
      And dwell with chickens and cows and bees,
‘Mid brooks and bowers and this and that,
      And joys and blisses and those and these.
We’d greet together the golden days,
      And hail the sun in the morning sky.
We’d find an Eden—to coin a phrase—
      The sole inhabitants, you and I.
With sweet simplicity all our aim,
      We’d fare together to start anew
In peace and quiet and what’s-its-name,
      And soul communion, or what have you?
But oh, my love, if we made the flight,
      I see the end of our pastoral plan . . .
Why, you’d be staying in town each night,
      And I’d elope with the furnace man.

Views: 28

Vitaï Lampada
by Henry Newbolt (1862-1938)

There’s a breathless hush in the Close to-night—
      Ten to make and the match to win—
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
      An hour to play and the last man in.
And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
      Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame,
But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote
      “Play up! play up! and play the game!”

The sand of the desert is sodden red,—
      Red with the wreck of a square that broke;—
The Gatling’s jammed and the colonel dead
      And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
      And England’s far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks,
      “Play up! play up! and play the game!”

This is the word that year by year
      While in her place the School is set
Every one of her sons must hear,
      And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
      Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind—
      “Play up! play up! and play the game!”

Views: 44

“Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind”
by Stephen Crane (1871-1900)

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because the lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

      Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
      Little souls who thirst for fight,
      These men were born to drill and die.
      The unexplained glory flies above them,
      Great is the Battle-God, great, and his Kingdom –
      A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

      Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
      Eagle with crest of red and gold,
      These men were born to drill and die.
      Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
      Make plain to them the excellence of killing
      And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Views: 33

Gebet
by Eduard Mörike (1804-1875)

Herr! schicke, was du willt,
Ein Liebes oder Leides;
Ich bin vergnügt, daß Beides
Aus Deinen Händen quillt.

Wollest mit Freuden
Und wollest mit Leiden
Mich nicht überschütten!
Doch in der Mitten
Liegt holdes Bescheiden.

Views: 32

The Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Views: 39

In Time of “The Breaking of Nations”
by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

Only a man harrowing clods
⁠      In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
⁠      Half asleep as they stalk.

Only thin smoke without flame
⁠      From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
⁠      Though Dynasties pass.

Yonder a maid and her wight
⁠      Come whispering by:
War’s annals will fade into night
⁠      Ere their story die.

Views: 31

Sea-Fever’
by John Masefield (1878-1967)

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

Views: 27

“I hear it was charged against me”
by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions;
But really I am neither for nor against institutions;
(What indeed have I in common with them?—Or what with the destruction of them?)
Only I will establish in the Mannahatta, and in every city of These States, inland and seaboard,
And in the fields and woods, and above every keel, little or large, that dents the water,
Without edifices, or rules, or trustees, or any argument,
The institution of the dear love of comrades.

Views: 57

Love’s Wisdom
by Alfred Austin (1835-1913)

Now on the summit of Love’s topmost peak
Kiss we and part; no further can we go:
And better death than we from high to low
Should dwindle or decline from strong to weak.
We have found all, there is no more to seek;
All have we proved, no more is there to know;
And time could only tutor us to eke
Out rapture’s warmth with custom’s afterglow.
We cannot keep at such a height as this;
For even straining souls like ours inhale
But once in life so rarefied a bliss.
What if we lingered till love’s breath should fail!
Heaven of my Earth! one more celestial kiss,
Then down by separate pathways to the vale.

Views: 41