Poem of the day

The Rolling English Road
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1872-1936)

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road,
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire,
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread,
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

Views: 39

Poem of the day

The Minstrel Boy
by Thomas Moore (1779-1852)
This poem was set to music and often recorded. Here is John McCormack’s version; here is Liam Clancy’s; and here is Paul Robeson’s

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
⁠      In the ranks of death you’ll find him
His father’s sword he has girded on,
⁠      And his wild harp slung behind him.
“Land of song!” said the warrior bard,
      “Tho’ all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
⁠      One faithful harp shall praise thee.”

The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman’s chain
      Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,
      For he tore its cords asunder;
And said, “No chains shall gully thee,
      Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
      They shall never sound in slavery!”

Views: 43

Poem of the day

Gerontion
by T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)

               Thou hast nor youth nor age
         But as it were an after dinner sleep
         Dreaming of both.

Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten by flies, fought.
My house is a decayed house,
And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.
The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;
Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.

                  I an old man,
A dull head among windy spaces.

Signs are taken for wonders. “We would see a sign!”
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger

In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering Judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;
By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fraulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttles
Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,
An old man in a draughty house
Under a windy knob.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities. Think now
She gives when our attention is distracted
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What’s not believed in, or if still believed,
In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
Into weak hands, what’s thought can be dispensed with
Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
We have not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last
I have not made this show purposelessly
And it is not by any concitation
Of the backward devils.
I would meet you upon this honestly.
I that was near your heart was removed therefrom
To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
Since what is kept must be adulterated?
I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How should I use it for your closer contact?

These with a thousand small deliberations
Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,
Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
With pungent sauces, multiply variety
In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do,
Suspend its operations, will the weevil
Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled
Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear
In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits
Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,
White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
And an old man driven by the Trades
To a sleepy corner.

                  Tenants of the house,
Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.

Views: 37

Poem of the day

Der Nöck
by August Kopisch (1799-1853)

Es tönt des Nöcken Harfenschall:
Da steht der wilde Wasserfall,
      Umschwebt mit Schaum und Wogen
      Den Nöck im Regenbogen.
            Die Bäume neigen
            Sich tief und schweigen,
Und atmend horcht die Nachtigall.—

“O Nöck, was hilft das Singen dein?
Du kannst ja doch nicht selig sein!
      Wie kann dein Singen taugen?”—
      Der Nöck erhebt die Augen,
            Sieht an die Kleinen,
            Beginnt zu weinen…
Und senkt sich in die Flut hinein.

Da rauscht und braust der Wasserfall,
Hoch fliegt hinweg die Nachtigall,
      Die Bäume heben mächtig
      Die Häupter grün und prächtig.
            O weh, es haben
            Die wilden Knaben
Der Nöck betrübt im Wasserfall.

“Komm wieder, Nöck, du singst so schön!
Wer singt, kann in den Himmel gehn!
      Du wirst mit deinem Klingen
      Zum Paradiese dringen!
            O komm, es haben
            Gescherzt die Knaben:
Komm wieder, Nöck, und singe schön!”

Da tönt des Nöcken Harfenschall,
Und wieder steht der Wasserfall,
      Umschwebt mit Schaum und Wogen
      Den Nöck im Regenbogen.
            Die Bäume neigen
            Sich tief und schweigen,
Und atmend horcht die Nachtigall.

Da tönt des Nöcken Harfenschall:
Da steht der wilde Wasserfall,
      Umschwebt mit Schaum und Wogen
      Den Nöck im Regenbogen.
            Die Bäume neigen
            Sich tief und schweigen,
Und atmend horcht die Nachtigall.

Es spielt der Nöck und singt mit Macht
Von Meer und Erd und Himmelspracht.
      Mit Singen kann er lachen
      Und selig weinen machen,—
            Der Wald erbebet,
            Die Sonn’ entschwebet …
Er singt bis in die Sternennacht!

Views: 47

Poem of the day

The Humble-Bee
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

Burly, dozing humble-bee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid-zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere;
Swimmer through the waves of air;
Voyager of light and noon;
Epicurean of June;
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,—
All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days,
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a color of romance,
And infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer’s petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.
When the fierce northwestern blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

Views: 37

Poem of the day

Ambassadors of God
by Charles Wesley (1707-1788)

God, the offended God most high,
Ambassadors to rebels sends;
His messengers His place supply,
And Jesus begs us to be friends.

Us, in the stead of Christ, they pray,
Us, in the stead of God, entreat,
To cast our arms, our sins, away,
And find forgiveness at His feet.

Our God in Christ! Thine embassy,
And proffered mercy, we embrace;
And gladly reconciled to Thee,
Thy condescending goodness praise.

Poor debtors, by our Lord’s request
A full acquittance we receive!
And criminals, with pardon blessed,
We, at our Judge’s instance, live!

Views: 61

Poem of the day

Alla Musa
by Giuseppe Parini (1729-1799)

Te il mercadante, che con ciglio asciutto
Fugge i figli e la moglie ovunque il chiama
Dura avarizia, nel remoto flutto,
               Musa, non ama.

Nè quei, cui l’alma ambizïosa rode
Fulgida cura; onde salir più agogna;
E la molto fra il dì temuta frode
               Torbido sogna.

Nè giovane, che pari a tauro irrompa
Ove a la cieca più Venere piace:
Nè donna, che d’amanti osi gran pompa
               Spiegar procace.

Sai tu, vergine dea, chi la parola
Modulata da te gusta od imita;
Onde ingenuo piacer sgorga, e consola
               L’umana vita?

Colui, cui diede il ciel placido senso
E puri affetti e semplice costume;
Che di sè pago e dell’avito censo
               Più non presume.

Che spesso al faticoso ozio de’ grandi
E all’urbano clamor s’invola, e vive
Ove spande natura influssi blandi
               O in colli o in rive.

E in stuol d’amici numerato e casto,
Tra parco e delicato al desco asside;
E la splendida turba e il vano fasto
               Lieto deride.

Che a i buoni, ovunque sia, dona favore;
E cerca il vero; e il bello ama innocente;
E passa l’età sua tranquilla, il core
               Sano e la mente.

Dunque perchè quella sì grata un giorno
Del Giovin, cui diè nome il dio di Delo,
Cetra si tace; e le fa lenta intorno
               Polvere velo?

Ben mi sovvien quando, modesto il ciglio,
Ei già scendendo a me giudice fea
Me de’ suoi carmi: e a me chiedea consiglio:
               E lode avea.

Ma or non più. Chi sa? Simile a rosa
Tutta fresca e vermiglia al sol, che nasce,
Tutto forse di lui l’eletta Sposa
               L’animo pasce.

E di bellezza, di virtù, di raro
Amor, di grazie, di pudor natìo
L’occupa sì, ch’ei cede ogni già caro
               Studio all’oblìo.

Musa, mentr’ella il vago crine annoda
A lei t’appressa; e con vezzoso dito
A lei premi l’orecchio; e dille: e t’oda.
               Anco il marito.

Giovinetta crudel, perchè mi togli
Tutto il mio d’Adda, e di mie cure il pregio,
E la speme concetta, e i dolci orgogli
               D’alunno egregio?

Costui di me, de’ genj miei si accese
Pria che di te. Codeste forme infanti
Erano ancor, quando vaghezza il prese
               De’ nostri canti.

Ei t’era ignoto ancor quando a me piacque.
Io di mia man per l’ombra, e per la lieve
Aura de’ lauri l’avviai ver l’acque,
               Che al par di neve

Bianche le spume, scaturir dall’alto
Fece Aganippe il bel destrier, che ha l’ale:
Onde chi beve io tra i celesti esalto
               E fo immortale.

Io con le nostre il volsi arti divine
Al decente, al gentile, al raro, al bello:
Fin che tu stessa gli apparisti al fine
               Caro modello.

E, se nobil per lui fiamma fu desta
Nel tuo petto non conscio: e s’ei nodrìa
Nobil fiamma per te, sol opra è questa
               Del cielo e mia.

Ecco già l’ale il nono mese or scioglie
Da che sua fosti, e già, deh ti sia salvo,
Te chiaramente in fra le madri accoglie
               Il giovin alvo.

Lascia che a me solo un momento ei torni;
E novo entro al tuo cor sorgere affetto,
E novo sentirai da i versi adorni
               Piover diletto.

Però ch’io stessa, il gomito posando
Di tua seggiola al dorso, a lui col suono
De la soave andrò tibia spirando
               Facile tono.

Onde rapito, ei canterà che sposo
Già felice il rendesti, e amante amato;
E tosto il renderai dal grembo ascoso
               Padre beato.

Scenderà in tanto dall’eterea mole
Giuno, che i preghi de le incinte ascolta.
E vergin io de la Memoria prole 95
               Nel velo avvolta

Uscirò co’ bei carmi; e andrò gentile
Dono a farne al Parini, Italo cigno,
Che a i buoni amico, alto disdegna il vile
               Volgo maligno.

Views: 58

Poem of the day

Delfica
by Gérard de Nerval (1808-1855)

La connais-tu, Dafné, cette ancienne romance,
Au pied du sycomore, ou sous les lauriers blancs,
Sous l’olivier, le myrte, ou les saules tremblants,
Cette chanson d’amour qui toujours recommence?…

Reconnais-tu le Temple au péristyle immense,
Et les citrons amers où s’imprimaient tes dents,
Et la grotte, fatale aux hôtes imprudents,
Où du dragon vaincu dort l’antique semence?…

Ils reviendront, ces Dieux que tu pleures toujours!
Le temps va ramener l’ordre des anciens jours ;
La terre a tressailli d’un souffle prophétique…

Cependant la sibylle au visage latin
Est endormie encor sous l’arc de Constantin
— Et rien n’a dérangé le sévère portique.

Views: 42

Poem of the day

An Essay on Criticism
by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)

’Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
Appear in Writing or in Judging ill,
But, of the two, less dang’rous is th’ Offence,
To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense:
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
A Fool might once himself alone expose,
Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.

’Tis with our Judgments as our Watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critick’s Share;
Both must alike from Heav’n derive their Light,
These born to Judge, as well as those to Write.
Let such teach others who themselves excell,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their Wit, ’tis true,
But are not Criticks to their Judgment too?

Continue reading

Views: 51

Poem of the day

Evening
by John Clare (1793-1864)

’Tis evening; the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,
And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,
Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.

The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot
Where his shadow reached when he first came,
And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut
Two letters that stand for love’s name.

The evening comes in with the wishes of love,
And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,
And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,
And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,
Where nothing can hear or intrude;
It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,
In beautiful green solitude.

Views: 56