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Claire

Poetic Wanderings

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Is a woman but man's plaything, fairest woman in her pride? 
Should a word be disregarded? Should a whisper be denied? 
Should not all things bow before her? And my knightly soul replied,
'Man is born to worship woman, She is man beatified.
At her fairest she is perfect, at her foulest something more— 
Serve all women and respect them is my self imposèd law.
For in sooth they all are angels —Who's that knocking at my door?' 
'Sir—your Aunt has come to see you—' D—n the woman. What a bore!

 

Chivalry - Rudyard Kipling
 

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There's a whisper down the line at 11.39
When the Night Mail's ready to depart,
Saying "Skimble where is Skimble has he gone to hunt the thimble?
We must find him or the train can't start."
All the guards and all the porters and the stationmaster's daughters
They are searching high and low,
Saying "Skimble where is Skimble for unless he's very nimble
Then the Night Mail just can't go."
At 11.42 then the signal's nearly due
And the passengers are frantic to a man—
Then Skimble will appear and he'll saunter to the rear:
He's been busy in the luggage van!

He gives one flash of his glass-green eyes
And the signal goes "All Clear!"
And we're off at last for the northern part
Of the Northern Hemisphere!
 

T.S. Eliot - from 'Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat'

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The Baker's Tale

 

They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice—

   They roused him with mustard and cress—

They roused him with jam and judicious advice—

   They set him conundrums to guess.

 

When at length he sat up and was able to speak,

   His sad story he offered to tell;

And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!"

   And excitedly tingled his bell.

 

There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,

   Scarcely even a howl or a groan,

As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe

   In an antediluvian tone.

 

"My father and mother were honest, though poor—"

   "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste.

"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark—

   We have hardly a minute to waste!"

 

"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears,

   "And proceed without further remark

To the day when you took me aboard of your ship

   To help you in hunting the Snark.

 

"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)

   Remarked, when I bade him farewell—"

"Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed,

   As he angrily tingled his bell.

 

"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men,

   "'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right:

Fetch it home by all means—you may serve it with greens,

   And it's handy for striking a light.

 

"'You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care;

   You may hunt it with forks and hope;

You may threaten its life with a railway-share;

   You may charm it with smiles and soap—'"

 

("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold

   In a hasty parenthesis cried,

"That's exactly the way I have always been told

   That the capture of Snarks should be tried!")

 

"'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,

   If your Snark be a Boojum! For then

You will softly and suddenly vanish away,

   And never be met with again!'

 

"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul,

   When I think of my uncle's last words:

And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl

   Brimming over with quivering curds!

 

"It is this, it is this—" "We have had that before!"

   The Bellman indignantly said.

And the Baker replied "Let me say it once more.

   It is this, it is this that I dread!

 

"I engage with the Snark—every night after dark—

   In a dreamy delirious fight:

I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,

   And I use it for striking a light:

 

"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,

   In a moment (of this I am sure),

I shall softly and suddenly vanish away—

   And the notion I cannot endure!"

 

From The Hunting of The Snark - Lews Carroll

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I'm going to join in because we need more people and there is no chance I'll be able to come up to the standard set here.  I'm not evens sure I understand how to play the game but here's my contribution :

 

Gardens where there’s no need for a garden

 

For me, it begins with a grandfather consciousness of Russia
and a difficulty of surnames,
smiles in a local kitchen from my alien gold neighbours
and the gladness of their horses

For me, it begins in the dark regions
of vodka and childhood
where the staircase birds share the flight of the child
and a windowsill mother counts
a thousand years
on her exact tongue of black-blood grief

Or it begins, for me, with a master-sleep
with the dog who understands the breast that wears black,
and the hour when a strange
but better than usual guest
comes to call

For me it begins when I step aside
from my own concerns and the dead look at me,
quiet as thimbles,
they look at me from the hushing handheld sky,
its subdued palaces,
the doors all blue and in the wrong places

For me, it begins there

 

by Penelope Shuttle

Edited by lunababymoonchild

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9 hours ago, lunababymoonchild said:

  I'm not evens sure I understand how to play the game

Each poem should link to the previous one by a common word, and that word is put in 'bold' so it is easily picked out. My extract from The Hunting of the Snark links to "thimble" in Heather's extract from Skimbleshanks, which links to word "whisper" in the extract from the previous poem, Chivalry. The rules are explained in the very forst post of the thread. 

 

I think maybe you haven't quite got it, as  I can't find the word "windowsill" in The Hunting of the Snark, so couldn't see how they link together. Perhaps you thought you needed to find another poem with the "bold" word in it, as I see that "thimbles" appears in your choice. I think that would make the game far too difficult. 

 

No, any word from the previous extract will do as the link, except the one that has been printed in bold.

 

It's great that you are joining in, numbers here have become decidedly thin, so would you like to have another try? There are a couple of words in your very interesting poem that are also in The H of the S, so you could use one of them as the link.

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10 hours ago, megustaleer said:

Each poem should link to the previous one by a common word, and that word is put in 'bold' so it is easily picked out. My extract from The Hunting of the Snark links to "thimble" in Heather's extract from Skimbleshanks, which links to word "whisper" in the extract from the previous poem, Chivalry. The rules are explained in the very forst post of the thread. 

 

I think maybe you haven't quite got it, as  I can't find the word "windowsill" in The Hunting of the Snark, so couldn't see how they link together. Perhaps you thought you needed to find another poem with the "bold" word in it, as I see that "thimbles" appears in your choice. I think that would make the game far too difficult. 

 

No, any word from the previous extract will do as the link, except the one that has been printed in bold.

 

It's great that you are joining in, numbers here have become decidedly thin, so would you like to have another try? There are a couple of words in your very interesting poem that are also in The H of the S, so you could use one of them as the link.

 

Thank you Meg, that makes sense now.  I did read the instructions but did not understand them.  I chose that poem because it had the word thimbles in it and thought that I had to nominate a new word to link.   I'll alter the word in bold and try again.

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Excellent!  Now here's an old favourite of mine:

 

 

O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!

Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?

And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"-

"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

 

-"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,

Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;

And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"-

"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

 

-"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'

And 'thik oon' and 'theäs oon' and 't'other'; but now

Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compan-ny!"-

"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

 

-"Your hands were like paws then, you face blue and bleak

But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,

And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"-

"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

 

-"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,

And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem

To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"-

"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

 

-"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,

And a delicate face, and could strut about Town"-

"My dear - raw country girl, such as you be,

Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she

 

The Ruined Maid - Thomas Hardy

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That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
   This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
   To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

 

Shakespeare - 'Sonnet LXXIII'

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NEVER shall a young man,
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.'


'But I can get a hair-dye
And set such colour there,
Brown, or black, or carrot,
That young men in despair
May love me for myself alone
And not my yellow hair.'


'I heard an old religious man
But yesternight declare
That he had found a text to prove
That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.' 

 

For Anne Gregory - W B Yeats

 

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Ramparts of Montségur (Rannaigheacht Bheag, Old-School)

 

Time’s proud haze beholds ramparts
manned bravely by bold Cathars—
of cleansed souls, the voiced vanguard,
their tense choice, to stand stalwart!

Reprise not what twists torture
history’s close-cropped corners.
Stirred to protect bashed borders,
the ‘Perfect’ were not warriors.

Yet they inspired spent forces
to defend their fire’s fortress—
wisdom’s cache a caught corpus,
lives bought by gash of gorges.

Finally, what lurked below
climbed to curb that mount remote.
Hate’s loud blaze vilely revoked
those lives time’s proud haze beholds.

 

Gary Kent Spain

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Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

 

Holy Sonnet 10 by John Donne

 

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’Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain
  When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,
And mute’s the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,
  And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.

 

I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,
  The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;
And from the cave of oracles I hear the priestess shrieking
  That she and I should surely die and never live again.

 

Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;
  But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.
’Tis true there’s better boose than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;
  And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.

 

The king with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;
  Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air.
And he that stands must die for nought, and home there’s no returning.
  The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.

 

A.E.Housman - 'The Oracles'

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SCENE I. A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron.

 

Thunder. Enter the three Witches

 

First Witch

Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.

Second Witch

Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.

Third Witch

Harpier cries 'Tis time, 'tis time.

 

First Witch

Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.

 

ALL

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Second Witch

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and owlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

 

ALL

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

 

Third Witch

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches' mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Silver'd in the moon's eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

 

ALL

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Second Witch

Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

 

Enter HECATE to the other three Witches

 

HECATE

O well done! I commend your pains;
And every one shall share i' the gains;
And now about the cauldron sing,
Live elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in.

 

Music and a song: 'Black spirits,' & c

 

HECATE retires

 

Second Witch

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,
Whoever knocks!

 

Enter Macbeth

 

Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 3.  William Shakespeare

Edited by lunababymoonchild

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the third witch's part is rather politically incorrect now, to say the least:quiver:

 

Now I know where Alan Bradley got the title of one of his Flavia de Luce books though.

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Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?

Six days of the week it soils
With its sickening poison -
Just for paying a few bills!
That's out of proportion.

Lots of folk live on their wits:
Lecturers, lispers,
Losels, loblolly-men, louts-
They don't end as paupers;

Lots of folk live up lanes
With fires in a bucket,
Eat windfalls and tinned sardines-
They seem to like it.

Their nippers have got bare feet,
Their unspeakable wives
Are skinny as whippets - and yet
No one actually starves.

Ah, were I courageous enough
To shout Stuff your pension!
But I know, all too well, that's the stuff
That dreams are made on:

For something sufficiently toad-like
Squats in me, too;
Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck,
And cold as snow,

And will never allow me to blarney
My way of getting
The fame and the girl and the money
All at one sitting.

I don't say, one bodies the other
One's spiritual truth;
But I do say it's hard to lose either,
When you have both.

 

Philip Larkin - 'Toads'

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Boys dream of native girls who bring breadfruit,
    Whatever they are,
As bribes to teach them how to execute
Sixteen sexual positions on the sand;
This makes them join (the boys) the tennis club,
Jive at the Mecca, use deodorants, and
On Saturdays squire ex-schoolgirls to the pub
    By private car.

Such uncorrected visions end in church
    Or registrar:
A mortgaged semi- with a silver birch;
Nippers; the widowed mum; having to scheme
With money; illness; age. So absolute
Maturity falls, when old men sit and dream
Of naked native girls who bring breadfruit
    Whatever they are.
 
Breadfruit - Philip Larkin

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Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas - 1914-1953

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

 

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

 

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

 

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

 

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

 

From: Digging - Seamus Heaney

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Remote and ineffectual Don
That dared attack my Chesterton,   
With that poor weapon, half-impelled,   
Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held,   
Unworthy for a tilt with men—
Your quavering and corroded pen;   
Don poor at Bed and worse at Table,
Don pinched, Don starved, Don miserable;   
Don stuttering, Don with roving eyes,   
Don nervous, Don of crudities;   
Don clerical, Don ordinary,
Don self-absorbed and solitary;   
Don here-and-there, Don epileptic;   
Don puffed and empty, Don dyspeptic;   
Don middle-class, Don sycophantic,   
Don dull, Don brutish, Don pedantic;
Don hypocritical, Don bad,
Don furtive, Don three-quarters mad;   
Don (since a man must make an end),   
Don that shall never be my friend.
 
*       *       *
 
Don different from those regal Dons!   
With hearts of gold and lungs of bronze,   
Who shout and bang and roar and bawl   
The Absolute across the hall,   
Or sail in amply billowing gown   
Enormous through the Sacred Town,   
Bearing from College to their homes   
Deep cargoes of gigantic tomes;   
Dons admirable! Dons of Might!   
Uprising on my inward sight   
Compact of ancient tales, and port   
And sleep—and learning of a sort.   
Dons English, worthy of the land;   
Dons rooted; Dons that understand.   
Good Dons perpetual that remain   
A landmark, walling in the plain—
The horizon of my memories—   
Like large and comfortable trees.
 
*       *       *
 
Don very much apart from these,
Thou scapegoat Don, thou Don devoted,   
Don to thine own damnation quoted,   
Perplexed to find thy trivial name   
Reared in my verse to lasting shame.   
Don dreadful, rasping Don and wearing,   
Repulsive Don—Don past all bearing.
Don of the cold and doubtful breath,   
Don despicable, Don of death;   
Don nasty, skimpy, silent, level;   
Don evil; Don that serves the devil.   
Don ugly—that makes fifty lines.   
There is a Canon which confines   
A Rhymed Octosyllabic Curse   
If written in Iambic Verse
To fifty lines. I never cut;
I far prefer to end it—but
Believe me I shall soon return.
My fires are banked, but still they burn   
To write some more about the Don   
That dared attack my Chesterton.
 
Hilaire Belloc - 'Lines to a Don'

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And who, when it comes to the crunch, can live

with a heart of gold? That night, I dreamt I bore

his child, its perfect ore limbs, its little tongue

like a precious latch, its amber eyes

holding their pupils like flies. My dream milk

burned in my breasts. I woke to the streaming sun.

 

So he had to move out. We’d a caravan

in the wilds, in a glade of its own. I drove him up

under the cover of dark. He sat in the back.

And then I came home, the woman who married the fool

who wished for gold. At first, I visited, odd times,

parking the car a good way off, then walking.

 

You knew you were getting close. Golden trout

on the grass. One day, a hare hung from a larch,

a beautiful lemon mistake. And then his footprints,

glistening next to the river’s path. He was thin,

delirious; hearing, he said, the music of Pan

from the woods. Listen. That was the last straw.

 

From Mrs Midas - Carol Ann Duffy

 

 

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I kept you in bed with me so many nights,
certain I could hold the life into you,
certain that the life in you wanted to leap out, hare-like,
go bobbing off into some night-field.
For want of more eyes, more arms
I strapped you to me while I did the dishes, cooked, typed,
your little legs frogging
against the deflating dune of your first home.
Nested you in a car seat while I showered, dressed,
and when you breastfed for hours and hours
I learned how to manoeuvre the cup and book around you.
Time and friends and attitudes, too.
We moved breakables a height, no glass tables.
Fitted locks to the kitchen cupboards, door jammers,
argued about screws and pills someone left within reach.
I’ll not tell you how my breath left me, how my heart stopped
at your stillness in the cot, and who I became
when at last you moved. There is no telling
what skins of me have dropped and shed in the fears
I’ve entered. What I will say is that the day
beyond these blankets, beyond our door
is known to me now, fragile as moth-scurf,
its long ears twitching, alert,
white tail winking across the night-field.

 

Carolyn Jess-Cooke - 'Hare'

 

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In Winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle light.
In Summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

 

Bed In Summer

By Robert Louis Stevenson

Edited by lunababymoonchild

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How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;
The village street its haunted mansion lacks,
And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name,
And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks—
Are ye too changed, ye hills?
See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men
To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays!
Here came I often, often, in old days—
Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.
 
Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm,
Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns
The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames?
The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs,
The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames?—
This winter-eve is warm,
Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring,
The tender purple spray on copse and briers!
And that sweet city with her dreaming spires,
She needs not June for beauty's heightening,
 
Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!—
Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power
Befalls me wandering through this upland dim.
Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour;
Now seldom come I, since I came with him.
That single elm-tree bright
Against the west—I miss it! is it gone?
We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said,
Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead;
While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.
 
Matthew Arnold - from 'Thyrsis: a Monody, to Commemorate the Author's Friend, Arthur Hugh Clough'
 

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Old elm that murmured in our chimney top

The sweetest anthem autumn ever made

And into mellow whispering calms would drop

When showers fell on thy many coloured shade

And when dark tempests mimic thunder made -

While darkness came as it would strangle light

With the black tempest of a winter night

That rocked thee like a cradle in thy root -

How did I love to hear the winds upbraid

Thy strength without - while all within was mute.

It seasoned comfort to our hearts' desire,

We felt that kind protection like a friend

And edged our chairs up closer to the fire,

Enjoying comfort that was never penned.

Old favourite tree, thou'st seen time's changes lower,

Though change till now did never injure thee;

For time beheld thee as her sacred dower

And nature claimed thee her domestic tree.

 

From The Fallen Elm by John Clare

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Sonnet VI

 

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

 

William Shakespeare

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