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Posts
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oh the prose and poets of the Industrial revolution.. i loved TB dickensian part.
i wish to discuss the things that evolve . and im a great Cartright lover..of working Mills now get fucked as IM a bairn o Jute city
:) :)
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
“The breath goes now,” and some say, “No,”So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
‘Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.Moving of the earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.Dull sublunary lovers’ love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.But we, by a love so much refined
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion.
Like gold to airy thinness beat.If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two:
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other do;And though it in the center sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like the other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
John Donne
if a beautiful song would be
sufficient to let it rain love
one could sing it a million
a million times
if it would be sufficient already
there would be no need to learn
as much to love more…if a real song would be sufficient
to convince the others
one could sing it louder,
because they are so many
if it were like this
there would be no need to strive
to get heard more…if a good song would be sufficient
to give a hand
one could find it in the heart
without going far
if it would be sufficient already
there would be no need
to ask for mercy…dedicated to all those that
are being put aside
dedicated to all those that
have not received anything yet
and that continuously live marginally
dedicated to all those that
are waiting
dedicated to all those that
remain dreamers and therefore will
always find themselves lonely…if a great song would be sufficient
to talk about peace
one could call it by name
adding a voice
and yet another one
until it becomes one colour
more vivid than ever…dedicated to all those that
are being put aside
dedicated to all those that
have tried to invent
a song to change
dedicated to all those that
are waiting
dedicated to all those that
showed up with too much wind and
in whom time has stopped running…
dedicated to all those that
in every sense
have believed, have searched and
have wanted that it were like this…The Listeners
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
‘Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.— Walter De La Mare
A Song of Enchantment
A song of Enchantment I sang me there,
In a green-green wood, by waters fair,
Just as the words came up to me
I sang it under the wild wood tree.Widdershins turned I, singing it low,
Watching the wild birds come and go;
No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen
Under the thick-thatched branches green.Twilight came: silence came:
The planet of Evening’s silver flame;
By darkening paths I wandered through
Thickets trembling with drops of dew.But the music is lost and the words are gone
Of the song I sang as I sat alone,
Ages and ages have fallen on me –
On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.Walter de la Mare
All That’s Past
Very old are the woods;
And the buds that break
Out of the brier’s boughs,
When March winds wake,
So old with their beauty are–
Oh, no man knows
Through what wild centuries
Roves back the rose.
Very old are the brooks;
And the rills that rise
Where snow sleeps cold beneath
The azure skies
Sing such a history
Of come and gone,
Their every drop is as wise
As Solomon.Very old are we men;
Our dreams are tales
Told in dim Eden
By Eve’s nightingales;
We wake and whisper awhile,
But, the day gone by,
Silence and sleep like fields
Of amaranth lie.Walter de la Mare
Off the Ground
Three jolly Farmers
Once bet a pound
Each dance the others would
Off the ground.
Out of their coats
They slipped right soon,
And neat and nicesome
Put each his shoon.
One–Two–Three!
And away they go,
Not too fast,
And not too slow;
Out from the elm-tree’s
Noonday shadow,
Into the sun
And across the meadow.
Past the schoolroom,
With knees well bent,
Fingers a flicking,
They dancing went.
Up sides and over,
And round and round,
They crossed click-clacking
The Parish bound;
By Tupman’s meadow
They did their mile,
Tee-to-tum
On a three-barred stile.
Then straight through Whipham,
Downhill to Week,
Footing it lightsome,
But not too quick,
Up fields to Watchet
And on through Wye,
Till seven fine churches
They’d seen slip by —
Seven fine churches,
And five old mills,
Farms in the valley,
And sheep on the hills;
Old Man’s Acre
And Dead Man’s Pool
All left behind,
As they danced through Wool.
And Wool gone by,
Like tops that seem
To spin in sleep
They danced in dream:
Withy — Wellover —
Wassop — Wo —
Like an old clock
Their heels did go.
A league and a league
And a league they went,
And not one weary,
And not one spent.
And log, and behold!
Past Willow-cum-Leigh
Stretched with its waters
The great green sea.
Says Farmer Bates,
‘I puffs and I blows,
What’s under the water,
Why, no man knows !’
Says Farmer Giles,
‘My mind comes weak,
And a good man drownded
Is far to seek. ‘
But Farmer Turvey,
On twirling toes,
Up’s with his gaiters,
And in he goes:
Down where the mermaids
Pluck and play
On their twangling harps
In a sea-green day;
Down where the mermaids
Finned and fair,
Sleek with their combs
Their yellow hair. . . .
Bates and Giles —
On the shingle sat,
Gazing at Turvey’s
Floating hat.
But never a ripple
Nor bubble told
Where he was supping
Off plates of gold.
Never an echo
Rilled through the sea
Of the feasting and dancing
And minstrelsy.
They called — called — called;
Came no reply:
Nought but the ripples’
Sandy sigh.
Then glum and silent
They sat instead,
Vacantly brooding
On home and bed,
Till both together
Stood up and said: —
‘Us knows not, dreams not,
Where you be,
Turvey, unless
In the deep blue sea;
But axcusing silver —
And it comes most willing —
Here’s us two paying our forty shilling;
For it’s sartin sure, Turvey,
Safe and sound,
You danced us a square, Turvey,
Off the ground.’Walter de la Mare
A 500 Line Poem
A 500 line poem, that’s what I will do
Ah stuff it all, lost train of thought, settle for only Twoduncan wyllie
Miss Loo
When thin-strewn memory I look through,
I see most clearly poor Miss Loo,
Her tabby cat, her cage of birds,
Her nose, her hair — her muffled words,
And how she’d open her green eyes,
As if in some immense surprise,
Whenever as we sat at tea,
She made some small remark to me.It’s always drowsy summer when
From out the past she comes again;
The westering sunshine in a pool
Floats in her parlour still and cool;
While the slim bird its lean wires shakes,
As into piercing song it breaks
Till Peter’s pale-green eyes ajar
Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar;
And I am sitting , dull and shy
And she with gaze of vacancy,
And large hands folded on the tray,
Musing the afternoon away;
Her satin bosom heaving slow
With sighs that softly ebb and flow,
And her plain face in such dismay,
It seems unkind to look her way:
Until all cheerful back will come
Her cheerful gleaming spirit home:
And one would think that poor Miss Loo
Asked nothing else, if she had you.Walter de la Mare
Good-bye
The last of last words spoken is, Good-bye –
The last dismantled flower in the weed-grown hedge,
The last thin rumour of a feeble bell far ringing,
The last blind rat to spurn the mildewed rye.A hardening darkness glasses the haunted eye,
Shines into nothing the watcher’s burnt-out candle,
Wreathes into scentless nothing the wasting incense,
Faints in the outer silence the hunting-cry.Love of its muted music breathes no sigh,
Thought in her ivory tower gropes in her spinning,
Toss on in vain the whispering trees of Eden,
Last of all last words spoken is, Good-bye.Walter de la Mare
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