To derive the greatest solace from the poetry of Ronsard one must read him lying on the banks of the Loire, at about sunset of a June evening, upon the grass, with a flask of the wine of Vouvray, or Chinon, or Bourgeuil at hand; and with the soft air and the murmur of a flowing water there should be mixed the gracious voices of girls.
Rabelais must be read among the rich lands of the Chinonais in Touraine, on the edge of a white road with cornfields and vineyards on either side. But let there be a farmyard near, with a ripe and aromatic muckheap in it, the scent of which must be borne to you on the wind; and let there also be loud bursts of rustic laughter and a bottle of Chinon.
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Most illustrious good tosspots, and you, most precious gouty ones, there is in the little old town of Chinon, on the River Vienne, in Touraine, a house from whose upper window the great Francois Rabelais fished for lamprey in the year 1504..... They have marked the house with a signboard in blue and gold, to the comfort and enlargement of all true men and the downcasting, bafflement, and confusion of pedants, fools, and those who deny the verities....
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Higgledy-piggledy / Thomas Stearns Eliot
Made a whole poem to / Carry one word.
What was it now? Poly / Philoprogenitive.
I do not like it. / I think it absurd.
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Once, as old Lord Gorbals motored / Round his moors near John O' Groats
He collided with a goatherd / And a herd of 40 goats.
By the time his car got through / They were all defunct but two.
Roughly he addressed the goatherd: / "Dash my whiskers and my corns!
Can't you teach your goats, you dotard / That they ought to sound their horns?
Look! My AA badge is bent! / I've a mind to raise your rent!"
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King Charles the First to Parliament came / Five good Parliament men to claim
King Charles he had them each by name.
Denzyl Holles and Jonathan Pym / And William Strode and after him / Arthur Hazelrigg Esquire
And Hampden, Gent, of Buckinghamshire.
The man at the gate said 'Tickets, please' / Said Charles, 'I've come for the five M.Ps.'
The Porter said 'Which?' and Charles said 'These:
Denzyl Holles and Jonathan Pym / And William Strode and after him / Arthur Hazelrigg Esquire
And Hampden, Gent, of Buckinghamshire.'
In at the great front door he went / The great front door of Parliament
While, out at the back with one consent
Went Denzyl Holles and Jonathan Pym / And William Strode and after him / Arthur Hazelrigg Esquire
And Hampden, Gent, of Buckinghamshire.
Into the street strode Charles the First / His nose was high and his lips were pursed,
While, laugh till their rebel sides near burst, did
Denzyl Holles and Jonathan Pym / And William Strode and after him / Arthur Hazelrigg Esquire
And Hampden, Gent, of Buckinghamshire.
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Dog Days
Monday's dog is slim and swift
Tuesday's dog is hard to lift
Wednesday's dog acts like the dickens
Thursday's dog goes after the chickens
Friday's dog has a golden heart
Saturday's dog is inclined to fart
But the dog who is born on the Sabbath day
Is waggy and licky and good and gay.
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Aegean afternoon
Beneath the kite-encumbered sky / There reigns a silence in the heat
Which natives here would classify / As tense, unbroken and complete.
An Asia Minor refugee / Wails a nostalgic Turkish song.
The priest at the Asomatoi / Is beating on a wooden gong
And fishermen far out to sea / Are dynamiting all day long.
In the spongeshop Vassilias / Gives a deep, responsive snore
As the steamer from Piraeus, / Hooting loudly, nears the shore.
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Birthright
Lord Rameses of Egypt sighed
Because a summer evening passed;
And little Ariadne cried
That summer fancy fell at last
To dust; and young Verona died
When beauty’s hour was overcast.
Theirs was the bitterness we know
Because the clouds of hawthorn keep
So short a state, and kisses go
To tombs unfathomably deep,
While Rameses and Romeo
And little Ariadne sleep.
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Who heard the sirens?
Who heard the sirens first?
It was the watchers in the docks.
They swayed in the breeze like hollyhocks
Until the all-clear burst...
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To the City of London
London, thou art of townes A per se / Soveraign of cities, semeliest in sight,
Of high renoun, riches, and royaltie / Of lordis, barons, and many a goodly knyght;
Of most delectable lusty ladies bright / Of famous prelatis in habitis clericall;
Of merchauntis full of substaunce and of might / London, thou art the flour of Cities all....
Gladdith anon thou lusty Troy novaunt, / Citie that some tyme cleped was New Troy,
In all the erth, imperiall as thou stant, / Pryncesse of townes, of pleasure, and of joy,
A richer restith under no Christen roy; / For manly power, with craftis naturall,
Fourmeth none fairer sith the flood of Noy: / London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Gemme of all joy, jasper of jocunditie, / Most myghty carbuncle of vertue and valour;
Strong Troy in vigour and in strenuytie; / Of royall cities rose and geraflour;
Empresse of townes, exalt in honour; / In beawtie beryng the crone imperiall;
Swete paradise precelling in pleasure: / London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Above all ryvers thy Ryver hath renowne, / Whose beryall stremys, pleasaunt and preclare,
Under thy lusty wallys renneth down, / Where many a swanne doth swymme with wyngis
fair;
Where many a barge doth saile, and row with are, / Where many a ship doth rest with toppe-royall.
O! towne of townes, patrone and not compare: / London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Upon thy lusty Brigge of pylers white / Been merchauntis full royall to behold;
Upon the stretis goth many a semely knight / In velvet gownes and in cheynes of gold.
By Julyus Cesar the Tour founded of old / May be the hous of Mars victoryall,
Whose artillary with tonge may not be told / London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Strong be thy wallis that about the standis;/ Wise be the people that within the dwellis;
Fresh is thy ryver with his lusty strandis; / Blyth be thy chirches, wele sownyng be thy bellis;
Rich be thy merchauntis in substaunce that excellis; / Fair be their wives, right lovesom, white and small;
Clere be thy virgins, lusty under kellis: / London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Thy famous Maire, by pryncely governaunce / With swerd of justice the rulith prudently.
No Lord of Parys, Venyce, or Floraunce / In dygnitie or honoure goeth to him nye.
He is exempler, loode-ster, and guye / Pryncipall patrone and roose orygynalle,
Above all Maires as maister moost worthy / London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
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Finchley Central
Finchley Central / Is two and sixpence
From Golders Green on the Northern Line,
And on the platform / By the kiosk
That's where you said you'd be mine.
There we made a date
For hours I wait
ed, but I'm blowed / She never showed.
At Finchley Central / Ten long stations
From Golders Green change at Camden Town;
I thought I'd made you / But I'm afraid you
Really let me down.
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The farmers of Aylesbury
The farmers of Aylesbury gathered to dine,
And they ate their prime beef, and they drank their old wine,
With the wine there was beer, with the beer there was bacca,
The liquors went round and the banquet was crowned
With some thundering news from the Straits of Malacca.
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Clarendon on John Hampden
When this parliament began, the eyes of all men were fixed on him as their Patriae pater, and the pilot that must steer their vessel through the tempests and rocks which threatened it. And I am persuaded his power and interest at that time was greater to do good or hurt than any man’s in the kingdom, or any man of his rank hath had in any time: for his reputation for honesty was universal, and his affections seemed so publicly guided that no corrupt or private ends could bias them.
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Understudies
The Cheltenham Cricket Festival Fringe / Unravelled on a long green lawn
Under a house of weathered brick / That rose in the year my father was born.
The Henry brothers in Fifties summers / That memory vows had never a cloud
Were batsman, bowler, fieldsman, umpire, / Scorer, commentator, and crowd.
The Henry brothers, Michael and John, / Were the whole alternative Gloucestershire side
And all of the loyal opposition / From early May till the Summer died.
Enormous poppies as dark as peonies / Softly split in the tall green light
Of the chestnut tree with its candles glowing / From close of play to the birth of night.
And still it guards, that herbaceous boundary, / Festival games as true as then.
The Fringe is on with defiant cricketers, / Boys disguised as middle-aged men ...
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The Lost Chord
Seated one day at the organ
I jumped as if I'd been shot,
For the Dean was upon me, snarling
'Stainer - and make it hot.'
All week I swung Stainer and Barnby,
Bach, Gounod, and Bunnett in A;
I said, 'Gosh, the old bus is a wonder!'
The Dean, with a nod, said 'Okay'.
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George Ridler's Oven
The stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns....
The stwuns that built George Ridler's oven / And thauy quem from the Bleakeney's Quarr;
And Gaarge he were a jolly ould mon / And his yead it graw'd above his yare.
My dog is good to catch a hen / A duck and goose is vood vor men;
And where good company I spy / Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I.
Droo aal the world, owld Gaarge would bwoast / Commend me to merry owld England mwoast;
While vools gwoes scramblin' vur and nigh / We bides at whoam, my dog and I.
Ov their furrin tongues let travellers brag / Wi' their vifteen neames vor a puddin' bag;
Two tongues I knows ne'er towld a lie / And their wearers be my dog and I.
My mwother told I when I wur young / If I did vollow the strong beer pwoot,
That drenk would pruv my auverdrow / And meauk me wear a threadbare cwoat.
When I have dree sixpences under my thumb / Oh, then I be welcome wherever I qeum;
But when I hev none, oh, then I pass by / 'Tis poverty pearts good company.
When I gwoes dead, as it may hap / My greauve shall be under the good yeal tap.
In voulded earms there wool us lie / Cheek by jowl, my dog and I.
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Elegy for Mr. Goodbeare
Do you remember Mr. Goodbeare, / Mr. Goodbeare, who never touched a cup?
Do you remember Mr. Goodbeare, / Who remembered a lot?
Mr. Goodbeare could remember / When “things were properly kept up”:
Mr. Goodbeare could remember / The christening and the coming-of-age:
Mr. Goodbeare could remember / The entire and roasted ox:
Mr. Goodbeare could remember / When the horses filled the stable,
And the port-wine-coloured gentry rode after the tawny fox.
Mr. Goodbeare could remember / The old lady in her eagle rage
Which knew no bounds:
Mr. Goodbeare could remember / When the escaped and hungering tiger
Flicked lithe and fierce through Foxton Wood, / When young Sir Nigel took his red-tongued, clamouring hounds,
And hunted it then and there / As a Gentleman should.....
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L’important c’est la rose
Toi qui marches dans le vent / Seul dans la trop grande ville
Avec le cafard tranquille du passant
Toi qu'elle a laissé tomber / Pour courir vers d'autres lunes
Pour courir d'autres fortunes / L'important...
L'important c'est la rose
L'important c'est la rose
L'important c'est la rose
Crois-moi
Toi qui cherches quelque argent / Pour te boucler la semaine
Dans la ville tu promènes ton ballant
Cascadeur, soleil couchant / Tu passes devant les banques
Si tu n'es que saltimbanque / L'important...
Toi pour qui, donnant-donnant / J'ai chanté ces quelques lignes
Comme pour te faire un signe en passant
Dis à ton tour maintenant / Que la vie n'a d'importance
Que par une fleur qui danse / Sur le temps...
L'important c'est la rose
L'important c'est la rose
L'important c'est la rose
Crois-moi
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The shades of night
The shades of night were falling fast / And the rain was falling faster,
When through an Alpine village passed / An Alpine village pastor:
A youth who bore mid snow and ice / A bird that wouldn't chirrup,
And a banner with a strange device - / `Mrs Winslow's soothing syrup.'
`Beware the pass,' the old man said, / `My bold, my desperate fellah;
Dark lowers the tempest overhead, / And you'll want your umberella;
And the roaring torrent is deep and wide - / You may hear how loud it washes.'
But still that clarion voice replied: / `I've got my old galoshes.'
`Oh stay,' the maiden said, `and rest / (For the wind blows from the nor'ward)
Thy weary head upon my breast - / And please don't think I'm forward.'
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, / And he gladly would have tarried;
But still he answered with a sigh: / 'Unhappily I'm married.'
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The hourglass whispers to the lion's roar
The hourglass whispers to the lion's roar, / The clock-towers tell the gardens day and night
How many errors time has patience for, / How wrong they are in being always right.
Yet Time, however loud its chimes or deep, / However fast its falling torrent flows,
Has never put the lion off his leap / Nor shaken the assurance of the rose.
For they, it seems, care only for success: / While we choose words according to their sound,
And judge a problem by its awkwardness;
And Time with us was always popular.
When have we not preferred some going round / To going straight to where we are?
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Quand vous serez bien vieille
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise aupres du feu, devidant et filant,
Direz chantant mes vers, en vous esmerveillant:
Ronsard me celebroit du temps que j'estois belle.
Lors vous n'aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Desja sous le labeur à demy sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s'aille resveillant,
Benissant vostre nom de louange immortelle.
Je seray sous la terre, et fantosme sans os
Par les ombres myrteux je prendray mon repos:
Vous serez au fouyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour et vostre fier desdain.
Vivez, si m'en croyez, n'attendez à demain:
Ceuillez dés aujourd'huy les roses de la vie.
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The wine they drink in ParadiseThe wine they drink in Paradise / They make in Haute Lorraine;
God brought it burning from the sod / To be a sign and signal rod
That they that drink the blood of God / Shall never thirst again.
The wine they praise in Paradise / They make in Ponterey,
The purple wine of Paradise, / But we have better at the price;
It's wine they praise in Paradise, / It's cider that they pray.
The wine they want in Paradise / They find in Plodder's End,
The apple wine of Hereford, / Of Hafod Hill and Hereford,
Where woods went down to Hereford, / And there I had a friend.
The soft feet of the blessed go / In the soft western vales,
The road the silent saints accord, / The road from heaven to Hereford,
Where the apple wood of Hereford / Goes all the way to Wales.
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Populist manifesto 1976… Poetry the common carrier
for the transportation of the public
to higher places
than other wheels can carry it.
Poetry still falls from the skies
into our streets still open.
They haven’t put up the barricades, yet,
the streets still alive with faces,
lovely men & women still walking there,
still lovely creatures everywhere,
in the eyes of all the secret of all
still buried there,
Whitman’s wild children still sleeping there,
Awake and sing in the open air.
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Censorship, December 1940
A poem in the Chinese style.
To Hsiao Ch'ien
I have been a censor for fifteen months:
The building where I work has four times been bombed.
Glass, boards and paper, each in turn,
Have been blasted from the windows – where windows are left at all.
It is not easy to wash, Keep warm and eat;
At times we lack gas, water or light.
The rules for censors are difficult to keep;
In six months there were over a thousand 'stops'.
The Air Raid Bible alters from day to day;
Official orders are not clearly expressed.
One may mention Harrods, but not Derry and Toms;
One may write of mist, but may not write of rain.
Japanese scribbled on thin paper
In faint scrawls tires the eyes to read.
In a small room with ten telephones
And a tape-machine concentration is hard,
Yet the Blue Pencil is a mere toy to wield.
There are worse knots than the tangles of Red Tape.
It is not difficult to censor foreign news.
What is hard to-day is to censor one's own thoughts. -
To sit by and see the blind man
On the sightless horse, riding into the bottomless abyss.
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Die Lorelei
Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten / Das ich so traurig bin;
Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten, / Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.
Die Luft ist kühl, und es dunkelt, / und ruhig fliesst der Rhein;
Der Gipfel des Berges funkelt / Im Abendsonnenschein.
Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet / Dort oben wunderbar,
Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet, / Sie kämmt ihr goldenes Haar.
Sie kämmt es mit goldene Kamme / Und singt ein Lied dabei;
Das hat eine wundersame, / Gewaltige Melodei.
Den Schiffer im kleinen Schiffe / Ergreift es mit wildem Weh;
Er schaut nicht die Felsenriffe, / Er schaut nur hinauf in die Hoh’.
Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen / Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn;
Und das hat mit ihrem Singen / Die Lorelei getan.
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I wisht I was in PeoriaS.O S., S.O.S., Captain we are lost,
Our ship is wallowing in the sea, by wind and wave we're tossed,
Lifeboats here, lifeboats there, hear the shrieks and groans,
The captain cries "All hands on deck!" and says in trembling tones:
"Oh, how I wish't I was in Peoria, Peoria tonight.
Oh how I miss the gals in Peoria, Peoria, tonight.
Oh you can pick a morning gloria right off the sidewalks of Peoria.
Oh, how I wish't I was in Peoria, Peoria tonight...."
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The Argument of the 15th SongThe guests heere to the Bride-house hie.
The goodly Vale of Al'sbury
Sets her sonne (Tame) forth, brave as May,
Upon the joyfull wedding day:
Who, dekt up tow'rds his Bride is gone.
So lovely Isis comming on,
At Oxford all the Muses greet her.
And with a
Prothalamion greet her.
The Nymphs are in the Bridall Bowres,
Some strowing sweets, some sorting flowres:
Where lustie Charwell himself raises,
And sings of Rivers, and their praises.
Then Tames his way tow'rd Windsore tends.
Thus, with the song, the Mariage ends.
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The New Cottages by the oldest inhabitant of the village of WhittingtonHow pleasant the new cottages stand,
Facing the park and the green meadow land!
In the village below the chestnut row,
Near the road & village green,
And plainly to be seen.
They command an excellent view
Of Whittington Court & the village church too;
They stand a little higher than the old ones do,
And were built by the Rector in 1902
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Belle EremborQuant vient en mai que l'on dit as lons jors, / Que Franc de France repairent de roi cort,
Reynauz repaire devant el premier front, / Si s'en passa les lo meis Erembor,
Ainz n'en dengna le chief drecier amont.
E! Reynaut amis!
Bele Erembors a la fenestre au jor / Sor sez genolz tient paile de color.
Voit Frans de France qui repairent de cort / E voit Reynaut devant el premier front.
En haut parole, si a dit sa raison:
«E! Reynaut amis!»
«Amis Reynaut, j'ai ja veü cel jor, / Se passisoiz selon mon pere tor,
Dolanz fussiez se ne parlasse a vos. / - Jal mesfaïstes, fille de l'empereor.
Autrui amastes, si obliastes nos.
- E! Reynaut amis!
«Sire Reynaut, je m'en escondirai; / A cent puceles sor sainz vos jurerai,
A trente dames que avuec moi menrai, / C'oncques nul home fors vostre cors n'aimai.
Prennez l'emmende, et je vos baiserai.
E! Reynaut amis!»
Li cuens Reynauz en monta lo degré. / Gros par espaules, greles par lo baudré,
Blonde ot lo poil, menu recercelé, / En nule terre n'ot si biau bacheler.
Voit l'Erembors, si comence a plorer.
E! Reynaut amis!
Li cuens Reynauz est montez en la tor, / Si s'est asis en un lit point a flors,
Dejoste lui se siet bele Erembors; / Lors recomencent lor premieres amors.
E! Reynaut amis!
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Gates of DamascusFour great gates has the city of Damascus,
And four Grand Wardens, on their spears reclining
All day long stand like tall stone men
And sleep on the towers when the moon is shining.
This is the song of the South Gate Holder,
A silver man, but his song is older.I am the Gate that fears no fall: the Mihrab of Damascus wall,
The bridge of booming Sinai: the Arch of Allah all in all.
O spiritual pilgrim, rise: the night has grown her single horn:
The voices of the souls unborn are half adream with Paradise.
To Meccah thou hast turned in prayer with aching heart and eyes that burn:
Ah, Hajji, whither wilt thou turn when thou art there, when thou art there?
God be thy guide from camp to camp: God be thy shade from well to well;
God grant beneath the desert stars thou hear the Prophet's camel bell.
And God shall make thy body pure, and give thee knowledge to endure
This ghost-life's piercing phantom-pain, and bring thee out to Life again.
And God shall make thy soul a Glass where eighteen thousand Æons pass,
And thou shalt see the gleaming Worlds as men see dew upon the grass.
And, son of Islam, it may be that thou shalt learn at journey's end
Who walks thy garden eve on eve, and bows his head, and calls thee Friend.
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Rondeaux [i]Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluye,
Et s'est vestu de brouderie,
De soleil luyant, cler et beau.
Il n'y a beste, ne oyseau,
Qu'en son jargon me chant ou crie:
Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluye.
Riviere, fontaine et ruisseau
Portent, en livree jolie,
Gouttes d'argent d'orfaverie,
Chascun s'abille de nouveau.
Le temps a laissé son manteau
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Sky-wide an estuary of lightSky-wide an estuary of light / Ebbs amid cloud-banks out of sight.
At her star-anchorage shall swing / Earth, the old freighter, till morning.
Ride above your shadow and trim / Cargo till the stars grow dim;
Weigh then from the windless river; / You've a treasure to deliver.
Behold the incalculable seas / Change face with every cloud and breeze:
But a prime mover works inside, /The constant the integral tide.
Though black-bordered fancies vex / You and veering moods perplex,
Underneath's a current knowing / Well enough what way it's going.
Stroked by their windy shadows lie / The grainlands waving at the sky.
That golden grace must all be shed / To fill granaries, to make bread.
Do not grieve for beauty gone. / Limbs that ran to meet the sun
Lend their lightness to another; / Child shall recreate the mother.
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Symbolum Mercatorum Scissorum ScholaeHomo plantat, homo irrigat, sed Deus dat incrementum.Homo plantat, homo fodit, / Prudens irrigat, custodit,
Sed fovente Deo prodit, / Prodit incrementum.
Semen parvum parvum gramen / Promit, maius deinde stamen,
Post messoribus solamen / Post solamen fit frumentum.
Sit mens culta parvulorum, / Cultior sit seniorum,
At Deus solus laborum / At laborum complementum.
Auge vita nos divina / Da profectus in doctrina;
Nec tuum, Deus, declina, / Nec declina tutamentum.
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The Lord is my ovine stock-operativeThe Lord is my ovine stock-operative:
I shall not suffer any deterioration of subsistence
levels or other diseconomy.
He shall lead me into intensively managed
grassland,
Judiciously fertilised for maximised productivity;
And I shall rest beside irrigation systems
designed to secure minimal growth retardation
in times of high moisture deficiency status.
Yea, though I circumambulate in marginal areas
composed wholly of non-viable units,
I shall be guided by official directions
as to optimum input-output relationships.
He shall anoint my head with antibiotic
and other appropriate medicaments against
louping ill and stert or jumping-itch
And my drench cup, in accordance with the relative
sheep husbandry directions and Statutory
Instruments, shall be full.
A graph pertaining to weight-for-age statistics and
other material data will be laid before me;
And I shall dwell at Great House Experimental
Husbandry Farm for ever.
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The Plough at FordYe weary travelers that pass by,
With dust and scorching sunbeams dry,
Or be benumb'd with snow and frost,
With having these bleak cotswolds crosst,
Step in and quaff my nut-brown ale
Bright as rubys mild and stale,
'Twill make your laging trotters dance
As nimble as the suns of france.
Then ye will own, ye men of sense,
That neare was better spent six pence.
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It's Quite All Right at the Blue AngelLet's meet, my sweet, at the Blue Angel,
Let's make a date for half-past eight tonight;
We can sit there in the gloom
Of that smoky little room
And watch the waiters slowly getting tight -
It's quite all right at the Blue Angel
In spite of all the characters you meet,
And although the cook is always stewed
They say the food is pretty good,
But it's too darn dark to see the things you eat
At the Blue Angel, 14 Berkeley Street.Let's meet, my sweet, at the Blue Angel,
The best-appointed joint in London town,
And their special home-made gin
Makes a lovely Mickey Finn,
And the whisky's only slightly watered down;
It's quite all right at the Blue Angel,
Although the cooling system's obsolete,
If the heat is sometimes too intense
It's always airy in the gents',
So may I recommend you book a seat
At the Blue Angel, 14 Berkeley Street.Let's meet, my sweet, at the Blue Angel,
Let's spend an evening slumming with the crowd,
We can listen to the noise
Of the Barry Morgan boys,
If the music's not so good at least it's loud;
It's quite all right at the Blue Angel,
Where all the hicks can mix with the élite,
And whatever else I'm bound to state
The cabaret is simply great,
That's all we need to make the night complete,
At the Blue Angel, 14 Berkeley Street,
W.1,
At the Blue Angel, 14 Berkeley Street.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Dog Beneath the Skin
I see barns falling, fences broken,
Pasture not ploughland, weeds not wheat.
The great houses remain but only half are inhabited,
Dusty the gunrooms and the stable clocks stationary.
Some have been turned into prep-schools
where the diet is in the hands of an experienced matron,
Others into club-houses for the golf bore and the top-hole.
Those who sang in the inns at evening have departed;
they saw their hope in another country,
Their children have entered the service of the suburban areas;
they have become typists, mannequins and factory operatives;
they desired a different rhythm of life.
But their places are taken by another population, with views about nature,
Brought in charabanc and saloon along arterial roads;
Tourists to whom the Tudor cafés
Offer Bovril and buns upon Breton ware
With leather work as a sideline: Filling stations
Supplying petrol from rustic pumps.
Those who fancy themselves as foxes or desire a special setting for spooning
Erect their villas at the right places,
Airtight, lighted, elaborately warmed;
And nervous people who will never marry
Live upon dividends in the old-world cottages
With an animal for friend or a volume of memoirs.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Percy's ReliquesWhen captaines couragious, whom death could not daunte,
Did march to the seige of the city of Gaunt,
They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,
And formost in battle was Mary Ambree....
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Que sont devenues les fleursQue sont devenues les fleurs du temps qui passe
Que sont devenues les fleurs du temps passé
Les filles les ont coupé elles en ont fait des bouquets
Apprendrons-nous un jour apprendrons-nous jamais
Que sont devenues les filles du temps qui passe
Que sont devenues les filles du temps passé
Elles ont donné leur bouquet aux gars qu'elles
rencontraient
Apprendrons-nous un jour apprendrons-nous jamais
Que sont devenus les gars du temps qui passe
Que sont devenus les gars du temps passé
A la guerre ils sont allés à la guerre ils sont tombés
Apprendrons-nous un jour apprendrons-nous jamais
Que sont devenues les fleurs du temps qui passe
Que sont devenues les fleurs du temps passé
Sur les tombes elles ont poussé d'autres filles les vont
les couper
Apprendrons-nous un jour apprendrons-nous jamais
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Vatican RagFirst you get down on your knees,
Fiddle with your rosaries,
Bow your head with great respect,
And genuflect, genuflect, genuflect!
Do whatever steps you want if
You have cleared them with the Pontiff,
Everyone say his own kyrie eleison
Doin’ the Vatican Rag.
Get in line in that processional,
Step inside that small confessional,
There’s a guy who’s got religion’ll
Tell you if your sin’s original,
If it is, try playin’ it safer,
Drink the wine and chew the wafer,
Two, four, six, eight,
Time to trans-substantiate.
So get down on your knees,
Fiddle with your rosaries,
Bow your head with great respect,
And genuflect, genuflect, genuflect!
Make a cross on your abdomen,
When in Rome do like a Roman,
Ave Maria,
Gee it’s good to see ya,
Gettin’ ecstatic an’
Sorta dramatic an’
Doin’ the Vatican Rag!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The BonfireSpare a tear-drop, gentle reader / For that noble funeral pyre;
Smell the rosewood, sniff the cedar, / Down at Stroud in Gloucestershire;
Listen while the chorus swells / To three hundred sad farewells.
Once their owner used to cherish, / Love them for their perfect tones,
Now upon the fire they perish / Making room for gramophones;
No one keeps pianos now, / Too much trouble anyhow.
Often at an evening party / Would some budding baritone
Sing a ballad with a hearty / Intonation all his own;
While a sweet and blushing maid / Heart a-flutter, softly played.
Edward and his Angelina, / Each upon his stiff-backed chair,
Tinkled out a sonatina, / Stumbled through "The Maiden's Prayer,"
Counting one, two, three or four, / Beating time upon the floor.
When, about the early eighties, / They were sometimes past their best
Little Mary, Janes and Katies / Thumped with unabated zest
Simple melodies in C / To their elders after tea.
In the naughty nineties nimble, / Aunts and uncles used to play
With the children Hunt the Thimble, / Blind Man's Buff and Nuts in May.
Was the old piano flat? / Yes, but good enough for that.
Then how the dashing dancers / Pranced and capered madly round,
Whirling partners in the lancers / Till their feet were off the ground,
And, collapsing on the floor, / Breathlessly would cry, "Encore!"
Can you spare a glance of pity / Gentle reader, as they go
Wreathed in smoke above the city, / In a last fortissimo
Raise perhaps, a feeble cheer / When at last they disappear?
["
Three hundred old pianos were recently burned at Woodchester...." Punch, Sept. 16th 1931]
----------------------------------------------------------------
The Fairies' FarewellFarewell rewards and fairies / Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies / Do fare as well as they.
And though they sweep the hearths no less / Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late for cleanliness / Finds sixpence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old abbeys, / The fairies lost command;
They did but change priests' babies, / But some have changed your land:
And all your children stol'n from thence / Are now grown puritans,
Who live as changelings ever since / For love of your demains.
At morning and at evening both / You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep and sloth / These pretty ladies had;
When Tom came home from labour, / Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily merrily went their tabor, / And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelays / Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days / On many a grassy plain;
But since of late Elizabeth, And later James, came in,
They never danced on any heath / As when the time hath been.
By which we note the fairies / Were of the old profession;
Their songs were Ave Maries, / Their dances were procession;
But now, alas! they are all dead / Or gone beyond the seas,
Or farther for religion fled, / Or else they take their ease......
--------------------------------------------------------
AlysounBytuene Mershe & Averil
When spray biginneth to springe,
The lutel foul hath hire wyl
On hyre lud to singe;
Ich libbe in lovelonginge
For semlokest of alle thynge,
He may me blisse bringe,
Icham in hire baundoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe yhent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen mi love is lent
& lyht on Alysoun.
On heu hire her is fayr ynoh,
Hire browe broune, hire eye blake,
With lossum chere he on me loh:
With middel smal & well ymake;
Bot he me wolle to hire take
Forte buen owen make,
Long to lyven ichulle forsake,
& feye fallen adoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe yhent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen mi love is lent
& lyht on Alysoun.
Nihtes when y wende & wake,
For-thi myn wonges waxeth won;
Leuedi, al for thine sake
Longinge is ylent me on.
In world nis non so wyter mon
That al hire bounté telle con;
Hire swyre is whittore then the swon,
& feyrest may in toune.
An hendy hap ichabbe yhent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen mi love is lent
& lyht on Alysoun.
Icham for wowyng al forwake,
Wery so water in wore;
Lest any reue me my make,
Ychabbe y-yrned yore.
Betere is tholien whyle sore
Then mournen evermore.
Geynest under gore,
Herkne to my roun.
An hendy hap ichabbe yhent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen mi love is lent
& lyht on Alysoun.
-------------------------------------------------
Dimanche a OrlyA l'escalier six, bloc vingt-et-un,
J'habite un très chouette appartement
Que mon père, si tout marche bien,
Aura payé en moins de vingt ans.
On a le confort au maximum,
Un ascenseur et un' sall' de bain.
On a la télé, le téléphone
Et la vue sur Paris, au lointain.
Le dimanche, ma mère fait du rangement
Pendant que mon père, à la télé,
Regarde les sports religieusement
Et moi j'en profit' pour m'en aller.
Je m'en vais l' dimanche à Orly.
Sur l'aéroport, on voit s'envoler
Des avions pour tous les pays.
Pour l'après-midi... J'ai de quoi rêver.
Je me sens des fourmis dans les idées
Quand je rentre chez moi la nuit tombée.
A sept heures vingt-cinq, tous les matins,
Nicole et moi, on prend le métro.
Comme on dort encore, on n'se dit rien
Et chacun s'en va vers ses travaux.
Quand le soir je retrouve mon lit,
J'entends les Bœings chanter là-haut.
Je les aime, mes oiseaux de nuit,
Et j'irai les retrouver bientôt.
Oui j'irai dimanche à Orly.
Sur l'aéroport, on voit s'envoler
Des avions pour tous les pays.
Pour toute une vie... Y a de quoi rêver.
Un jour, de là-haut, le bloc vingt et un
Ne sera qu'un tout petit point.
---------------------------------------------
.If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer - let him step to the music he hears, however measured or far away.
----------------------------------------------------------
Dam and blarst said Mr Salteena flinging aside his wifes prayer book I shall go and see Ethel today. He cheerd up and put on his suit of velvit cote and green knickerbockers. He carefully rubbd the seat part with oderclone witch had gone shiny from horse galloping. He poked the doorbell of Ethels manshon with his riding crop. If this is sin I like it thought Mr Salteena. A maid showed him into a costly room with gay sofas. He helped himself to a large wiskey and took a fat sigar. A lovely vishon came it was Ethel. Mr Salteena sprang to his feet and said egerly I cannot stand ashes and sour grapes any longer come away with me. You filthy beast gasped Ethel the wages of Sin is Deth. She took a little gun from a fringy evenig bag and shot him. Mr Salteena died.
-----------------------------------------------------------
The Spread Eagle at ThameI have not been to Thame,
I live among the Chiltern Hills
Yet have not been to Fothergill’s.
People went and people came
But no, I have not been to Thame.
It is no distance there and back
And there I might meet Bacarach,
That is not any gain or loss
But then of course there’s Helen Gosse....
Oh, that skill of Robert Herrick’s,
Honest praise without hysterics,
Were vouchsafed to modern clerics;
So might I, a motoring metic
Hindered by no qualms ascetic
Duly hymn your wealth claretic.
Me vocant iniqua fata
Ad Swindoniensia strata
Ave, et vale, aquila lata...
The village of Brill
Is built on a hill,
When you stop
At the top
The great thing to do
Is to look at the view
From the mill
That is marked on this map
Produced by a chap
Called John Fothergill.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Egyptian afternoonThe call to prayer is on the air,
The pale-faced tourists stop and stare
At mysteries they cannot share.
The kites are circling overhead
But Beys and Mamelukes are fled
And Russell Pasha, too, is dead.
Long since that beautiful P.A.,
The toast of the Mo' Ali Club,
Has gone on her triumphant way,
Administered her final snub.
Gone the Romans, gone the Greeks,
Gone the soldiers of the Queen,
But the water-wheel still squeaks
A greeting to the fellaheen.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Rural RhymesOliver Wood will never be good
While the trees are made of wood.
But when the trees are made of leather
Oliver Wood will be good for ever.
--------
Dirty Gretton, dingy Greet
Beggarly Winchcombe, Sudeley sweet
Hearts Hall, Whittington Bell
Andoversford – merry Frog Mill
--------
All the devils that are in Hell
Shall never again raise the Notley Great Bell.
--------
At Brill on the Hill the wind blows shrill
The cook no meat can dress;
At Stow on the Wold the wind blows cold.
I know no more than this.
--------
They who live and do abide
Shall see Bledlow church fall in the Lyde.
--------
Sir John Shorne
Gentleman born
Conjured the Devil into a boot.
--------
I went to Noke
But nobody spoke.
I went to Thame
It was just the same.
Burford and Brill
Were silent and still.
But I went to Beckley
And they answered dreckly.
--------
Clunton, Clunbury, Clungenford and Clun
Are the quietest places under the sun.
-------------------------------------------------
Der Reigen (La Ronde)Wenn des Tages Stunden sich neigen
Wenn sich der Liebe Reigen schließt
Lockt der Nächte zärtliches Schweigen
Bis du die ganze Welt vergisst.
Süßes Schweben, süßes Erleben
Führen den Weg ins Himmelreich.
Unter Küssen
Werden wir wissen
Dass diesem Reigen keiner gleicht.
Wenn des Tages Stunden sich neigen
Wirst du der Liebe Ruf versteh'n.
Denn der süße zärtliche Reigen
Macht heute Nacht die Welt so schön.
Tausend Sterne sollen scheinen
Wenn heut' ein Paar zärtlich sich küsst.
Wenn zwei Herzen sich vereinen
Sollen tausend Sterne scheinen
Weil man den Kuss dann nie mehr vergisst!
Wenn des Tages Stunden sich neigen
Wirst du der Liebe Ruf versteh'n.
Denn der süße zärtliche Reigen
Macht heute Nacht die Welt so schön.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The Fiddler of DooneyWhen I play on my fiddle in Dooney
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Maharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With “Here is the fiddler of Dooney!”
And dance like a wave of the sea.
------------------------------------------------------------
Our King and Queen the Lord-God blesseOur King and Queen the Lord-God blesse,
The Paltzgrave and the Lady Besse,
And God blesse every living thing
That Lives, and breath’s, and loves the King.
God blesse the Councell of Estate,
And Buckingham the fortunate.
God Blesse them all, and keepe them safe:
And God Blesse me, and God blesse Raph.
--------------------------------------------------------------
In the restive photocopiersin the restive
photocopiers
incendiary materials
print documents we don’t understand
------------------------------------------------------------------
The South Country When I am living in the Midlands
That are sodden and unkind,
I light my lamp in the evening:
My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind.
The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea;
And it's there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me.
The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day:
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
Their skies are fast and grey;
From their castle-walls a man may see
The mountains far away.
The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong,
A-rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along.
They have the secret of the Rocks,
And the oldest kind of song.
But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise,
They get their laughter from the loud surf,
And the faith in their happy eyes
Come surely from our Sister the Spring
When over the sea she flies;
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet
She blesses us with surprise.
I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air;
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there.
And along the sky the line of the Downs
So noble and so bare.
A lost thing could I never find,
Nor a broken thing mend:
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end.
Who will there be to comfort me
Or who will be my friend?
I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald,
They watch the stars from silent folds,
They stiffly plough the field.
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed.
If I ever become a rich man,
Or if ever I grow to be old,
I will build a house with deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold,
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told.
I will hold my house in the high wood
Within a walk of the sea,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.
--------------------------------------------------------
L'ame des poètes Longtemps, longtemps, longtemps
Après que les poètes ont disparu
Leurs chansons courent encore dans les rues;
La foule les chante un peu distraite
En ignorant le nom de l'auteur,
Sans savoir pour qui battait leur cœur...
Parfois on change un mot, une phrase,
Et quand on est à court d'idées
On fait la la la la la la
La la la la la la...
Longtemps, longtemps, longtemps
Après que les poètes ont disparu
Leurs chansons courent encore dans les rues...
Un jour, peut-être, bien après moi
Un jour on chantera
Cet air pour bercer un chagrin
Ou quelqu'heureux destin;
Fera-t-il vivre un vieux mendiant
Ou dormir un enfant,
Tournera-t-il au bord de l'eau
Au printemps sur un phono...
Longtemps, longtemps, longtemps
Après que les poètes ont disparu,
Leurs chansons courent encore dans les rues...
Parfois on change un mot, une phrase,
Et quand on est à court d'idées
On fait la la la la la la
La la la la la la...
Longtemps, longtemps, longtemps
Après que les poètes ont disparu,
Leurs chansons courent encore dans les rues...
Leur âme légère et leurs chansons
Qui rendent gais, qui rendent tristes
Filles et garçons
Bourgeois, artistes
Ou vagabonds......
-----------------------------------------------
MarjolaineUn inconnu et sa guitare
Dans une rue pleine de brouillard
Chantait, chantait une chanson
Que répétaient deux autres compagnons -
Marjolaine, toi si jolie
Marjolaine, le printemps fleurit
Marjolaine, j'étais soldat
Mais aujourd'hui
Je reviens près de toi.Tu m'avais dit : "Je t'attendrai"
Je t'avais dit: "Je reviendrai"
J'étais parti encore enfant
Suis revenu un homme maintenant.
Marjolaine, toi si jolie
Marjolaine, je n'ai pas menti
Marjolaine, j'étais soldat
Mais aujourd'hui
Je reviens près de toi.J'étais parti pour dix années
Mais dix années ont tout changé
Rien n'est pareil et dans ta rue
A part le ciel, je n'ai rien reconnu.
Marjolaine, toi si jolie
Marjolaine, le printemps s'enfuit
Marjolaine, je sais trop bien
Qu'amour perdu
Plus jamais ne revient.Un inconnu et sa guitare
Ont disparu dans le brouillard
Et avec lui ses compagnons
Sont repartis, emportant leur chanson:
Marjolaine, toi si jolie
Marjolaine, le printemps fleurit
Marjolaine, j'étais soldat........-----------------------------------------------------------RUBAIYAT of OMAR KHAYYAM
Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night / Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! The Hunter of the East has caught / The Sultán's Turret in a Noose of Light.
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky / I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
'Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup / Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be Dry.'
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before / The Tavern shouted - 'Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay, / And, once departed, may return no more.'
Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose, / And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no-one
knows;
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields, / And still a garden by the Water blows.
And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine / High piping Pehlevi, with 'Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!' - the Nightingale cries to the Rose / That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring / The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way / To fly - and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
And look - a thousand Blossoms with the Day / Woke - and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose / Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobád away.
But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot / Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosru forgot:
Let Rustum lay about him as he will, / Or Hátim Tai cry Supper - heed them not.
With me along some Strip of Herbage strown / That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of slave and Sultán scarce is known, / And pity Sultán Mahmud on his Throne.
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, / A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse - and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness - / And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
'How sweet is mortal Sovranty!' - think some: / Others - 'How blest the Paradise to come!'
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest; / Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
The Worldly Hopes men set their Heart upon / Turns Ashes - or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face / Lighting a little Hour or two - is gone.
And those who husbanded the Golden Grain, / And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd / As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai / Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp / Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep / The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep;
And Bahrám, that great Hunter - the Wild Ass / Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.
I sometimes think that never blows so red / The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every hyacinth the Garden wears / Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
And this delightful Herb whose tender Green / Fledges the River's lip on which we lean -
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows / From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears / TO-DAY of past regrets and future Fears -
To-morrow? - Why, To-morrow I may be / Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best / That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, / And one by one crept silently to Rest.
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, / Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, / Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and - sans End!
Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare, / And those that after a TO-MORROW stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries / 'Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!'
Oh, come with old Khayyám, and leave the Wise / To wrangle; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies; / The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent / Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore / Came out by the same Door as in I went.
With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow, / And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd - / 'I came like Water, and like Wind I go.'
Into this Universe, and why not knowing, / Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, / I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
What, without asking, hither hurried whence? / And, without asking, whither hurried hence?
Another and another Cup to drown / The Memory of this Impertinence!
Ah, fill the Cup:- what boots it to repeat / How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn, TO-MORROW, and dead YESTERDAY, / Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet!
One Moment in Annihilation's Waste, / One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste -
The Stars are setting and the Caravan / Starts for the Dawn of Nothing - Oh, make haste!
How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit / Of This and That endeavour and dispute?
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape / Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
For 'IS' and 'IS-NOT' though with Rule and Line / And 'UP-AND-DOWN' without, I could define,
I yet in all I only cared to know / Was never deep in anything but - Wine.
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, / Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and / He bid me taste of it; and 'twas - the Grape!
The Grape that can with Logic absolute / The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice / Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
But leave the wise to wrangle, and with me / The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht, / Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
For in and out, above, about, below, / 'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, / Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, / End in the Nothing all Things end in - Yes -
Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what / Thou shalt be - Nothing - Thou shalt not be less.
While the Rose blows along the River Brink, / With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink:
And when the Angel with his darker Draught / Draws up to Thee - take that, and do not shrink.
'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days / Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays, / And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The moving Finger writes; and, having writ, / Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, / Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
KUZA-NAMA
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, / And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And in a Winding-sheet of Vine-leaf wrapt, / So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare / Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,
As not a True Believer passing by / But shall be overtaken unaware.
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long / Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong:
Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup, / And sold my Reputation for a Song.
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, / And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour - well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy / One half so precious as the Goods they sell.
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! / That Youth's sweet-sented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang, / Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire / To grasp this sorry Scheme of things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits - and then / Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane, / The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter shall she rising look / Through this same Garden after me - in vain!
And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass / Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot / Where I made one - turn down an empty Glass!
TAMAM SHUD
-------------------------------------------------
