Sem-II (TEXT)

UNIT –II

16^th-17^th Century Poetry

 Amoretti LXXV: One Day I Wrote her Name

BY EDMUND SPENSER

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, 

But came the waves and washed it away: 

Again I wrote it with a second hand, 

But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. 

"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay, 

A mortal thing so to immortalize; 

For I myself shall like to this decay, 

And eke my name be wiped out likewise." 

"Not so," (quod I) "let baser things devise 

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: 

My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, 

And in the heavens write your glorious name: 

Where whenas death shall all the world subdue, 

Our love shall live, and later life renew." 

Lycidas

BY JOHN MILTON

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, 

And with forc'd fingers rude 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 

Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 

Compels me to disturb your season due; 

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 

He must not float upon his wat'ry bier 

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 

Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

      Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well 

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; 

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 

Hence with denial vain and coy excuse! 

So may some gentle muse 

With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, 

And as he passes turn 

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! 

      For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, 

Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; 

Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 

Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 

We drove afield, and both together heard 

What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 

Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 

Oft till the star that rose at ev'ning bright 

Toward heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel. 

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 

Temper'd to th'oaten flute; 

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, 

From the glad sound would not be absent long; 

And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song. 

      But O the heavy change now thou art gone, 

Now thou art gone, and never must return! 

Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, 

With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 

And all their echoes mourn. 

The willows and the hazel copses green 

Shall now no more be seen 

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 

As killing as the canker to the rose, 

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 

Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear 

When first the white thorn blows: 

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 

      Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 

Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 

For neither were ye playing on the steep 

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 

Ay me! I fondly dream 

Had ye bin there'—for what could that have done? 

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 

The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 

Whom universal nature did lament, 

When by the rout that made the hideous roar 

His gory visage down the stream was sent, 

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 

      Alas! what boots it with incessant care 

To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, 

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 

Were it not better done, as others use, 

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 

Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 

(That last infirmity of noble mind) 

To scorn delights and live laborious days; 

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 

And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 

Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, 

And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," 

Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; 

"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 

Nor in the glistering foil 

Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, 

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; 

As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 

Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed." 

      O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, 

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, 

That strain I heard was of a higher mood. 

But now my oat proceeds, 

And listens to the Herald of the Sea, 

That came in Neptune's plea. 

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, 

"What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?" 

And question'd every gust of rugged wings 

That blows from off each beaked promontory. 

They knew not of his story; 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 

That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; 

The air was calm, and on the level brine 

Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 

Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

      Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 

His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 

Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. 

"Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" 

Last came, and last did go, 

The Pilot of the Galilean lake; 

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). 

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: 

"How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, 

Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 

Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? 

Of other care they little reck'ning make 

Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast 

And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 

Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold 

A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least 

That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! 

What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; 

And when they list their lean and flashy songs 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw, 

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 

But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they draw, 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; 

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 

Daily devours apace, and nothing said, 

But that two-handed engine at the door 

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more". 

      Return, Alpheus: the dread voice is past 

That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, 

And call the vales and bid them hither cast 

Their bells and flow'rets of a thousand hues. 

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 

Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 

On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, 

Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes, 

That on the green turf suck the honied showers 

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 

The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, 

The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 

And every flower that sad embroidery wears; 

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 

To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 

For so to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 

Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 

Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd; 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 

Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 

Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world, 

Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 

Where the great vision of the guarded mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold: 

Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth; 

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 

      Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 

Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor; 

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 

And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 

And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high 

Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves; 

Where, other groves and other streams along, 

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 

In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 

There entertain him all the Saints above, 

In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 

That sing, and singing in their glory move, 

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more: 

Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, 

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 

To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

      Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'oaks and rills, 

While the still morn went out with sandals gray; 

He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, 

With eager thought warbling his Doric lay; 

And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, 

And now was dropp'd into the western bay; 

At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: 

To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 

The Anniversary

BY JOHN DONNE

All Kings, and all their favourites,

         All glory of honours, beauties, wits,

    The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass,

    Is elder by a year now than it was

    When thou and I first one another saw:

    All other things to their destruction draw,

         Only our love hath no decay;

    This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,

    Running it never runs from us away,

But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

         Two graves must hide thine and my corse;

         If one might, death were no divorce.

    Alas, as well as other Princes, we

    (Who Prince enough in one another be)

    Must leave at last in death these eyes and ears,

    Oft fed with true oaths, and with sweet salt tears;

         But souls where nothing dwells but love

    (All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove

    This, or a love increasèd there above,

When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove.

         And then we shall be throughly blessed;

         But we no more than all the rest.

    Here upon earth we’re Kings, and none but we

    Can be such Kings, nor of such subjects be;

    Who is so safe as we? where none can do

    Treason to us, except one of us two.

         True and false fears let us refrain,

    Let us love nobly, and live, and add again

    Years and years unto years, till we attain

To write threescore: this is the second of our reign.

 Unit-III

17^th-18^th Century Poetry

Ode on Solitude

BY ALEXANDER POPE

Happy the man, whose wish and care 

   A few paternal acres bound, 

Content to breathe his native air, 

                            In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 

   Whose flocks supply him with attire, 

Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 

                            In winter fire. 

Blest, who can unconcernedly find 

   Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 

In health of body, peace of mind, 

                            Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease, 

   Together mixed; sweet recreation; 

And innocence, which most does please, 

                            With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; 

   Thus unlamented let me die; 

Steal from the world, and not a stone 

                            Tell where I lie.

Hymn to Adversity

Thomas Gray

Daughter of JOVE, relentless Power,
Thou Tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour
The Bad affright, afflict the Best!
Bound in thy adamantine chain
The Proud are taught to taste of pain,
And purple Tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy Sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling Child, design'd,
To thee he gave the heav'nly Birth,
And bad to form her infant mind.
Stern rugged Nurse! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore:
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,
And from her own she learn'd to melt at other's woe.

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse, and with them go
The summer Friend, the flatt'ring Foe;
By vain Prosperity received,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.

Wisdom in sable garb array'd
Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent maid
With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend:
Warm Charity, the gen'ral friend,
With Justice to herself severe,
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Oh, gently on thy Suppliant's head,
Dread Goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand!
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
Nor circled with the vengeful Band
(As by the Impious thou art seen)
With thund'ring voice, and threat'ning mien,
With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

Thy form benign, oh Goddess, wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philosophic Train be there
To soften, not to wound my heart,
The gen'rous spark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are, to feel, and know myself a Man.

London

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

I wander thro' each charter'd street, 

Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. 

And mark in every face I meet 

Marks of weakness, marks of woe. 

In every cry of every Man, 

In every Infants cry of fear, 

In every voice: in every ban, 

The mind-forg'd manacles I hear 

How the Chimney-sweepers cry 

Every blackning Church appalls, 

And the hapless Soldiers sigh 

Runs in blood down Palace walls 

But most thro' midnight streets I hear 

How the youthful Harlots curse 

Blasts the new-born Infants tear 

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

Unit-IV

18^th-19^th Century Poetry 

Three Years She Grew

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Three years she grew in sun and shower, 

Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown; 

This Child I to myself will take; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 

A Lady of my own. 

"Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse: and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

"She shall be sportive as the fawn 

That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs; 

And hers shall be the breathing balm, 

And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 

"The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her; for her the willow bend; 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the Storm 

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

"The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

"And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake—The work was done— 

How soon my Lucy's race was run! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 

Ode to a Nightingale

BY JOHN KEATS

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 

         But being too happy in thine happiness,— 

                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees 

                        In some melodious plot 

         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 

                Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been 

         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 

Tasting of Flora and the country green, 

         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! 

O for a beaker full of the warm South, 

         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 

                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 

                        And purple-stained mouth; 

         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 

                And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

         What thou among the leaves hast never known, 

The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 

         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 

                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 

                        And leaden-eyed despairs, 

         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 

                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 

         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 

Already with thee! tender is the night, 

         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 

                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; 

                        But here there is no light, 

         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 

                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

         Wherewith the seasonable month endows 

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 

         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 

                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 

                        And mid-May's eldest child, 

         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 

         I have been half in love with easeful Death, 

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

         To take into the air my quiet breath; 

                Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 

         To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 

                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 

                        In such an ecstasy! 

         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— 

                   To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 

         No hungry generations tread thee down; 

The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

         In ancient days by emperor and clown: 

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 

                She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 

                        The same that oft-times hath 

         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 

                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 

         To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 

         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 

         Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 

                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 

                        In the next valley-glades: 

         Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep? 

My Last Duchess 

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BY ROBERT BROWNING

FERRARA

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, 

Looking as if she were alive. I call 

That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands 

Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 

Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said 

“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read 

Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 

The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 

But to myself they turned (since none puts by 

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 

How such a glance came there; so, not the first 

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not 

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot 

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps 

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps 

Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint 

Must never hope to reproduce the faint 

Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er 

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 

Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast, 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bough of cherries some officious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace—all and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked 

Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 

With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame 

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 

In speech—which I have not—to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, 

Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse— 

E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose 

Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, 

Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without 

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet 

The company below, then. I repeat, 

The Count your master’s known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretense 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed 

At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go 

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! 

Unit-V

19^th-20^th Century Poetry

The Second Coming 

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BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer; 

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; 

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, 

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned; 

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity. 

Surely some revelation is at hand; 

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi 

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   

The darkness drops again; but now I know   

That twenty centuries of stony sleep 

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock 

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BY T. S. ELIOT

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

               So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

               And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

               And should I then presume?

               And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

               That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

               “That is not it at all,

               That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Toads

Philip Larkin

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?

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,
Losers, 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.