The Poem Reader

It was not part of their blood,It came to them very lateWith long arrears to make good,When the English began to hate. They were not easily moved, They were icy-willing to wait Till every count should be proved, Ere the English began to hate. Their voices were even and low, Their eyes were level and straight. There was neither sign nor show, When the English began to hate. It was not preached to the crowd, It was not taught by the State. No man spoke it aloud, When the English began to hate. It was not suddenly bred, It will not swiftly abate, Through the chill years ahead, When Time shall count from the date That the English began to hate. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself, and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee, and then my state,Like to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with kings. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound;I grant I never saw a goddess go;My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rareAs any she belied with false compare. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

When my love swears that she is made of truthI do believe her, though I know she lies,That she might think me some untutor’d youth,Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,Although she knows my days are past the best,Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:On both sides thus is simple truth suppress’d.But wherefore says she not she is unjust?And wherefore say not I that I am old?O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,And age in love loves not to have years told:Therefore I lie with her and she with me,And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrushThrough the echoing timber does so rinse and wringThe ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brushThe descending blue; that blue is all in a rushWith richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.What is all this juice and all this joy?A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginningIn Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.Enjoy more of these poems in your inbox. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

If in that Syrian garden, ages slain,You sleep, and know not you are dead in vain,Nor even in dreams behold how dark and brightAscends in smoke and fire by day and nightThe hate you died to quench and could but fan,Sleep well and see no morning, son of man.But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by,At the right hand of majesty on highYou sit, and sitting so remember yetYour tears, your agony and bloody sweat,Your cross and passion and the life you gave,Bow hither out of heaven and see and save. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee, and then my state,(Like to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away"; But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside"; But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap. An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes," when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Tommy, fall be'ind," But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Chuck him out, the brute!" But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,Silence the pianos and with muffled drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come.Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;For nothing now can ever come to any good. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

When you get what you want in your struggle for selfAnd the world makes you king for a dayJust go to the mirror and look at yourselfAnd see what that man has to say.For it isn’t your father, or mother, or wifeWhose judgment upon you must passThe fellow whose verdict counts most in your lifeIs the one staring back from the glass.He’s the fellow to please – never mind all the restFor he’s with you, clear to the endAnd you’ve passed your most difficult, dangerous testIf the man in the glass is your friend.You may fool the whole world down the pathway of yearsAnd get pats on the back as you passBut your final reward will be heartache and tearsIf you’ve cheated the man in the glass. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England - now!And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops - at the bentspray's edge -That's the wise thrush; he sings each songtwice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

The tree that never had to fightFor sun and sky and air and light,But stood out in the open plainAnd always got its share of rain,Never became a forest kingBut lived and died a scrubby thing.The man who never had to toilTo gain and farm his patch of soil,Who never had to win his shareOf sun and sky and light and air,Never became a manly manBut lived and died as he began.Good timber does not grow with ease:The stronger wind, the stronger trees;The further sky, the greater length;The more the storm, the more the strength.By sun and cold, by rain and snow,In trees and men good timbers grow.Where thickest lies the forest growth,We find the patriarchs of both.And they hold counsel with the starsWhose broken branches show the scarsOf many winds and much of strife.This is the common law of life. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Gaily bedight,   A gallant knight,In sunshine and in shadow,   Had journeyed long,   Singing a song,In search of Eldorado.   But he grew old,   This knight so bold,And o'er his heart a shadow   Fell as he found   No spot of groundThat looked like Eldorado.   And, as his strength   Failed him at length,He met a pilgrim shadow;   "Shadow," said he,   "Where can it be,This land of Eldorado?"   "Over the mountains   Of the moon,Down the valley of the shadow,   Ride, boldly ride,"   The shade replied,--"If you seek for Eldorado!" This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Subtitled"Hal o' the Draft" -- Puck of Pook's Hill.If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street;Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the dark —Brandy for the Parson,Baccy for the Clerk;Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,And watch the wall, my darling,While the Gentlemen go by!Running round the woodlump if you chance to findLittle barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.Put the brishwood back again — and they'll be gone next day!If you see the stable-door setting open wide;If you see a tired horse lying down inside;If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;If the lining's wet and warm — don't you ask no more!If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.If they call you "pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!Knocks and footsteps round the house — whistles after dark —You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie —They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!If you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,You'll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood —A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good!Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the dark —Brandy for the Parson,'Baccy for the Clerk;Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie —Watch the wall, my darling,While the Gentlemen go by! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,With avarice painful vigils keep:Still unenjoy'd the present store,Still endless sighs are breathed for more.O! quit the shadow, catch the prize,Which not all India's treasure buys!To purchase with heaven has gold the power?Can gold remove the mortal hour?In life can love be bought with gold?Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?No! - all that's worth a wish - a thought,Fair virtue gives unbribed, unbought,Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind,Let noble views engage thy mind.With science tread the wondrous way,Or learn the Muses' moral lay;In social hours indulge thy soul,Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl;To virtuous love resign thy breast,And be, by blessing beauty, - bless'd.Thus taste the feast by Nature spread,Ere youth and all its joys are fled;Come taste with me the balm of life,Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife.I boast whate'er for man was meant,In health, and Stella, and content;And scorn! (oh! let that scorn be thine!)Mere things of clay, that dig the mine. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

‘Tis not that I am weary grownOf being yours, and yours alone,But with what face can I inclineTo damn you to be only mine?You, whom some kinder power did fashionBy merit and by inclinationThe joy at least of a whole nation.Let meaner spirits of your sexWith humble aims their thoughts perplex,And boast if by their arts they canContrive to make one happy man;While moved by an impartial senseFavours, like Nature, you dispenseWith universal influence.See the kind seed-receiving earthTo every grain affords a birth:On her no showers unwelcome fall,Her willing womb retains 'em all,And shall my Caelia be confined?No, live up to thy mighty mind,And be the mistress of Mankind! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did treadThe night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayedTo straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers runBehind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clearThe night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.Thanks for reading The Poem Reader! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea   In a beautiful pea-green boat:They took some honey, and plenty of money   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.The Owl looked up to the stars above,   And sang to a small guitar,"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,   What a beautiful Pussy you are,            You are,            You are!   What a beautiful Pussy you are!"Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,   How charmingly sweet you sing!Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried,   But what shall we do for a ring?"They sailed away, for a year and a day,To the land where the bong-tree grows;And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,   With a ring at the end of his nose,            His nose,            His nose,   With a ring at the end of his nose."Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling   Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."So they took it away, and were married next day   By the turkey who lives on the hill.They dined on mince and slices of quince,   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,   They danced by the light of the moon,            The moon,            The moon,   They danced by the light of the moon.. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

From childhood’s hour I have not beenAs others were—I have not seenAs others saw—I could not bringMy passions from a common spring—From the same source I have not takenMy sorrow—I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone—And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—Then—in my childhood—in the dawnOf a most stormy life—was drawnFrom ev’ry depth of good and illThe mystery which binds me still—From the torrent, or the fountain—From the red cliff of the mountain—From the sun that ’round me roll’dIn its autumn tint of gold—From the lightning in the skyAs it pass’d me flying by—From the thunder, and the storm—And the cloud that took the form(When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—Please like, subscribe and share with your friends (if they like poems). And please email me any requests. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

To Beatriz Bibiloni Webster de Bullrich I. The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night. Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable. Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you. The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for. The big wave brought you. Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words. The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city. Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are the illustrious toys you have left me. I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn. Your dark rich life… I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your mirror knows. II. What can I hold you with? I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs. I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon. I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghost that living men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses. I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness humour my life. I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal. I offer her that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow – the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities. I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born. I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself. I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat. Please subscribe, like and tell your friends (if they like poems). This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com