Unit II: British Poetry: Fourteenth to In all the land for crowing he’d no peer;

Seventeenth Centuries His voice was jollier than the organ blowing
In church on Sundays, he was great at crowing.
T H E N U N ’S PR I E S T ’S TALE Far, far more regular than any clock
from Or abbey bell the crowing of this cock.
T H E CAN T E R B U RYTALE S The equinoctial wheel and its position
–Geoffrey Chaucer – At each ascent he knew by intuition;
Once, long ago, there dwelt a poor old widow At every hour—fifteen degrees of movement—
In a small cottage, by a little meadow He crowed so well there could be no
Beside a grove and standing in a dale. improvement.
This widow-woman of whom I tell my tale His comb was redder than fine coral, tall
Since the sad day when last she was a wife And battlemented like a castle wall,
Had led a very patient, simple life. His bill was black and shone as bright as jet,
Little she had in capital or rent, Like azure were his legs and they were set
But still, by making do with what God sent, On azure toes with nails of lily white,
She kept herself and her two daughters going. Like burnished gold his feathers, flaming bright.
Three hefty sows—no more—were all her This gentlecock was master in some measure
showing, Of seven hens, all there to do his pleasure.
Three cows as well; there was a sheep called They were his sisters and his paramours,
Molly. Colored like him in all particulars;
Sooty her hall, her kitchen melancholy, She with the loveliest dyes upon her throat
And there she ate full many a slender meal; Was known as gracious Lady Pertelote.
There was no sauce piquante to spice her veal, Courteous she was, discreet and debonair,
No dainty morsel ever passed her throat, Companionable too, and took such care
According to her cloth she cut her coat. In her deportment, since she was seven days old
Repletion never left her in disquiet She held the heart of Chanticleer controlled,
And all her physic was a temperate diet, Locked up securely in her every limb;
Hard work for exercise and heart’s content. O what a happiness his love to him!
And rich man’s gout did nothing to prevent And such a joy it was to hear them sing,
Her dancing, apoplexy struck her not; As when the glorious sun began to spring,
She drank no wine, nor white, nor red had got. In sweet accord, My Love is far from land
Her board was mostly served with white and —For in those far off days I understand
black, All birds and animals could speak and sing.
Milk and brown bread, in which she found no Now it befell, as dawn began to spring,
lack; When Chanticleer and Pertelote and all
Broiled bacon or an egg or two were common, His wives were perched in this poor widow’s
She was in fact a sort of dairy-woman. hall
She had a yard that was enclosed about (Fair Pertelote was next him on the perch),
By a stockade and a dry ditch without, This Chanticleer began to groan and lurch
In which she kept a cock called Chanticleer. Like someone sorely troubled by a dream,
And Pertelote who heard him roar and scream With others, too abundant, swollen tight.
Was quite aghast and said, “O dearest heart, “No doubt the redness in your dream tonight
What’s ailing you? Why do you groan and start? Comes from the superfluity and force
Fie, what a sleeper! What a noise to make!” Of the red choler in your blood. Of course.
“Madam,” he said, “I beg you not to take That is what puts a dreamer in the dread
Offense, but by the Lord I had a dream Of crimsoned arrows, fires flaming red,
So terrible just now I had to scream; Of great red monsters making as to fight him,
I still can feel my heart racing from fear. And big red whelps and little ones to bite him;
God turn my dream to good and guard all here, Just so the black and melancholy vapors
And keep my body out of durance vile! Will set a sleeper shrieking, cutting capers
I dreamt that roaming up and down a while And swearing that black bears, black bulls as
Within our yard I saw a kind of beast, well,
A sort of hound that tried or seemed at least Or blackest fiends are haling him to Hell.
To try and seize me . . . would have killed me And there are other vapors that I know
dead! That on a sleeping man will work their woe,
His color was a blend of yellow and red, But I’ll pass on as lightly as I can.
His ears and tail were tipped with sable fur “Take Cato now, that was so wise a man,
Unlike the rest; he was a russet cur. Did he not say, ‘Take no account of dreams’?
Small was his snout, his eyes were glowing Now, sir,” she said, “on flying from these
bright. beams,
It was enough to make one die of fright. For love of God do take some laxative;
That was no doubt what made me groan and Upon my soul that’s the advice to give
swoon.” For melancholy choler; let me urge
“For shame,” she said, “you timorous poltroon! You free yourself from vapors with a purge.
Alas, what cowardice! By God above, And that you may have no excuse to tarry
You’ve forfeited my heart and lost my love. By saying this town has no apothecary,
I cannot love a coward, come what may. I shall myself instruct you and prescribe
For certainly, whatever we may say, Herbs that will cure all vapors of that tribe,
All women long—and O that it might be!— Herbs from our very farmyard! You will find
For husbands tough, dependable and free, Their natural property is to unbind
Secret, discreet, no niggard, not a fool And purge you well beneath and well above.
That boasts and then will find his courage cool Now don’t forget it, dear, for God’s own love!
At every trifling thing. By God above, Your face is choleric and shows distension;
How dare you say for shame, and to your love, Be careful lest the sun in his ascension
That there was anything at all you feared? Should catch you full of humors, hot and many.
Have you no manly heart to match your beard? And if he does, my dear, I’ll lay a penny
And can a dream reduce you to such terror? It means a bout of fever or a breath
Dreams are a vanity, God knows, pure error. Of tertian ague. You may catch your death.
Dreams are engendered in the too-replete “Worms for a day or two I’ll have to give
From vapors in the belly, which compete As a digestive, then your laxative.
Centaury, fumitory, caper-spurge “Now it so happened, long ere it was day,
And hellebore will make a splendid purge; This fellow had a dream, and as he lay
And then there’s laurel or the blackthorn berry, In bed it seemed he heard his comrade call,
Ground-ivy too that makes our yard so merry; ‘Help! I am lying in an ox’s stall
Peck them right up, my dear, and swallow And shall tonight be murdered as I lie.
whole. Help me, dear brother, help or I shall die!
Be happy, husband, by your father’s soul! Come in all haste!’ Such were the words he
Don’t be afraid of dreams. I’ll say no more.” spoke;
“Madam,” he said, ‘I thank you for your lore, The dreamer, lost in terror, then awoke.
But with regard to Cato all the same, But, once awake, he paid it no attention,
His wisdom has, no doubt, a certain fame, Turned over and dismissed it as invention,
But though he said that we should take no heed It was a dream, he thought, a fantasy.
Of dreams, by God, in ancient books I read And twice he dreamt this dream successively.
Of many a man of more authority “Yet a third time his comrade came again,
Than ever Cato was, believe you me, Or seemed to come, and said, ‘I have been slain!
Who say the very opposite is true Look, look! my wounds are bleeding wide and
And prove their theories by experience too. deep.
Dreams have quite often been significations Rise early in the morning, break your sleep
As well of triumphs as of tribulations And go to the west gate. You there shall see
That people undergo in this our life. A cart all loaded up with dung,’ said he,
This needs no argument at all, dear wife, ‘And in that dung my body has been hidden.
The proof is all too manifest indeed. Boldly arrest that cart as you are bidden.
“One of the greatest authors one can read It was my money that they killed me for.’
Says thus: there were two comrades once who “He told him every detail, sighing sore,
went And pitiful in feature, pale of hue.
On pilgrimage, sincere in their intent. This dream, believe me, Madam, turned out
And as it happened they had reached a town true;
Where such a throng was milling up and down For in the dawn, as soon as it was light,
And yet so scanty the accommodation, He went to where his friend had spent the night
They could not find themselves a habitation, And when he came upon the cattle-stall
No, not a cottage that could lodge them both. He looked about him and began to call.
And so they separated, very loth, “The innkeeper, appearing thereupon,
Under constraint of this necessity Quickly gave answer, ‘Sir, your friend has gone.
And each went off to find some hostelry, He left the town a little after dawn.’
And lodge whatever way his luck might fall. The man began to feel suspicious, drawn
“The first of them found refuge in a stall By memories of his dream—the western gate,
Down in a yard with oxen and a plough. The dung-cart—off he went, he would not wait,
His friend found lodging for himself somehow Towards the western entry. There he found,
Elsewhere, by accident or destiny, Seemingly on its way to dung some ground,
Which governs all of us and equally. A dung-cart loaded on the very plan
Described so closely by the murdered man. They were delighted and they went to rest
So he began to shout courageously Meaning to sail next morning early. Well,
For right and vengeance on the felony, To one of them a miracle befell.
‘My friend’s been killed! There’s been a foul “This man as he lay sleeping, it would seem,
attack, Just before dawn had an astounding dream.
He’s in that cart and gaping on his back! He thought a man was standing by his bed
Fetch the authorities, get the sheriff down Commanding him to wait, and thus he said:
—Whosever job it is to run the town— ‘If you set sail tomorrow, as you intend,
Help! My companion’s murdered, sent to glory!’ You will be drowned. My tale is at an end.’
“What need I add to finish off the story? “He woke and told his friend what had occurred
People ran out and cast the cart to ground, And begged him that the journey be deferred
And in the middle of the dung they found At least a day, implored him not to start.
The murdered man. The corpse was fresh and But his companion, lying there apart,
new. Began to laugh and treat him to derision.
“O blessed God, that art so just and true, ‘I’m not afraid,’ he said, ‘of any vision,
Thus thou revealest murder! As we say, To let it interfere with my affairs;
‘Murder will out.’ We see it day by day. A straw for all your dreamings and your scares.
Murder’s a foul, abominable treason, Dreams are just empty nonsense, merest japes;
So loathsome to God’s justice, to God’s reason, Why, people dream all day of owls and apes,
He will not suffer its concealment. True, All sorts of trash that can’t be understood,
Things may lie hidden for a year or two, Things that have never happened and never
But still ‘Murder will out,’ that’s my conclusion. could.
“All the town officers in great confusion But as I see you mean to stay behind
Seized on the carter and they gave him hell, And miss the tide for willful sloth of mind
And then they racked the innkeeper as well, God knows I’m sorry for it, but good day!’
And both confessed. And then they took the And so he took his leave and went his way.
wrecks “And yet, before they’d covered half the trip
And there and then they hanged them by their —I don’t know what went wrong—there was a
necks. rip
“By this we see that dreams are to be dreaded. And by some accident the ship went down,
And in the selfsame book I find embedded, Her bottom rent, all hands aboard to drown
Right in the very chapter after this In sight of all the vessels at her side,
(I’m not inventing, as I hope for bliss) That had put out upon the selfsame tide.
The story of two men who started out “So, my dear Pertelote, if you discern
To cross the sea—for merchandise no doubt— The force of these examples, you may learn
But as the winds were contrary they waited. One never should be careless about dreams,
It was a pleasant town, I should have stated, For, undeniably, I say it seems
Merrily grouped about the haven-side. That many are a sign of trouble breeding.
A few days later with the evening tide “Now, take St. Kenelm’s life which I’ve been
The wind veered round so as to suit them best; reading;
He was Kenulphus’ son, the noble King So let me say in very brief conclusion
Of Mercia. Now, St. Kenelm dreamt a thing My dream undoubtedly foretells confusion,
Shortly before they murdered him one day. It bodes me ill, I say. And, furthermore,
He saw his murder in a dream, I say. Upon your laxatives I set no store,
His nurse expounded it and gave her reasons For they are venomous. I’ve suffered by them
On every point and warned him against treasons Often enough before, and I defy them.
But as the saint was only seven years old “And now, let’s talk of fun and stop all this.
All that she said about it left him cold. Dear Madam, as I hope for Heaven’s bliss,
He was so holy how could visions hurt? Of one thing God has sent me plenteous grace,
“By God, I willingly would give my shirt For when I see the beauty of your face,
To have you read his legend as I’ve read it; That scarlet loveliness about your eyes,
And, Madam Pertelote, upon my credit, All thought of terror and confusion dies.
Macrobius wrote of dreams and can explain us For it’s as certain as the Creed, I know,
The vision of young Scipio Africanus, Mulier est hominis confusio
And he affirms that dreams can give a due (A Latin tag, dear Madam, meaning this:
Warning of things that later on come true. ‘Woman is man’s delight and all his bliss’),
“And then there’s the Old Testament—a manual For when at night I feel your feathery side,
Well worth your study; see the Book of Daniel. Although perforce I cannot take a ride
Did Daniel think a dream was vanity? Because, alas, our perch was made too narrow,
Read about Joseph too and you will see Delight and solace fill me to the marrow
That many dreams—I do not say that all— And I defy all visions and all dreams!”
Give cognizance of what is to befall. And with that word he flew down from the
“Look at Lord Pharaoh, king of Egypt! Look beams,
At what befell his butler and his cook. For it was day, and down his hens flew all,
Did not their visions have a certain force? And with a chuck he gave the troupe a call
But those who study history of course For he had found a seed upon the floor.
Meet many dreams that set them wondering. Royal he was, he was afraid no more.
“What about Croesus too, the Lydian king, He feathered Pertelote in wanton play
Who dreamt that he was sitting in a tree, And trod her twenty times ere prime of day.
Meaning he would be hanged? It had to be. Grim as a lion’s was his manly frown
“Or take Andromache, great Hector’s wife; As on his toes he sauntered up and down;
The day on which he was to lose his life He scarcely deigned to set his foot to ground
She dreamt about, the very night before, And every time a seed of corn was found
And realized that if Hector went to war He gave a chuck, and up his wives ran all.
He would be lost that very day in battle. Thus royal as a prince who strides his hall
She warned him; he dismissed it all as prattle Leave we this Chanticleer engaged on feeding
And sallied forth to fight, being self-willed, And pass to the adventure that was breeding.
And there he met Achilles and was killed. Now when the month in which the world began,
The tale is long and somewhat overdrawn, March, the first month, when God created man,
And anyhow it’s very nearly dawn, Was over, and the thirty-second day
Thereafter ended, on the third of May O new Iscariot, new Ganelon!
It happened that Chanticleer in all his pride, And O Greek Sinon, thou whose treachery won
His seven wives attendant at his side, Troy town and brought it utterly to sorrow!
Cast his eyes upward to the blazing sun, O Chanticleer, accursed be that morrow
Which in the sign of Taurus then had run That brought thee to the yard from thy high
His twenty-one degrees and somewhat more, beams!
And knew by nature and no other lore Thou hadst been warned, and truly, by thy
That it was nine o’clock. With blissful voice dreams
He crew triumphantly and said, “Rejoice, That this would be a perilous day for thee.
Behold the sun! The sun is up, my seven. But that which God’s foreknowledge can
Look, it has climbed forty degrees in heaven, foresee
Forty degrees and one in fact, by this. Must needs occur, as certain men of learning
Dear Madam Pertelote, my earthly bliss, Have said. Ask any scholar of discerning;
Hark to those blissful birds and how they sing!
Look at those pretty flowers, how they spring! He’ll say the Schools are filled with altercation
Solace and revel fill my heart!” He laughed. On this vexed matter of predestination
But in that moment Fate let fly her shaft; Long bandied by a hundred thousand men.
Ever the latter end of joy is woe, How can I sift it to the bottom then?
God knows that worldly joy is swift to go. The Holy Doctor St. Augustine shines
A rhetorician with a flair for style In this, and there is Bishop Bradwardine’s
Could chronicle this maxim in his file Authority, Boethius’ too, decreeing
Of Notable Remarks with safe conviction. Whether the fact of God’s divine foreseeing
Then let the wise give ear; this is no fiction. Constrains me to perform a certain act
My story is as true, I undertake, —And by “constraint” I mean the simple fact
As that of good Sir Lancelot du Lake Of mere compulsion by necessity—
Who held all women in such high esteem. Or whether a free choice is granted me
Let me return full circle to my theme. To do a given act or not to do it
A coal-tipped fox of sly iniquity Though, ere it was accomplished, God foreknew
That had been lurking round the grove for three it,
Long years, that very night burst through and Or whether Providence is not so stringent
passed And merely makes necessity contingent.
Stockade and hedge, as Providence forecast, But I decline discussion of the matter;
Into the yard where Chanticleer the Fair My tale is of a cock and of the clatter
Was wont, with all his ladies, to repair. That came of following his wife’s advice
Still, in a bed of cabbages, he lay To walk about his yard on the precise
Until about the middle of the day Morning after the dream of which I told.
Watching the cock and waiting for his cue, O woman’s counsel is so often cold!
As all these homicides so gladly do A woman’s counsel brought us first to woe,
That lie about in wait to murder men. Made Adam out of Paradise to go
O false assassin, lurking in thy den! Where he had been so merry, so well at ease.
But, for I know not whom it may displease For, when it comes to singing, I’ll say this
If I suggest that women are to blame, (Else may these eyes of mine be barred from
Pass over that; I only speak in game. bliss),
Read the authorities to know about There never was a singer I would rather
What has been said of women; you’ll find out. Have heard at dawn than your respected father.
These are the cock’s words, and not mine, I’m All that he sang came welling from his soul
giving; And how he put his voice under control!
I think no harm of any woman living. The pains he took to keep his eyes tight shut
Merrily in her dust-bath in the sand In concentration—then the tiptoe strut,
Lay Pertelote. Her sisters were at hand The slender neck stretched out, the delicate
Basking in sunlight. Chanticleer sang free, beak!
More merrily than a mermaid in the sea No singer could approach him in technique
(For Physiologus reports the thing Or rival him in song, still less surpass.
And says how well and merrily they sing). I’ve read the story in Burnel the Ass,
And so it happened as he cast his eye Among some other verses, of a cock
Towards the cabbage at a butterfly Whose leg in youth was broken by a knock
It fell upon the fox there, lying low. A clergyman’s son had given him, and for this
Gone was all inclination then to crow. He made the father lose his benefice.
“Cok cok,” he cried, giving a sudden start, But certainly there’s no comparison
As one who feels a terror at his heart, Between the subtlety of such a one
For natural instinct teaches beasts to flee And the discretion of your father’s art
The moment they perceive an enemy, And wisdom. Oh, for charity of heart,
Though they had never met with it before. Can you not emulate your sire and sing?”
This Chanticleer was shaken to the core This Chanticleer began to beat a wing
And would have fled. The fox was quick to say As one incapable of smelling treason,
However, “Sir! Whither so fast away? So wholly had this flattery ravished reason.
Are you afraid of me, that am your friend? Alas, my lords! there’s many a sycophant
A fiend, or worse, I should be, to intend And flatterer that fill your courts with cant
You harm, or practice villainy upon you; And give more pleasure with their zeal forsooth
Dear sir, I was not even spying on you! Than he who speaks in soberness and truth.
Truly I came to do no other thing Read what Ecclesiasticus records
Than just to lie and listen to you sing. Of flatterers. ’Ware treachery, my lords!
You have as merry a voice as God has given This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes,
To any angel in the courts of Heaven; He stretched his neck, his eyes began to close,
To that you add a musical sense as strong His beak to open; with his eyes shut tight
As had Boethius who was skilled in song. He then began to sing with all his might.
My Lord your Father (God receive his soul!), Sir Russel Fox leapt in to the attack,
Your mother too—how courtly, what control!— Grabbing his gorge he flung him o’er his back
Have honored my poor house, to my great ease; And off he bore him to the woods, the brute,
And you, sir, too, I should be glad to please. And for the moment there was no pursuit.
O Destiny that may not be evaded! Now let me turn again to tell my tale;
Alas that Chanticleer had so paraded! This blessed widow and her daughters two
Alas that he had flown down from the beams! Heard all these hens in clamor and halloo
O that his wife took no account of dreams! And, rushing to the door at all this shrieking,
And on a Friday too to risk their necks! They saw the fox towards the covert streaking
O Venus, goddess of the joys of sex, And, on his shoulder, Chanticleer stretched flat.
Since Chanticleer thy mysteries professed “Look, look!” they cried, “O mercy, look at that!
And in thy service always did his best, Ha! Ha! the fox!” and after him they ran,
And more for pleasure than to multiply And stick in hand ran many a serving man,
His kind, on thine own day, is he to die? Ran Coll our dog, ran Talbot, Bran and Shaggy,
O Geoffrey, thou my dear and sovereign master And with a distaff in her hand ran Maggie,
Who, when they brought King Richard to Ran cow and calf and ran the very hogs
disaster In terror at the barking of the dogs;
And shot him dead, lamented so his death, The men and women shouted, ran and cursed,
Would that I had thy skill, thy gracious breath, They ran so hard they thought their hearts would
To chide a Friday half so well as you! burst,
(For he was killed upon a Friday too.) They yelled like fiends in Hell, ducks left the
Then I could fashion you a rhapsody water
For Chanticleer in dread and agony. Quacking and flapping as on point of slaughter,
Sure never such a cry or lamentation Up flew the geese in terror over the trees,
Was made by ladies of high Trojan station, Out of the hive came forth the swarm of bees;
When Ilium fell and Pyrrhus with his sword So hideous was the noise—God bless us all,
Grabbed Priam by the beard, their king and lord, Jack Straw and all his followers in their brawl
And slew him there as the Aeneid tells, Were never half so shrill, for all their noise,
As what was uttered by those hens. Their yells When they were murdering those Flemish boys,
Surpassed them all in palpitating fear As that day’s hue and cry upon the fox.
When they beheld the rape of Chanticleer. They grabbed up trumpets made of brass and
Dame Pertelote emitted sovereign shrieks box,
That echoed up in anguish to the peaks Of horn and bone, on which they blew and
Louder than those extorted from the wife pooped,
Of Hasdrubal, when he had lost his life And therewithal they shouted and they whooped
And Carthage all in flame and ashes lay. So that it seemed the very heavens would fall.
She was so full of torment and dismay And now, good people, pay attention all.
That in the very flames she chose her part See how Dame Fortune quickly changes side
And burnt to ashes with a steadfast heart. And robs her enemy of hope and pride!
O woeful hens, louder your shrieks and higher This cock that lay upon the fox’s back
Than those of Roman matrons when the fire In all his dread contrived to give a quack
Consumed their husbands, senators of Rome, And said, “Sir Fox, if I were you, as God’s
When Nero burnt their city and their home; My witness, I would round upon these clods
Beyond a doubt that Nero was their bale! And shout, ‘Turn back, you saucy bumpkins all!
A very pestilence upon you fall! Amen.
Now that I have in safety reached the wood From The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey
Do what you like, the cock is mine for good; Chaucer, translated by Nevill Coghill
I’ll eat him there in spite of every one.’” (Penguin Classics 1951, Fourth Revised Edition,
The fox replying, “Faith, it shall be done!” 1977). Copyright 1951 by Neville
Opened his mouth and spoke. The nimble bird, Coghill, copyright © 1958, 1960, 1975, 1977 by
Breaking away upon the uttered word, Neville Coghill. Used by
Flew high into the treetops on the spot. permission of Penguin Books Ltd., London.
And when the fox perceived where he had got, 16
“Alas,” he cried, “alas, my Chanticleer,
I’ve done you grievous wrong, indeed I fear
I must have frightened you; I grabbed too hard
When I caught hold and took you from the yard.
But, sir, I meant no harm, don’t be offended,
Come down and I’ll explain what I intended;
So help me God I’ll tell the truth—on oath!”
“No,” said the cock, “and curses on us both,
And first on me if I were such a dunce
As let you fool me oftener than once.
Never again, for all your flattering lies,
You’ll coax a song to make me blink my eyes;
And as for those who blink when they should
look,
God blot them from his everlasting Book!”
“Nay, rather,” said the fox, “his plagues be flung
On all who chatter that should hold their
tongue.”
Lo, such it is not be on your guard
Against the flatterers of the world, or yard,
And if you think my story is absurd,
A foolish trifle of a beast and bird,
A fable of a fox, a cock, a hen,
Take hold upon the moral, gentlemen.
St. Paul himself, a saint of great discerning,
Says that all things are written for our learning;
So take the grain and let the chaff be still.
And, gracious Father, if it be thy will
As saith my Savior, make us all good men,
And bring us to his heavenly bliss.
 Sonnet 39, William Shakespeare
Lackyng my Love, I go from place to place,
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, Lyke a young fawne that late hath lost the hynd,
I all alone beweep my outcast state, And seeke each where where last I sawe her
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, face,
And look upon myself and curse my fate, Whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd.
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, I seeke the fields with her late footing synd;
Featured like him, like him with friends I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt;
possessed, Yet nor in field nor bowre I can her fynd,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, Yet field and bowre are full of her aspect.
With what I most enjoy contented least; But when myne eyes I therunto direct,
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, They ydly back return to me agayne;
Haply I think on thee, and then my state, And when I hope to see theyr trew obiect,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising I fynd my self but fed with fancies vayne.
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s Cease then, myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see,
gate; And let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth
brings
That then I scorn to change my state with The Canonisation
kings. by John Donne

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me

Sonnet 130 love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
With wealth your state, your mind with arts
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
improve,
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
Take you a course, get you a place,
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
Observe his honor, or his grace,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
Or the king's real, or his stampèd face
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Contemplate; what you will, approve,
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
So you will let me love.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
What merchant's ships have my sighs
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the
drowned?
ground.
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
When did my colds a forward spring
As any she belied with false compare.
remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Amoretti 78 Edmund Spenser
 Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love;

Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
The phœnix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,

And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for Love.

And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love

Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and
drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
A pattern of your love!"
Unit IV: British Poetry: The Romantics and the Pourest thy full heart
Victorians In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

I wandered lonely as a cloud Higher still and higher

By William Wordsworth From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
I wandered lonely as a cloud The blue deep thou wingest,
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever
When all at once I saw a crowd, singest.
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, In the golden lightning
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Continuous as the stars that shine Thou dost float and run;
And twinkle on the milky way, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay: The pale purple even
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Melts around thy flight;
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. Like a star of Heaven,
In the broad day-light
The waves beside them danced; but they Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay, Keen as are the arrows
In such a jocund company: Of that silver sphere,
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought Whose intense lamp narrows
What wealth the show to me had brought: In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood, All the earth and air
They flash upon that inward eye With thy voice is loud,
Which is the bliss of solitude; As, when night is bare,
And then my heart with pleasure fills, From one lonely cloud
And dances with the daffodils. The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is
overflow'd.
To a Skylark
What thou art we know not;
By PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Drops so bright to see
Bird thou never wert,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
That from Heaven, or near it,
Like a Poet hidden Chorus Hymeneal,
In the light of thought, Or triumphal chant,
Singing hymns unbidden, Match'd with thine would be all
Till the world is wrought But an empty vaunt,
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden
want.
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace-tower, What objects are the fountains
Soothing her love-laden Of thy happy strain?
Soul in secret hour What fields, or waves, or mountains?
With music sweet as love, which overflows her What shapes of sky or plain?
bower: What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of
pain?
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew, With thy clear keen joyance
Scattering unbeholden Languor cannot be:
Its aëreal hue Shadow of annoyance
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from Never came near thee:
the view: Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Like a rose embower'd Waking or asleep,

In its own green leaves, Thou of death must deem
By warm winds deflower'd, Things more true and deep
Till the scent it gives Than we mortals dream,
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy- Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal
winged thieves: stream?

Sound of vernal showers We look before and after,

On the twinkling grass, And pine for what is not:
Rain-awaken'd flowers, Our sincerest laughter
All that ever was With some pain is fraught;
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest
surpass. thought.

Teach us, Sprite or Bird, Yet if we could scorn

What sweet thoughts are thine: Hate, and pride, and fear;
I have never heard If we were things born
Praise of love or wine Not to shed a tear,
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Of delightful sound, Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
Better than all treasures And, happy melodist, unwearied,
That in books are found, For ever piping songs for ever new;
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
Teach me half the gladness For ever panting, and for ever young;
That thy brain must know, All breathing human passion far above,
Such harmonious madness That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and
From my lips would flow cloy'd,
The world should listen then, as I am listening A burning forehead, and a parching
now. tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

John Keats: “Ode on a Grecian Urn” To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
What little town by river or sea shore,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
What men or gods are these? What maidens
loth?
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
What pipes and timbrels? What wild
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
ecstasy?
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of
thought
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
When old age shall this generation waste,
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
know."
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy
bliss,
The Lotos-Eaters
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
 By Alfred Tennyson On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." And music in his ears his beating heart did make.
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon. They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no more";
A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows
broke, CHORIC SONG
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. I
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow There is sweet music here that softer falls
From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
drops, Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
copse. Music that brings sweet sleep down from the
blissful skies.
The charmed sunset linger'd low adown Here are cool mosses deep,
In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in
And meadow, set with slender galingale; sleep."
A land where all things always seem'd the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale, II
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave We only toil, who are the first of things,
To each, but whoso did receive of them, And make perpetual moan,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; V
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
"There is no joy but calm!" With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of Falling asleep in a half-dream!
things? To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
III To hear each other's whisper'd speech;
Lo! in the middle of the wood, Eating the Lotos day by day,
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
With winds upon the branch, and there And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
Grows green and broad, and takes no care, To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow To muse and brood and live again in memory,
Falls, and floats adown the air. With those old faces of our infancy
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of
Drops in a silent autumn night. brass!
All its allotted length of days
The flower ripens in its place, VI
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. And dear the last embraces of our wives
And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change:
IV For surely now our household hearths are cold,
Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
Death is the end of life; ah, why Or else the island princes over-bold
Should life all labour be? Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, Before them of the ten years' war in Troy,
And in a little while our lips are dumb. And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.
Let us alone. What is it that will last? Is there confusion in the little isle?
All things are taken from us, and become Let what is broken so remain.
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. The Gods are hard to reconcile:
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 'Tis hard to settle order once again.
To war with evil? Is there any peace There is confusion worse than death,
In ever climbing up the climbing wave? Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave Long labour unto aged breath,
In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
ease.
VII Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, lands,
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring
lowly) deeps and fiery sands,
With half-dropt eyelid still, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking
Beneath a heaven dark and holy, ships, and praying hands.
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly But they smile, they find a music centred in a
His waters from the purple hill— doleful song
To hear the dewy echoes calling Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine— wrong,
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! strong;
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the the soil,
pine. Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring
toil,
VIII Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: oil;
The Lotos blows by every winding creek: Till they perish and they suffer—some, 'tis
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: whisper'd—down in hell
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow dwell,
Lotos-dust is blown. Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the shore
surge was seething free, Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam- and oar;
fountains in the sea. O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal more.
mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
On the hills like Gods together, careless of My Last Duchess
mankind.
By Robert Browning
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are
hurl'd FERRARA
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
lightly curl'd
Looking as if she were alive. I call
Round their golden houses, girdled with the
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands
gleaming world:
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 Much the same smile? This grew; I gave
Strangers like you that pictured countenance, commands;
The depth and passion of its earnest glance, Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
But to myself they turned (since none puts by As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) The company below, then. I repeat,
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, The Count your master’s known munificence
How such a glance came there; so, not the first Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Must never hope to reproduce the faint Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
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 When I am dead, my dearest
A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,
By Christina Rossetti:
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. When I am dead, my dearest,
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast, Sing no sad songs for me;
The dropping of the daylight in the West, Plant thou no roses at my head,
The bough of cherries some officious fool Nor shady cypress tree:
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule Be the green grass above me
She rode with round the terrace—all and each With showers and dewdrops wet;
Would draw from her alike the approving speech, And if thou wilt, remember,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but And if thou wilt, forget.
thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked I shall not see the shadows,
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name I shall not feel the rain;
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame I shall not hear the nightingale
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill Sing on, as if in pain:
In speech—which I have not—to make your will And dreaming through the twilight
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this That doth not rise nor set,
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Haply I may remember,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let And haply may forget.
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
 Unit V: British Poetry: The Twentieth Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Century Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
The Second Coming
Are quiet and meaningless
WB Yeats As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
In our dry cellar
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and
everywhere
Those who have crossed
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Are full of passionate intensity.
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
Surely some revelation is at hand;
The stuffed men.
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
II
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the
desert
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
In death's dream kingdom
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
These do not appear:
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
There, the eyes are
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
Sunlight on a broken column
The darkness drops again; but now I know
There, is a tree swinging
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
And voices are
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
In the wind's singing
And what rough beast, its hour come round at
More distant and more solemn
last,
Than a fading star.
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Let me be no nearer
The Hollow Men In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Mistah Kurtz-he dead
Such deliberate disguises
A penny for the Old Guy
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
We are the hollow men
Behaving as the wind behaves
We are the stuffed men
No nearer-
Leaning together
 Of death's twilight kingdom
Not that final meeting The hope only
In the twilight kingdom Of empty men.

III V

This is the dead land Here we go round the prickly pear

This is cactus land Prickly pear prickly pear
Here the stone images Here we go round the prickly pear
Are raised, here they receive At five o'clock in the morning.
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star. Between the idea
And the reality
Is it like this Between the motion
In death's other kingdom And the act
Waking alone Falls the Shadow
At the hour when we are For Thine is the Kingdom
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss Between the conception
Form prayers to broken stone. And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
IV Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here Between the desire
In this valley of dying stars And the spasm
In this hollow valley Between the potency
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms And the existence
Between the essence
In this last of meeting places And the descent
We grope together Falls the Shadow
And avoid speech For Thine is the Kingdom
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
For Thine is
Sightless, unless Life is
The eyes reappear For Thine is the
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose This is the way the world ends
 This is the way the world ends And had everything necessary to the Modern
This is the way the world ends Man,
Not with a bang but a whimper. A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of
The Unknown Citizen
year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when
1973
there was war, he went.
(To JS/07 M 378
He was married and added five children to the
This Marble Monument
population,
Is Erected by the State)
Which our Eugenist says was the right number
He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be for a parent of his generation.
One against whom there was no official And our teachers report that he never interfered
complaint, with their education.
And all the reports on his conduct agree Was he free? Was he happy? The question is
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned absurd:
word, he was a saint, Had anything been wrong, we should certainly
For in everything he did he served the Greater have heard.
Community.
Strange Meeting
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired, BY WILFRED OWEN
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views, Down some profound dull tunnel, long since
For his Union reports that he paid his dues, scooped
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound) Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
drink. Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
every day With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
And that his reactions to advertisements were Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
normal in every way. And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in With a thousand fears that vision's face was
hospital but left it cured. grained;
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
Living declare And no guns thumped, or down the flues made
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the moan.
Instalment Plan
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to 1914 – 1953
mourn.” Now as I was young and easy under the apple
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years, boughs
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours, About the lilting house and happy as the grass
Was my life also; I went hunting wild was green,
After the wildest beauty in the world, The night above the dingle starry,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, Time let me hail and climb
But mocks the steady running of the hour, Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. And honoured among wagons I was prince of
For by my glee might many men have laughed, the apple towns
And of my weeping something had been left, And once below a time I lordly had the trees and
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold, leaves
The pity of war, the pity war distilled. Trail with daisies and barley
Now men will go content with what we spoiled. Down the rivers of the windfall light.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress. And as I was green and carefree, famous among
None will break ranks, though nations trek from the barns
progress. About the happy yard and singing as the farm
Courage was mine, and I had mystery; was home,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: In the sun that is young once only,
To miss the march of this retreating world Time let me play and be
Into vain citadels that are not walled. Golden in the mercy of his means,
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot- And green and golden I was huntsman and
wheels, herdsman, the calves
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. clear and cold,
I would have poured my spirit without stint And the sabbath rang slowly
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war. In the pebbles of the holy streams.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds
were. All the sun long it was running, it was lovely,
the hay
“I am the enemy you killed, my friend. Fields high as the house, the tunes from the
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned chimneys, it was air
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. And playing, lovely and watery
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. And fire green as grass.
Let us sleep now. . . .” And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the
farm away,
Fern Hill All the moon long I heard, blessed among
stables, the nightjars
Dylan Thomas
 Flying with the ricks, and the horses childless land.
Flashing into the dark. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his
means,
And then to awake, and the farm, like a Time held me green and dying
wanderer white Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
With the dew, come back, the cock on his
shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple
light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound
horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by

the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the
heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that
time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such
morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that

time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow
of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the