Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. … Continue reading “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost
Whosever room this is should be ashamed! His underwear is hanging on the lamp. His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair, And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp. His workbook is wedged in the window, His sweater’s been thrown on the floor. His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV, And … Continue reading ‘Messy Room’ by Shel Silverstein
To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache … Continue reading William Shakespeare’s Hamlet
The leaves are falling, falling as from far, As if far gardens in the skies were dying; They fall, and never seem to be denying. And in the night the earth, a heavy ball, Into a starless solitude must fall. We all are falling. My own hand no less Than all things else; behold, it … Continue reading ‘Autumn’ by Rainer Maria Rilke
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine Et nos amours Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne La joie venait toujours après la peine. Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure Les jours s’en vont je demeure Les mains dans les mains restons face à face Tandis que sous Le pont de nos bras passe Des éternels regards l’onde si … Continue reading ‘Le Pont Mirabeau’ by Guillaume Apollinaire
I used to think that grown-up people chose To have stiff backs and wrinkles round their nose, And veins like small fat snakes on either hand, On purpose to be grand. Till through the banister I watched one day My great-aunt Etty’s friend who was going away, And how her onyx beads had come unstrung. … Continue reading ‘Childhood’ by Frances Cornford
Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen, cold, Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadowed from the candle’s guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head… You are too young … Continue reading ‘The Dug-Out’ by Siegfried Sassoon
The spirit is too blunt an instrument to have made this baby. Nothing so unskilful as human passions could have managed the intricate exacting particulars: the tiny blind bones with their manipulating tendons, the knee and the knucklebones, the resilient fine meshings of ganglia and vertebrae, the chain of the difficult spine. Observe the distinct … Continue reading ‘The Spirit is too Blunt an Instrument’ by Anne Stevenson
I have seen the sun break through to illuminate a small field for a while, and gone my way and forgotten it. But that was the pearl of great price, the one field that had treasure in it. I realise now that I must give all that I have to possess it. Life is not … Continue reading ‘The Bright Field’ by R. S. Thomas
When all’s said, and done, if civilisation drowns the last colour to go will be gold – the light on a glass, the prow of a gondola, the name on a rosewood piano as silence engulfs it. And first to return to a waterlogged world, the rivers slipping out to sea, the cities steaming, will be gold, one dip from Bellini’s brush, feathers of angels, Cinquecente nativities, and all that follows.