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Birds and poetry (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter christineredgate
- Start date
It’s a pity that it’s the wrong time of year for the Yeats International Summer School, otherwise your son could have enrolled for that! It is held in Sligo in July/August and apparently is as convivial as it is instructive. It is something I have in mind to do myself one of these years!
Andrew
Nerine
Well-known member
Nick and Steve, thanks for the great Nissim Ezekiel poetry.
Andrew, two fine poems by Yeats, I especially love The Withering of the Boughs.
Welcome, wiseb, and thank you for posting Hardy's beautiful poem, The Darkling Thrush, a great favourite of mine.
I'm posting another poem by John Clare. He wrote this when he was in the lunatic asylum and, although he was treated kindly, it must have been unbearable for someone with such a love of nature and the countryside to be locked inside for so long.
MY EARLY HOME
Here sparrows build upon the trees,
And stockdove hides her nest;
The leaves are winnowed by the breeze
Into a calmer rest;
The black-cap’s song was very sweet,
That used the rose to kiss;
It made the Paradise complete:
My early home was this.
The red-breast from the sweetbriar bush
Drop’t down to pick the worm;
On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush,
O’er the house where I was born;
The moonlight, like a shower of pearls,
Fell o’er this “bower of bliss,”
And on the bench sat boys and girls:
My early home was this.
The old house stooped just like a cave,
Thatched o’er with mosses green;
Winter around the walls would rave,
But all was calm within;
The trees are here all green agen,
Here bees the flowers still kiss,
But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then:
My early home was this.
John Clare
Nerine
Andrew, two fine poems by Yeats, I especially love The Withering of the Boughs.
Welcome, wiseb, and thank you for posting Hardy's beautiful poem, The Darkling Thrush, a great favourite of mine.
I'm posting another poem by John Clare. He wrote this when he was in the lunatic asylum and, although he was treated kindly, it must have been unbearable for someone with such a love of nature and the countryside to be locked inside for so long.
MY EARLY HOME
Here sparrows build upon the trees,
And stockdove hides her nest;
The leaves are winnowed by the breeze
Into a calmer rest;
The black-cap’s song was very sweet,
That used the rose to kiss;
It made the Paradise complete:
My early home was this.
The red-breast from the sweetbriar bush
Drop’t down to pick the worm;
On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush,
O’er the house where I was born;
The moonlight, like a shower of pearls,
Fell o’er this “bower of bliss,”
And on the bench sat boys and girls:
My early home was this.
The old house stooped just like a cave,
Thatched o’er with mosses green;
Winter around the walls would rave,
But all was calm within;
The trees are here all green agen,
Here bees the flowers still kiss,
But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then:
My early home was this.
John Clare
Nerine
Nerine, what a lovely poem from John Clare. ‘But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then’ has a real poignancy, given the circumstances in which he wrote it.
Here is, I think, a rather splendid poem from Elizabeth Jennings, who died in 2001.
Absence
I visited the place where we last met.
Nothing was changed, the gardens were well-tended,
The fountains sprayed their usual steady jet;
There was no sign that anything had ended
And nothing to instruct me to forget.
The thoughtless birds that shook out of the trees,
Singing an ecstasy I could not share,
Played cunning in my thoughts. Surely in these
Pleasures there could not be a pain to bear
Or any discord shake the level breeze.
It was because the place was just the same
That made your absence seem a savage force,
For under all the gentleness there came
An earthquake tremor: Fountain, birds and grass
Were shaken by my thinking of your name.
Elizabeth Jennings
Andrew
Here is, I think, a rather splendid poem from Elizabeth Jennings, who died in 2001.
Absence
I visited the place where we last met.
Nothing was changed, the gardens were well-tended,
The fountains sprayed their usual steady jet;
There was no sign that anything had ended
And nothing to instruct me to forget.
The thoughtless birds that shook out of the trees,
Singing an ecstasy I could not share,
Played cunning in my thoughts. Surely in these
Pleasures there could not be a pain to bear
Or any discord shake the level breeze.
It was because the place was just the same
That made your absence seem a savage force,
For under all the gentleness there came
An earthquake tremor: Fountain, birds and grass
Were shaken by my thinking of your name.
Elizabeth Jennings
Andrew
A Bird Came Down the Walk -- Dickinson
I looked at the list on page 66, and couldn't believe that Emily Dickinson's poem "A Bird Came Down the Walk" hadn't yet been posted!
A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head
Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home
Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.
I looked at the list on page 66, and couldn't believe that Emily Dickinson's poem "A Bird Came Down the Walk" hadn't yet been posted!
A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head
Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home
Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.
God gave a loaf to every bird --Dickinson
And one more by Dickinson, while I'm here.
God gave a loaf to every bird,
But just a crumb to me;
I dare not eat it, though I starve,--
My poignant luxury
To own it, touch it, prove the feat
That made the pellet mine,--
Too happy in my sparrow chance
For ampler coveting.
It might be famine all around,
I could not miss an ear,
Such plenty smiles upon my board,
My garner shows so fair.
I wonder how the rich may feel,--
An Indiaman--an Earl?
I deem that I with but a crumb
Am sovereign of them all.
And one more by Dickinson, while I'm here.
God gave a loaf to every bird,
But just a crumb to me;
I dare not eat it, though I starve,--
My poignant luxury
To own it, touch it, prove the feat
That made the pellet mine,--
Too happy in my sparrow chance
For ampler coveting.
It might be famine all around,
I could not miss an ear,
Such plenty smiles upon my board,
My garner shows so fair.
I wonder how the rich may feel,--
An Indiaman--an Earl?
I deem that I with but a crumb
Am sovereign of them all.
As a new poster on this thread thanks for letting me know about page 66! Extremely useful, the surprising omission is Ivor Gurney whose poetry I like very much. The parallels with Clare are striking with Ivor also spending half his life in asylums/hospitals and feeling completely distanced from the land he loved.
This is his "The Nightingales"
Three I heard once together in Barrow Hill copse -
At midnight, with a slip of moon, in a sort of dusk.
They were not shy, heard us, and continued uttering their notes.
But after 'Adelaide' and the poets ages' of praise
How could I think such beautiful; or utter false the lies
Fit for verse? It was only bird-song, a midnight strange new noise.
But a month before a laughing linnet in the gold had sung,
(and green) as if poet or musician had never before true tongue
To tell out nature's magic with any truth kept for long.....
By Fretherne Lane the linnet (in the green) I shall not forget
(Nor gold) the start of wonder - the joy to be so in debt
to beauty - to the hidden bird there in spring elms elate.
Should I lie then, because at midnight one had nightingales,
Singing a mile off in the young oaks that wake to look to Wales,
Dream and watch Severn - like me, will tell no false adoration in tales?
Hi Nick.
Don't fret, Ivor Gurney is certainly there. I admire his poetry and have posted his works and sung his praises on this thread more than once. He is a 'local' poet to me and at last is being recognised, also you probably know he was a composer and some of his works are available on a CD this year.
great poems on this thread (as usual) keep them coming guys and of course you Nerine
regards
Merlin
Don't fret, Ivor Gurney is certainly there. I admire his poetry and have posted his works and sung his praises on this thread more than once. He is a 'local' poet to me and at last is being recognised, also you probably know he was a composer and some of his works are available on a CD this year.
great poems on this thread (as usual) keep them coming guys and of course you Nerine
regards
Merlin
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Thanks Wiseweb.I visit this thread,and honestly I am overwhelmed by the nos of postings of poems,esp all the ones which contain ref to birds.It is unbelievable.So many poets penned verse to these beautiful creatures,and here they all are,being shown on on BF.Many,many thanks,to all who are posting.
I seem to remember some mention of an anthology of bird poetry coming out soon compiled by Simon Armitage and Tim Dee. Anyone heard about this?
Nick
WiseB,
A warm welcome to you.
not that politically correct, here is a poem called Asylum Seekers
regards
Merlin
Asylum Seekers?
They come in their thousands, they come every year.
They just turn up, no one invited them here!
They come with no possessions, they come in at night.
Why do they choose our country? What gives them the right?
They don’t speak our language, they don’t wear our clothes.
They eat our food, they live in our homes.
They don’t pay taxes, they don’t pay rent.
They don’t go to our church; they are never here when it’s lent.
They are everywhere in the countryside, they are in every town.
When you visit the village post office, they are there, watching you, looking down.
Are they going home? Or just going away?
Is this where they live? Or where they come to stay?
There now seems an urgency like never before.
Time is running out as they group together to leave our shore.
Why do they come? Why do they go?
Is it for food or just instinct? We don’t really know.
They are definitely going, they are leaving here.
I just hope my friends the swallows come back next year.
Are they African or European? Should we really care?
They brighten are lives and belong up in the sky, up there.
A warm welcome to you.
not that politically correct, here is a poem called Asylum Seekers
regards
Merlin
Asylum Seekers?
They come in their thousands, they come every year.
They just turn up, no one invited them here!
They come with no possessions, they come in at night.
Why do they choose our country? What gives them the right?
They don’t speak our language, they don’t wear our clothes.
They eat our food, they live in our homes.
They don’t pay taxes, they don’t pay rent.
They don’t go to our church; they are never here when it’s lent.
They are everywhere in the countryside, they are in every town.
When you visit the village post office, they are there, watching you, looking down.
Are they going home? Or just going away?
Is this where they live? Or where they come to stay?
There now seems an urgency like never before.
Time is running out as they group together to leave our shore.
Why do they come? Why do they go?
Is it for food or just instinct? We don’t really know.
They are definitely going, they are leaving here.
I just hope my friends the swallows come back next year.
Are they African or European? Should we really care?
They brighten are lives and belong up in the sky, up there.
Nice one, Merlin.
Here is another of Mary Oliver’s ‘bird’ poems:
Gannets
I am watching the white gannets
blaze down into the water
with the power of blunt spears
and a stunning accuracy--
even though the sea is riled and boiling
and gray with fog
and the fish
are nowhere to be seen,
they fall, they explode into the water
like white gloves,
then they vanish,
then they climb out again,
from the cliff of the wave,
like white flowers--
and still I think
that nothing in this world moves
but as a positive power--
even the fish, finning down into the current
or collapsing
in the red purse of the beak,
are only interrupted from their own pursuit
of whatever it is
that fills their bellies--
and I say:
life is real,
and pain is real,
but death is an imposter,
and if I could be what once I was,
like the wolf or the bear
standing on the cold shore,
I would still see it--
how the fish simply escape, this time,
or how they slide down into a black fire
for a moment,
then rise from the water inseparable
from the gannets' wings.
Mary Oliver
Andrew
Here is another of Mary Oliver’s ‘bird’ poems:
Gannets
I am watching the white gannets
blaze down into the water
with the power of blunt spears
and a stunning accuracy--
even though the sea is riled and boiling
and gray with fog
and the fish
are nowhere to be seen,
they fall, they explode into the water
like white gloves,
then they vanish,
then they climb out again,
from the cliff of the wave,
like white flowers--
and still I think
that nothing in this world moves
but as a positive power--
even the fish, finning down into the current
or collapsing
in the red purse of the beak,
are only interrupted from their own pursuit
of whatever it is
that fills their bellies--
and I say:
life is real,
and pain is real,
but death is an imposter,
and if I could be what once I was,
like the wolf or the bear
standing on the cold shore,
I would still see it--
how the fish simply escape, this time,
or how they slide down into a black fire
for a moment,
then rise from the water inseparable
from the gannets' wings.
Mary Oliver
Andrew
Nerine
Well-known member
Andrew, Than you for "Absence" – a beautifully sad and emotional poem by Elizabeth Jennings, I loved reading it.
"Gannets" by Mary Oliver is also good. She uses her words so well:
they fall, they explode into the water
like white gloves,
then they vanish,
Great poem.
Great Emily Dickinson, wiseb and "The Nightingale" by Ivor Gurney is lovely, Nick.
Merlin, I liked yours! It won't be long before the swallows are back, only a little more than 3 months?
I don’t think we’ve had this before:
Triangles
Three triangles of birds crossed
Over the enormous ocean which extended
In winter like a green beast.
Everything just lay there, the silence,
The unfolding gray, the heavy light
Of space, some land now and then.
Over everything there was passing
A flight
And another flight
Of dark birds, winter bodies
Trembling triangles
Whose wings,
Frantically flapping, hardly
Can carry the gray cold, the desolate days
From one place to another
Along the coast of Chile.
I am here while from one sky to another
The trembling of the migratory birds
Leaves me sunk inside myself, inside my own matter
Like an everlasting well
Dug by an immovable spiral.
Now they have disappeared
Black feathers of the sea
Iron birds
From steep slopes and rock piles
Now at noon
I am in front of emptiness. It’s a winter
Space stretched out
And the sea has put
Over its blue face
A bitter mask.
Pablo Neruda
Nerine
"Gannets" by Mary Oliver is also good. She uses her words so well:
they fall, they explode into the water
like white gloves,
then they vanish,
Great poem.
Great Emily Dickinson, wiseb and "The Nightingale" by Ivor Gurney is lovely, Nick.
Merlin, I liked yours! It won't be long before the swallows are back, only a little more than 3 months?
I don’t think we’ve had this before:
Triangles
Three triangles of birds crossed
Over the enormous ocean which extended
In winter like a green beast.
Everything just lay there, the silence,
The unfolding gray, the heavy light
Of space, some land now and then.
Over everything there was passing
A flight
And another flight
Of dark birds, winter bodies
Trembling triangles
Whose wings,
Frantically flapping, hardly
Can carry the gray cold, the desolate days
From one place to another
Along the coast of Chile.
I am here while from one sky to another
The trembling of the migratory birds
Leaves me sunk inside myself, inside my own matter
Like an everlasting well
Dug by an immovable spiral.
Now they have disappeared
Black feathers of the sea
Iron birds
From steep slopes and rock piles
Now at noon
I am in front of emptiness. It’s a winter
Space stretched out
And the sea has put
Over its blue face
A bitter mask.
Pablo Neruda
Nerine
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Gannets and Triangles,2 great poems,many thanks.
Nerine, that is a superb poem from Pablo Neruda (though am I alone in having trouble with the concept of ‘an everlasting well/ Dug by an immovable spiral’?). It is great though in describing the migratory birds - one of the wonders of the natural world.
We have touched on the question of poetry translation before. It is fascinating to see how different poets approach the task. Here are three versions of Bauldelaire’s poem ‘Les Hiboux’. The first is a literal translation by William Aggeler, the second an interpretative version by Edna St Vincent Millay, and the third an ‘imitation’ by Tom Paulin.
Owls
Under the dark yews which shade them,
The owls are perched in rows,
Like so many strange gods,
Darting their red eyes. They meditate.
Without budging they will remain
Till that melancholy hour
When, pushing back the slanting sun,
Darkness will take up its abode.
Their attitude teaches the wise
That in this world one must fear
Movement and commotion;
Man, enraptured by a passing shadow,
Forever bears the punishment
Of having tried to change his place.
William Aggeler
The Owls
The owls that roost in the black yew
Along one limb in solemn state,
And with a red eye look you through,
Are eastern gods; they meditate.
No feather stirs on them, not one,
Until that melancholy hour
When night, supplanting the weak sun,
Resumes her interrupted power.
Their attitude instructs the wise
To shun all action, all surprise.
Suppose there passed a lovely face, —
Who even longs to follow it,
Must feel for ever the disgrace
Of having all but moved a bit.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
The Owls
(Baudelaire)
Owls perch in yew trees like strange gods
their eyes glauque but open as they meditate
- they don’t budge until dusk has tamped down
the sun below the horizon
then they feed us this little scrap of wisdom
- where there’s only one game in town
that game is best avoided
and then they add it’s late – maybe they mean too late?
Tom Paulin
Andrew
We have touched on the question of poetry translation before. It is fascinating to see how different poets approach the task. Here are three versions of Bauldelaire’s poem ‘Les Hiboux’. The first is a literal translation by William Aggeler, the second an interpretative version by Edna St Vincent Millay, and the third an ‘imitation’ by Tom Paulin.
Owls
Under the dark yews which shade them,
The owls are perched in rows,
Like so many strange gods,
Darting their red eyes. They meditate.
Without budging they will remain
Till that melancholy hour
When, pushing back the slanting sun,
Darkness will take up its abode.
Their attitude teaches the wise
That in this world one must fear
Movement and commotion;
Man, enraptured by a passing shadow,
Forever bears the punishment
Of having tried to change his place.
William Aggeler
The Owls
The owls that roost in the black yew
Along one limb in solemn state,
And with a red eye look you through,
Are eastern gods; they meditate.
No feather stirs on them, not one,
Until that melancholy hour
When night, supplanting the weak sun,
Resumes her interrupted power.
Their attitude instructs the wise
To shun all action, all surprise.
Suppose there passed a lovely face, —
Who even longs to follow it,
Must feel for ever the disgrace
Of having all but moved a bit.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
The Owls
(Baudelaire)
Owls perch in yew trees like strange gods
their eyes glauque but open as they meditate
- they don’t budge until dusk has tamped down
the sun below the horizon
then they feed us this little scrap of wisdom
- where there’s only one game in town
that game is best avoided
and then they add it’s late – maybe they mean too late?
Tom Paulin
Andrew
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Thanks,Andrew,very interesting.
scampo
Steve Campsall
I thought some of you might enjoy reading this tribute to Edward Thomas, as he seems a favourite of this thread. It was written by Walter de la Mare in the preface to the 1920 edition of Edward Thomas's Collected Poems. It's followed by a poem that I find very moving.
from the foreword to the Collected Poems of Edward Thomas (1920)
His face was fair, long and rather narrow, and in its customary gravity wore an expression rather distant and detached. There was a glint of gold in his sun-baked hair. The eyes ... were of a clear dark blue ... the lips were finely lined and wide, the chin square. His shoes were to his stature; the hands that had cradled so many wild birds' eggs, and were familiar with every flower in the Southern counties, were powerful and bony; the gestures few; the frame vigorous ... His smile could be whimsical, stealthy, shy, ardent, mocking, or drily ironical ... His voice was low and gentle but musical, with a curious sweetness and hollowness when he sang his old Welsh songs to his children. I have never heard English used so fastidiously and yet so unaffectedly as in his talk. Style in talk, indeed is a rare charm; and it was his. You could listen to it for its own sake, just as for its style solely you can read a book. He must have thought like that; like that he felt. There were things and people, blind, callous, indifferent, veneered, destructive he hated, because he loved life, loved to talk about it, rare and racy, old and charactered. He might avoid, did avoid, what intimidated, chilled, or made him self-conscious; he never condescended. So children and the aged, the unfriended and the free were as natural and welcome to him as swallows under the eaves ... What he gave to a friend in his company was not only himself, but that friend's self made infinitely less clumsy and shallow than usual, and at ease ... Nobody in this world closely resembling him have I ever had the happiness to meet: others of his friends have said the same thing ...
Walter de la Mare
Beauty
WHAT does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease,
No man, woman, or child alive could please
Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh
Because I sit and frame an epitaph—
"Here lies all that no one loved of him
And that loved no one." Then in a trice that whim
Has wearied. But, though I am like a river
At fall of evening when it seems that never
Has the sun lighted it or warmed it, while
Cross breezes cut the surface to a file,
This heart, some fraction of me, happily
Floats through a window even now to a tree
Down in the misting, dim-lit, quiet vale;
Not like a pewit that returns to wail
For something it has lost, but like a dove
That slants unanswering to its home and love.
There I find my rest, and through the dusk air
Flies what yet lives in me. Beauty is there.
Edward Thomas
from the foreword to the Collected Poems of Edward Thomas (1920)
His face was fair, long and rather narrow, and in its customary gravity wore an expression rather distant and detached. There was a glint of gold in his sun-baked hair. The eyes ... were of a clear dark blue ... the lips were finely lined and wide, the chin square. His shoes were to his stature; the hands that had cradled so many wild birds' eggs, and were familiar with every flower in the Southern counties, were powerful and bony; the gestures few; the frame vigorous ... His smile could be whimsical, stealthy, shy, ardent, mocking, or drily ironical ... His voice was low and gentle but musical, with a curious sweetness and hollowness when he sang his old Welsh songs to his children. I have never heard English used so fastidiously and yet so unaffectedly as in his talk. Style in talk, indeed is a rare charm; and it was his. You could listen to it for its own sake, just as for its style solely you can read a book. He must have thought like that; like that he felt. There were things and people, blind, callous, indifferent, veneered, destructive he hated, because he loved life, loved to talk about it, rare and racy, old and charactered. He might avoid, did avoid, what intimidated, chilled, or made him self-conscious; he never condescended. So children and the aged, the unfriended and the free were as natural and welcome to him as swallows under the eaves ... What he gave to a friend in his company was not only himself, but that friend's self made infinitely less clumsy and shallow than usual, and at ease ... Nobody in this world closely resembling him have I ever had the happiness to meet: others of his friends have said the same thing ...
Walter de la Mare
Beauty
WHAT does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease,
No man, woman, or child alive could please
Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh
Because I sit and frame an epitaph—
"Here lies all that no one loved of him
And that loved no one." Then in a trice that whim
Has wearied. But, though I am like a river
At fall of evening when it seems that never
Has the sun lighted it or warmed it, while
Cross breezes cut the surface to a file,
This heart, some fraction of me, happily
Floats through a window even now to a tree
Down in the misting, dim-lit, quiet vale;
Not like a pewit that returns to wail
For something it has lost, but like a dove
That slants unanswering to its home and love.
There I find my rest, and through the dusk air
Flies what yet lives in me. Beauty is there.
Edward Thomas
Andrew,
great poems
Steve,
Edward Thomas is surely one of the greatest British poets and by the description of him from Walter De la mare his poems reflect an amazing personality. I find it so sad that he and so many others were lost in the 'Great War'.
regards
Merlin
great poems
Steve,
Edward Thomas is surely one of the greatest British poets and by the description of him from Walter De la mare his poems reflect an amazing personality. I find it so sad that he and so many others were lost in the 'Great War'.
regards
Merlin
scampo
Steve Campsall
Hi Merlin - hope all is well with you and your family.
I like "Beauty" for its honesty. Thomas suffered, I have read, with delicate nerves and was not always the easiest friend, husband or father, yet his fine qualities shone out of him to such an extent that all who knew him seem to have been enthralled despite that. I've posted the next poem before, written to his wife, Helen; whenever I read it I feel very moved by his predicament. It's truly a fine poem. "Gone, Gone Again" is another of my favourites from this fine writer.
AND YOU, HELEN
And you, Helen, what should I give you?
So many things I would give you
Had I an infinite great store
Offered me and I stood before
To choose. I would give you youth,
All kinds of loveliness and truth,
A clear eye as good as mine,
Lands, waters, flowers, wine,
As many children as your heart
Might wish for, a far better art
Than mine can be, all you have lost
Upon the travelling waters tossed,
Or given to me. If I could choose
Freely in that great treasure-house
Anything from any shelf,
I would give you back yourself,
And power to discriminate
What you want and want it not too late,
Many fair days free from care
And heart to enjoy both foul and fair,
And myself, too, if I could find
Where it lay hidden and it proved kind.
GONE, GONE AGAIN
Gone, gone again,
May, June, July,
And August gone,
Again gone by,
Not memorable
Save that I saw them go,
As past the empty quays
The rivers flow.
And now again,
In the harvest rain,
The Blenheim oranges
Fall grubby from the trees
As when I was young—
And when the lost one was here—
And when the war began
To turn young men to dung.
Look at the old house,
Outmoded, dignified,
Dark and untenanted,
With grass growing instead
Of the footsteps of life,
The friendliness, the strife;
In its beds have lain
Youth, love, age, and pain:
I am sometimes like that;
Only I am not dead,
Still breathing and interested
In the house that is not dark:—
I am something like that:
Not one pane to reflect the sun,
For the schoolboys to throw at—
They have broken every one.
Edward Thomas
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