Maggie's Farm

Every blade of grass is a study;
And to produce two,
Where there was but one,
Is both a profit and a pleasure.
And not grass alone;
But soils, seeds, and seasons
Hedges, ditches, and fences,
Draining, droughts, and irrigation—
Plowing, hoeing, and harrowing—
Reaping, mowing, and threshing—
Saving crops, pests of crops, diseases of crops,
And what will prevent or cure them—
Implements, utensils, and machines,
Their relative merits,
And [how] to improve them—
Hogs, horses, and cattle—
Sheep, goats, and poultry—
Trees, shrubs, fruits, plants, and flowers—
The thousand things
Of which these are specimens—
Each a world of study within itself.

That is from a Lincoln speech to the Wisconsin Agricultural Society, rearranged as free verse. It works. It sounds like Walt Whitman.

Prof. Sutherland makes the point that folks like Shakespeare and Milton were seeking neither fame nor personal glory. All Shakespeare wanted was to make enough money to retire as a country gentleman as his father had been before coming onto hard times. He would be astonished to learn that people read still his plays and sonnets - and that they read them as "literature," much less that they are read at all. Plays were the movies of their time. They were not written to be read. And John Milton, a successful  London businessman, sought only to glorify God - and to play some politics - through his writing hobby.

Talent will out. It bursts out, when it exists. Will threw these famous lines into a pensive, melancholy soliloquy into the mouth of a minor role (Jaques) in a comedy (As You Like It).

Interesting note from a piece on the Globe Theater: "Above the main entrance of the Globe was a crest displaying Hercules bearing the globe on his shoulders together with the motto "Totus mundus agit histrionem" (the whole world is a playhouse)." Also, theaters had no toilet facilities. Good grief.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Image: The Globe Theater

Our post on A P-51 named February moved us to post Magee's well-known sonnet, High Flight

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds...and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of...wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew.

And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

RCAF Spitfire pilot Magee, an American, was killed in an airplane accident during the Battle of Britain, 1941, age 19. He told his mother that the final verse came to him at 30,000 feet, and that he finished the poem on his way down.

EZRA POUND, PISAN CANTOS, LXXXI

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.

This song is from As You Like It

Advice to Himself

To A Waterfowl

Whither, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean side? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- 
The desert and illimitable air,-- 
Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd 
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere: 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end, 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reed shall bend 
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
And shall not soon depart. 

He, who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone, 
Will lead my steps aright.

Love and Sleep

Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said-
I wist not what, saving one word - Delight.
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.

Algernon Charles Swinburne, the son of an admiral, is considered a decadent Victorian poet and probably not one of the greats. But lots of interesting stuff isn't "great." (Illo by Theo.)

Emily Dickinson's life was not as isolated or loveless as had been thought. How's this for seduction, spiritual or otherwise?

He fumbles at your spirit

He fumbles at your spirit
   As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
   He stuns you by degrees,

Prepares your brittle substance
   For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
   Then nearer, then so slow

Your breath has time to straighten,
   Your brain to bubble cool, --
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
   That scalps your naked soul.

A reader reminded us of Jonathan Edwards' 1971 hit "Sunshine." The lyrics seem appropriate to today's politics. One verse:

well how much does it cost
i'll buy it
the time is all we've lost
i'll try it
he can't even run his own life
i'll damned if he'll run mine...(sunshine)

Complete lyrics here.

Here he is singing the tune in 2006 in Gruene, Texas:

After Apple Picking

This early (1915) poem is in Frost's North of Boston collection. You can hear him read the poem here. Here's an interesting review of a bio of Frost: A Terrifying Poet. Yes he was.

The Falling of the Leaves

Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.

We'll Go No More A'roving

So, we'll go no more a roving
    So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
    And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
    And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
    And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
    And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
    By the light of the moon.

The Old Man's Comforts, and How He Gained Them

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
   The few locks which are left are grey;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,
   Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,        
   I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
   That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
   And pleasures with youth pass away;                 
And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
   Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
   I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,               
   That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
   And life must be hastening away;
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death,
   Now tell me the reason, I pray.                     

I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied,
   Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!
   And He hath not forgotten my age.

You are old, Father William

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head --
Do you think, at your age, it is right?

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And you have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door --
Pray what is the reason for that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment -- one shilling a box --
Allow me to sell you a couple?"

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak --
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose --
What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs.

You know, you've had your day
Don't stand around
You've been a good old wagon
Daddy but you done broke down

You'd better go down to the blacksmith shop
Get yourself an overhaul
There ain't nothin about you
Make a good woman bawl

When you were in your prime
You used to love to run around
You been a good old wagon
Daddy but you done broke down

When the sun is shining
That's the time to make hay
Now it's rainin all the time
And you can't make your old wagon pay

Nobody wants a baby
When a real man can be found
You been a good old wagon
Daddy but you done broke down

Ain't no use in cryin
Or to make a big show
This man has taught me more about lovin
Than you will ever know

Well he is the king of lovin
Just minus of a crown
He's a good old wagon
Daddy and he ain't broke down

Here's the late, great Dave Van Ronk reminiscing, and playing the song:

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
  So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
  So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

My heart leaps up when I behold
              A rainbow in the sky:
          So was it when my life began;
          So is it now I am a man;
          So be it when I shall grow old,
              Or let me die!
          The Child is father of the Man;
              I could wish my days to be
          Bound each to each by natural piety.
                                          "My heart leaps up," 1802.

Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (1803-06)

  I

          THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
          The earth, and every common sight,
                    To me did seem
                  Apparelled in celestial light,
          The glory and the freshness of a dream.
          It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
                  Turn wheresoe'er I may,
                    By night or day,
          The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

                                   II

                  The Rainbow comes and goes,
                  And lovely is the Rose,
                  The Moon doth with delight
            Look round her when the heavens are bare,
                  Waters on a starry night
                  Are beautiful and fair;
              The sunshine is a glorious birth;
              But yet I know, where'er I go,
          That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

                                  III

          Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
              And while the young lambs bound
                  As to the tabor's sound,
          To me alone there came a thought of grief:
          A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
                  And I again am strong:
          The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
          No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
          I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
          The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
                  And all the earth is gay;
                      Land and sea
              Give themselves up to jollity,
                  And with the heart of May
              Doth every Beast keep holiday;--
                  Thou Child of Joy,
          Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
                    Shepherd-boy!

                                   IV

          Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
              Ye to each other make; I see
          The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
              My heart is at your festival,
              My head hath its coronal,
          The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
              Oh evil day! if I were sullen
              While Earth herself is adorning,
                  This sweet May-morning,
              And the Children are culling
                  On every side,
              In a thousand valleys far and wide,
              Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
          And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:--
              I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
              --But there's a Tree, of many, one,
          A single Field which I have looked upon,
          Both of them speak of something that is gone:
              The Pansy at my feet
              Doth the same tale repeat:
          Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
          Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

                          (The rest of the ode is below the fold)        

(Thanks, reader. A great old tune, and Spier is the best.)

Sonnet LX

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.