We used to sing this in my school assembly in 1958, so although I feel a bit despondent about it now, I still love it playing in my head.”


1 These things shall be: a loftier race
Than e'er the world hath known shall rise
With flame of freedom in their souls
And light of knowledge in their eyes.
2 They shall be gentle, brave, and strong,
To spill no drop of blood, but dare
All that may plant man's lordship firm
On earth, and fire, and sea, and air.
3 Nation with nation, land with land,
Unarmed shall live as comrades free;
In every heart and brain shall throb
The pulse of one fraternity.
4 New arts shall bloom of loftier mold,
And mightier music thrill the skies,
And every life shall be a song,
When all the earth is paradise.

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Tomorrow is the vernal equinox. I'll drive to the Jersey Shore in the wee hours to catch the first sunrise of spring. I call it "easing the spring."

LESSONS OF THE WAR

To Alan Michell
Vixi duellis nuper idoneus
Et militavi non sine gloria
I. NAMING OF PARTS

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have naming of parts.

-- Henry Reed

Beautiful, thank you.

The Darkling Thrush
BY THOMAS HARDY

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

That might be about as hopeful as Hardy ever gets, and it's not too hopeful. I've always found that Hardy suits my own somewhat depressive mood, so I like his poetry and fiction. I like traditional verse forms, too, such as those Hardy uses.

This one is often anthologized. It's sometimes said to reflect Hardy's long but difficult marriage.

Neutral Tones
BY THOMAS HARDY

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;
– They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles of years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro
On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing….

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

DWill:

Thomas Hardy was a old grumps. I don’t know that any of his books have any humour. Life isn’t like that. Even the prisoners in Hitler’s death camps found things to laugh at, or was that because the ones who wrote about it were mostly Jewish? They think they are God’s chosen because they have the best sense of humour. It is a gift.

Pied Beauty
BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
Glory be to God for dappled things –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Penelope wrote:DWill:

Thomas Hardy was a old grumps.

He was indeed! LOL! I love how the Darkling Thrush ends on a hopeful note though. Why is this bloody bird singing so happily? Does he know something I don't know? Hardy doesn't have an answer, but it's enough to know that the bird doesn't need a reason to be joyful. Nature brings about this epiphany. Love it.

Gerard Manley Hopkins could be pretty grumpy too. But he always ends up seeing the grandeur of God in everything, even in things not usually considered to be beautiful—all things counter, original, spare, strange. He's annoyingly optimistic at times, but an excellent counterpoint to Hardy. Two poets, one glass half-empty and the other glass half-full. Thanks.

Penelope wrote:DWill:
Thomas Hardy was a old grumps. I don’t know that any of his books have any humour. Life isn’t like that. Even the prisoners in Hitler’s death camps found things to laugh at, or was that because the ones who wrote about it were mostly Jewish? They think they are God’s chosen because they have the best sense of humour. It is a gift.

Well! How do you really feel? I can't rise to TH's defense on the humor matter, because that would mean giving examples, which I can't provide. BUT, that might be because I haven't read Hardy lately. Don't you think that there are a good many charming bits in Hardy, and isn't charm allied to humor? I'm going to say it is.

I didn't say I was keen on the unrelenting pessimism of Jude the Obscure. But I do like a good tragedy. Shakespeare would lighten the mood with clowns & buffoons, but he needed to please the folks in the cheap seats.

I haven't read The Return of the Native since high school when it was forced on us. I didn't like it then but should now give it another chance. Weren't those furze-cutters kind of comical and madcap?

Yes, DWill, The Woodlanders is quite charming:




He Looked and smelt like Autumn's very brother, his face being sunburnt to wheat-colour, his eyes blue as corn-flowers, his sleeves and leggings dyed with fruit-stains, his hands clammy with the sweet juice of apples, his hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhere about him the sweet atmosphere of cider which at its first return each season has such an indescribable fascination for those who have been born and bred among the orchards.
Thomas Hardy, The Woodlanders

I do like the way nature and the landscape permeate his work. That’s why his books make such good fils, they say. I think he must have gained a lot of consolation from the landscape and, come to think of it, so do I the older I get.

Still, I like my books to cheer me up rather more these days. I have read quite a few of Hardy’s in the past though.

Yes, DWill, The Woodlanders is quite charming:




He Looked and smelt like Autumn's very brother, his face being sunburnt to wheat-colour, his eyes blue as corn-flowers, his sleeves and leggings dyed with fruit-stains, his hands clammy with the sweet juice of apples, his hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhere about him the sweet atmosphere of cider which at its first return each season has such an indescribable fascination for those who have been born and bred among the orchards.
Thomas Hardy, The Woodlanders

I do like the way nature and the landscape permeate his work. That’s why his books make such good films, they say. I think he must have gained a lot of consolation from the landscape and, come to think of it, so do I the older I get.

Still, I like my books to cheer me up rather more these days. I have read quite a few of Hardy’s in the past though.