National Poetry Day - theme Stars.

Winter Stars

By Sara Teasdale 1884–1933 Sara Teasdale


I went out at night alone;

The young blood flowing beyond the sea

Seemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings—

I bore my sorrow heavily.

But when I lifted up my head

From shadows shaken on the snow,

I saw Orion in the east

Burn steadily as long ago.


From windows in my father’s house,

Dreaming my dreams on winter nights,

I watched Orion as a girl

Above another city’s lights.


Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too,

The world’s heart breaks beneath its wars,

All things are changed, save in the east

The faithful beauty of the stars.

August

Would you hate the person I’ve become?


Would you even know me?

Could you see the child that I was?

Or would you hear my inner voice that calls to you?

Would we stand like strangers without words?

Would the silence all about us start to grow?

Could we find some common ground

Or just feel awkward with each other and then go?



The time that’s passed has changed me beyond measure,

Life has etched it passage on my face,

Trials have warped and bent and wounded me

But the love I held for you never lessens.


I wish that we could have just a moment

Just one, to reach out across the void.

I wish that we had taken time to say the things

That needed to be said that other time.

My anger has lessened now and is faded

That you left me when I still had need of you

Wishing for the past will never change this

But I am still the person that you knew.

My final poem to share

This was a poem in the anthology my Mum bought me when I was 12 called 'Time's Delight' by Raymond Wilson - it says it is book of poems for all seasons. I love this book, it has many happy memories there are still copies of it around .

 I never understood why two volcanoes had stolen the narrator and as I have recently read on another blog it isn't a good poem really - but it does stick in your head and there is something about the names used within the rhythm of poem that makes it work.

Romance

WHEN I was but thirteen or so
I went into a golden land,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Took me by the hand.

My father died, my brother too, 
They passed like fleeting dreams,
I stood where Popocatapetl
In the sunlight gleams.

I dimly heard the master's voice
And boys far-off at play,— 
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Had stolen me away.

I walked in a great golden dream
To and fro from school—
Shining Popocatapetl,
The dusty streets did rule.

I walked home with a gold dark boy
And never a word I'd say,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Had taken my speech away. 

I gazed entranced upon his face
Fairer than any flower—
O shining Popocatapetl
It was thy magic hour:

The houses, people, traffic seemed 
Thin fading dreams by day;
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi,
They had stolen my soul away!

W. J Turner (1889-1946)

So that is it - a month of poems (except for the few days when I had no internet). I've enjoyed it. It hasn't diminished my love of poetry in the least in fact it has re lit the spark.

Oh England my Lionheart

This isn't a poem, it's a song lyric but what is a song if not a poem set to music? And if it moves you, if it makes you feel - then who is to quibble over something that can touch a human soul and resonate within it.




I'm in your garden, fading fast in your arms.

The soldiers soften, the war is over.
The air raid shelters are blooming clover.
Flapping umbrellas fill the lanes--
My London Bridge in rain again.


Oh! England, my Lionheart!
Peter Pan steals the kids in Kensington Park.
You read me Shakespeare on the rolling Thames--
That old river poet that never, ever ends.
Our thumping hearts hold the ravens in,
And keep the tower from tumbling.

Oh! England, my Lionheart,
Oh! England, my Lionheart,
Oh! England, my Lionheart,

I don't want to go.
Oh! England, my Lionheart!
Dropped from my black Spitfire to my funeral barge.
Give me one kiss in apple-blossom.
Give me one wish, and I'd be wassailing
In the orchard, my English rose,
Or with my shepherd, who'll bring me home.

Oh! England, my Lionheart,
Oh! England, my Lionheart,
Oh! England, my Lionheart,
Oh! England, my Lionheart,
Oh! England, my Lionheart,

I don't want to go.


Kate Bush (1958 -    )

A little bit of Frost.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening




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.


He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.


The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.
 
 
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
 
 
Another poem that I think some people think it is a cliche to like - I don't care really. It paints a vivid picture and a yearning and I like it.

Sonnet

Remember me.

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more, day by day,
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

I love the form of a sonnet and  this is a favourite.

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,


Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,



I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)


Is it a cliche to love this poem? Don't care. I love it.

One Day

Today I have been happy. All the day


I held the memory of you, and wove

Its laughter with the dancing light o' the spray,

And sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love,

And sent you following the white waves of sea,

And crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth,

Stray buds from that old dust of misery,

Being glad with a new foolish quiet mirth.





So lightly I played with those dark memories,

Just as a child, beneath the summer skies,

Plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone,

For which (he knows not) towns were fire of old,

And love has been betrayed, and murder done,

And great kings turned to a little bitter mould.


Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

I have part of this poem engraved on a silver russian wedding ring - and I love it.

The Colour of His Hair.

The Colour of His Hair


Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?

And what has he been after, that they groan and shake their fists?

And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?

Oh they’re taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.



‘Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;

In the good old time ’twas hanging for the colour that it is;

Though hanging isn’t bad enough and flaying would be fair

For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.



Oh a deal of pains he’s taken and a pretty price he’s paid

To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;

But they’ve pulled the beggar’s hat off for the world to see and stare,

And they’re haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.



Now ’tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,

And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,

And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare

He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.



A. E. Housman (1859 – 1936)

I am told this was written around the time of the trial of Oscar Wilde for gross indecency but was not published until much later. It is a poem that needs little explanation whatever the reason for its being written.

A poem to read out loud

The Walrus and the Carpenter


The sun was shining on the sea,


Shining with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright--

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night.





The moon was shining sulkily,

Because she thought the sun

Had got no business to be there

After the day was done--

"It's very rude of him," she said,

"To come and spoil the fun!"





The sea was wet as wet could be,

The sands were dry as dry.

You could not see a cloud, because

No cloud was in the sky:

No birds were flying overhead--

There were no birds to fly.





The Walrus and the Carpenter

Were walking close at hand;

They wept like anything to see

Such quantities of sand:

"If this were only cleared away,"

They said, "it would be grand!"





"If seven maids with seven mops

Swept it for half a year.

Do you suppose," the Walrus said,

"That they could get it clear?"

"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,

And shed a bitter tear.





"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"

The Walrus did beseech.

"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

Along the briny beach:

We cannot do with more than four,

To give a hand to each."





The eldest Oyster looked at him,

But never a word he said:

The eldest Oyster winked his eye,

And shook his heavy head--

Meaning to say he did not choose

To leave the oyster-bed.





But four young Oysters hurried up,

All eager for the treat:

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

Their shoes were clean and neat--

And this was odd, because, you know,

They hadn't any feet.





Four other Oysters followed them,

And yet another four;

And thick and fast they came at last,

And more, and more, and more--

All hopping through the frothy waves,

And scrambling to the shore.





The Walrus and the Carpenter

Walked on a mile or so,

And then they rested on a rock

Conveniently low:

And all the little Oysters stood

And waited in a row.





"The time has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of many things:

Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--

Of cabbages--and kings--

And why the sea is boiling hot--

And whether pigs have wings."





"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,

"Before we have our chat;

For some of us are out of breath,

And all of us are fat!"

"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.

They thanked him much for that.





"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,

"Is what we chiefly need:

Pepper and vinegar besides

Are very good indeed--

Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,

We can begin to feed."





"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,

Turning a little blue.

"After such kindness, that would be

A dismal thing to do!"

"The night is fine," the Walrus said.

"Do you admire the view?





"It was so kind of you to come!

And you are very nice!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

"Cut us another slice:

I wish you were not quite so deaf--

I've had to ask you twice!"





"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,

"To play them such a trick,

After we've brought them out so far,

And made them trot so quick!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

"The butter's spread too thick!"





"I weep for you," the Walrus said:

"I deeply sympathize."

With sobs and tears he sorted out

Those of the largest size,

Holding his pocket-handkerchief

Before his streaming eyes.





"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,

"You've had a pleasant run!

Shall we be trotting home again?'

But answer came there none--

And this was scarcely odd, because

They'd eaten every one.

Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)

The Traveller by Raymond Wilson

Old man, old man, sitting on the stile,


Your boots are worn, your clothes are torn,

Tell us why you smile.


Children, children, what silly things you are!

My boots are worn and my clothes are torn

Because I've walked so far.


Old man, old man, where have you walked from?

Your legs are bent and your breath is spent -

Which way did you come?

Children, children, when you're old and lame,

When your legs are bent and your breath is spent

You'll know the way I came.



Old man, old man, have you far to go

Without a friend to your journey's end,

And why are you so slow?



Children, children, I do the best I may:

I meet a friend at my journey's end

With whom you'll meet some day.


Old man, old man, sitting on the stile,

How do you know which way to go,

And why is it you smile?


Children, children, butter should be spread,

Floors should be swept and promises kept -

And you should be in bed!

Missed a few days.....

Virgin fucked up my Internet and TV and trying to get them to 'do' something has given me even more grey hairs!

Still to catch up, a quick poem.

The Hippopotamus by Hilaire Belloc

I shot the Hippopotamus with bullets made of platinum
Because if I used leaden ones, his hide is sure to flatten them.

The Old Gumbie Cat

The Old Gumbie Cat
T S Eliot

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots.
All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat;
She sits and sits and sits and sits--and that's what makes a Gumbie Cat!

But when the day's hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
And when all the family's in bed and asleep,
She tucks up her skirts to the basement to creep.
She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice
Their behaviour's not good and their manners not nice;
So when she has got them lined up on the matting,
She teachs them music, crocheting and tatting.

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots.
All day she sits beside the hearth or on the bed or on my hat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits--and that's what makes a Gumbie Cat!

But when the day's hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
As she finds that the mice will not ever keep quiet,
She is sure it is due to irregular diet;
And believing that nothing is done without trying,
She sets right to work with her baking and frying.
She makes them a mouse--cake of bread and dried peas,
And a beautiful fry of lean bacon and cheese.

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots.
She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that's smooth and flat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits--and that's what makes a Gumbie Cat!

But when the day's hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
She thinks that the cockroaches just need employment
To prevent them from idle and wanton destroyment.
So she's formed, from that lot of disorderly louts,
A troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts,
With a purpose in life and a good deed to do
And she's even created a Beetles' Tattoo.

So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three cheers
On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.

 

So what is it I love about poetry?

Well I suppose it started as a child with seeing them as funny short stories that had a beat and a rhythm. Another dimension to story telling and as most of the poems I heard seemed to be funny at that age I have an association with feeling happy and poetry. I also liked the fact you could learn them quite easily and they were, therefore, always with you to help a moment pass or to amuse yourself and others.

As a teen I loved the ability to find emotions in them. To express my teenage angst and see that others suffered, as I believed, I did. You could rant at the injustice and tyranny of the adult word and vent all that pent frustration and longing.

As an adult all those aspects are still there. Some of my best memories of being a parent are linked to quiet times with J and a good book of silly or funny poem, sharing that joy, fun and hearing him start to have preferences and remembering the ones he liked. I am still drawn to emotive poems, poems that move and stir your soul, that make you feel. I don't wallow in them like I did as a teen but the memories they evoke are not all bad ones and it's good to laugh at the person I was as well. But mainly for me as an adult devotee of poetry it's the language and the rhythm of the words and the pictures in my mind that they paint. It is such a personal and emotional form that it is like touching the mind of the poet - even more so than other forms of literature. They are literary photographs - catching that moment, that feeling and that sense of self knowing.

A million Slags Dancing

Peel back the layers and watch the slags dancing

Invisible morals dripping like acid

Dissolving the filaments, the thread of society.

Tip up the bottle and down with knickers

Turning a trick in a pool of vomit

No pleasure, just action. Writhing in bile.

Slumped in a gutter - eyelids fluttering

Sticky and dripping with the seed of a stranger,

One shoe missing, the other in danger.

But the slags are still dancing around their handbags,

Faces are melting, hair has gone stringy,

Time of their lives, screams ‘Am I minging?’

Another bottle, another tune, another trick - over too quick.

Vile and degraded but shrieking with glee

‘I’ve had him and him. They’ve all had me!’

Needing to piss but too drunk to care

Chunks of kebab matted in hair.

But the slags are still dancing - it isn’t yet dawn

Squeeze out the last moments of riot and porn.

Who cares for tomorrow, our future, our live’s?

It’s all about now, all pleasure no pain.

Here is our future. What we have become

A million slags dancing and living for fun.
 
P.Lainchbury (1967 - )
 
I first posted this the day it was written with was 06/08/09 - I rarely post my poems but I've always kinda liked this one.

I love this poem so much!

King John’s Christmas




King John was not a good man –

He had his little ways.

And sometimes no one spoke to him

For days and days and days.

And men who came across him,

When walking in the town,

Gave him a supercilious stare,

Or passed with noses in the air –

And bad King John stood dumbly there,

Blushing beneath his crown.



King John was not a good man,

And no good friends had he.

He stayed in every afternoon…

But no one came to tea.

And, round about December,

The cards upon his shelf

Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,

And fortune in the coming year,

Were never from his near and dear,

But only from himself.



King John was not a good man,

Yet had his hopes and fears.

They’d given him no present now

For years and years and years.

But every year at Christmas,

While minstrels stood about,

Collecting tribute from the young

For all the songs they might have sung,

He stole away upstairs and hung

A hopeful stocking out.



King John was not a good man,

He lived his live aloof;

Alone he thought a message out

While climbing up the roof.

He wrote it down and propped it

Against the chimney stack:

“TO ALL AND SUNDRY – NEAR AND FAR -

F. Christmas in particular.”

And signed it not “Johannes R.”

But very humbly, “Jack.”



“I want some crackers,

And I want some candy;

I think a box of chocolates

Would come in handy;

I don’t mind oranges,

I do like nuts!

And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife

That really cuts.

And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,

Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!”



King John was not a good man –

He wrote this message out,

And gat him to this room again,

Descending by the spout.

And all that night he lay there,

A prey to hopes and fears.

“I think that’s him a-coming now!”

(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)

“He’ll bring one present, anyhow –

The first I had for years.”



“Forget about the crackers,

And forget the candy;

I’m sure a box of chocolates

Would never come in handy;

I don’t like oranges,

I don’t want nuts,

And I HAVE got a pocket-knife

That almost cuts.

But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,

Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!”



King John was not a good man,

Next morning when the sun

Rose up to tell a waiting world

That Christmas had begun,

And people seized their stockings,

And opened them with glee,

And crackers, toys and games appeared,

And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,

King John said grimly: “As I feared,

Nothing again for me!”



“I did want crackers,

And I did want candy;

I know a box of chocolates

Would come in handy;

I do love oranges,

I did want nuts!

And, oh! if Father Christmas, had loved me at all,

He would have brought a big, red,

india-rubber ball!”



King John stood by the window,

And frowned to see below

The happy bands of boys and girls

All playing in the snow.

A while he stood there watching,

And envying them all …

When through the window big and red

There hurtled by his royal head,

And bounced and fell upon the bed,

An india-rubber ball!



AND, OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,

MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL

FOR BRINGING HIM

A BIG, RED,

INDIA-RUBBER

BALL!

A.A. Milne (1882-1956).

Alan Rickman - sonnet 130

What better for the weekend Shakespeare's most romantic sonnet recited by with rich voice of Mr Rickman - enjoy!!!

A little more Wordsworth.

Another favourite Wordsworth poem - it really does illustrate why he is labelled a lyrical or romantice poet I think.

Anecdote For Fathers

I have a boy of five years old;


His face is fair and fresh to see;

His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,

And dearly he loves me.



One morn we strolled on our dry walk,

Our quiet home all full in view,

And held such intermitted talk

As we are wont to do.



My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,

Our pleasant home when spring began,

A long, long year before.



A day it was when I could bear

Some fond regrets to entertain;

With so much happiness to spare,

I could not feel a pain.



The green earth echoed to the feet

Of lambs that bounded through the glade,

From shade to sunshine, and as fleet

From sunshine back to shade.



Birds warbled round me -- and each trace

of inward sadness had its charm;

Kilve, thought I, was a favored place,

And so is Liswyn farm.



My boy beside me tripped, so slim

And graceful in his rustic dress!

And, as we talked, I questioned him,

In very idleness.



“Now tell me, had you rather be,”

I said, and took him by the arm,

“On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea,

Or here at Liswyn farm?”



In careless mood he looked at me,

While still I held him by the arm,

And said, “At Kilve I'd rather be

Than here at Liswyn farm.”



“Now, little Edward, say why so:

My little Edward, tell me why.” --

“I cannot tell, I do not know.” --

“Why, this is strange,” said I;



“For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:

There surely must some reason be

Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm

For Kilve by the green sea.”



At this, my boy hung down his head,

He blushed with shame, nor made reply;

And three times to the child I said,

“Why, Edward, tell me why?”



His head he raised -- there was in sight,

It caught his eye, he saw it plain --

Upon the house-top, glittering bright,

A broad and gilded vane.



Then did the boy his tongue unlock,

And eased his mind with this reply:

“At Kilve there was no weather-cock;

And that's the reason why.”



O dearest, dearest boy! my heart

For better lore would seldom yearn,

Could I but teach the hundredth part

Of what from thee I learn

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

J's favourite childhood poem.

Jim.


Who ran away from his Nurse and was eaten by a Lion




There was a Boy whose name was Jim;

His Friends were very good to him.

They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,

And slices of delicious Ham,

And Chocolate with pink inside

And little Tricycles to ride,

And read him Stories through and through,

And even took him to the Zoo--

But there it was the dreadful Fate

Befell him, which I now relate.



You know--or at least you ought to know,

For I have often told you so--

That Children never are allowed

To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;

Now this was Jim's especial Foible,

He ran away when he was able,

And on this inauspicious day

He slipped his hand and ran away!



He hadn't gone a yard when--Bang!

With open Jaws, a lion sprang,

And hungrily began to eat

The Boy: beginning at his feet.

Now, just imagine how it feels

When first your toes and then your heels,

And then by gradual degrees,

Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,

Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.

No wonder Jim detested it!

No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''



The Honest Keeper heard his cry,

Though very fat he almost ran

To help the little gentleman.

``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came

(For Ponto was the Lion's name),

``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,

``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''

The Lion made a sudden stop,

He let the Dainty Morsel drop,

And slunk reluctant to his Cage,

Snarling with Disappointed Rage.

But when he bent him over Jim,

The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.

The Lion having reached his Head,

The Miserable Boy was dead!



When Nurse informed his Parents, they

Were more Concerned than I can say:--

His Mother, as She dried her eyes,

Said, ``Well--it gives me no surprise,

He would not do as he was told!''

His Father, who was self-controlled,

Bade all the children round attend

To James's miserable end,

And always keep a-hold of Nurse

For fear of finding something worse.

Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

The book that I used to read from to J - is my childhood copy - it's rather battered and tatty but I still love it and the poems - a couple of which I can still know of by heart.

The Leech Gatherer

or, Resolution and Independence




There was a roaring in the wind all night;

The rain came heavily and fell in floods;

But now the sun is rising calm and bright;

The birds are singing in the distant woods;

Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;

The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.



All things that love the sun are out of doors;

The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;

The grass is bright with rain-drops; -on the moors

The Hare is running races in her mirth;

And with her feet she from the plashy earth

Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun,

Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.



I was a traveller then upon the moor;

I saw the Hare that raced about with joy;

I heard the woods and distant waters roar;

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:

The pleasant season did my heart employ:

My old remembrances went from me wholly;

And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy!



But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might

Of joy in minds that can no further go,

As high as we have mounted in delight

In our dejection do we sink as low,

To me that morning did it happen so;

And fears and fancies thick upon me came;

Dim sadness -and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.



I heard the Skylark warbling in the sky;

And I bethought me of the playful Hare:

Even such a happy Child of earth am I;

Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;

Far from the world I walk, and from all care;

But there may come another day to me -

Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.



My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,

As if life's business were a summer mood:

As if all needful things would come unsought

To genial faith, still rich in genial good:

But how can He expect that others should

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call

Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?



I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,

The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;

Of Him who walked in glory and in joy

Following his plough, along the mountain-side:

By our own spirits are we deified;

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;

But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.



Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,

A leading from above, a something given,

Yet it befell that, in this lonely place,

When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,

Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven

I saw a Man before me unawares:

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.



As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie

Couched on the bald top of an eminence;

Wonder to all who do the same espy,

By what means it could thither come, and whence;

So that it seems a thing endued with sense:

Like a Sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf

Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;



Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,

Nor all asleep -in his extreme old age:

His body was bent double, feet and head

Coming together in life's pilgrimage;

As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage

Of sickness felt by him in times long past,

A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.



Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face,

Upon a long grey Staff of shaven wood:

And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,

Upon the margin of that moorish flood

Motionless as a Cloud the Old-man stood;

That heareth not the loud winds when they call;

And moveth all together, if it move at all.



At length, himself unsettling, he the Pond

Stirred with his Staff, and fixedly did look

Upon the muddy water, which he conned,

As if he had been reading in a book:

And now a stranger's privilege I took;

And, drawing to his side, to him did say,

"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."



A gentle answer did the Old-man make,

In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:

And him with further words I thus bespake,

"What occupation do you there pursue?

This is a lonesome place for one like you."

He answered, while a flash of mild surprise

Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes.



His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,

But each in solemn order followed each,

With something of a lofty utterance drest -

Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach

Of ordinary men; a stately speech;

Such as grave livers do in Scotland use,

Religious men, who give to God and Man their dues.



He told, that to these waters he had come

To gather Leeches, being old and poor:

Employment hazardous and wearisome!

And he had many hardships to endure;

From pond to pond he roamed, form moor to moor;

Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;

And in this way he gained and honest maintenance.



The Old-man still stood talking by my side;

But now his voice to me was like a stream

Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;

And the whole Body of the Man did seem

Like one whom I had met with in a dream;

Or like a man from some far region sent,

To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.



My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;

And hope that is unwilling to be fed;

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;

And mighty Poets in their misery dead.

- Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,

My question eagerly did I renew,

"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"



He with a smile did then his words repeat;

And said that, gathering Leeches, far and wide

He travelled; stirring thus about his feet

The waters of the Pools where they abide.

"Once I could meet with them on every side;

But they have dwindled long by slow decay;

Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."



While he was talking thus, the lonely place,

The Old-man's shape, and speech, all troubled me:

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace

About the weary moors continually,

Wandering about alone and silently.

While I these thoughts within myself pursued,

He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.



And soon with this he other matter blended,

Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,

But stately in the main; and when he ended,

I could have laughed myself to scorn to find

In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.

"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;

I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"
 
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
 
I like Wordsworth - maybe not some of his more famous poems - but some of the lesser read ones. I read this one as part of an OU literature course and it was the first time I'd ever seen it. I loved it the first time I read it and it has now become a firm favourite.