| He Wishes for the Cloths of
Heaven Had I the Heaven's embroidered cloths, 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 my dreams 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. W B YEATS |
'Song IX' Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone. |
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Stars in Heaven. I’ll wish upon a star tonight, I will look up in the Heavens,
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The Teams A cloud of dust on the long white road, And teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load; And by the power of the greenhide goad The distant goal is won. With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust, And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; And the shining tires might almost rust While the spokes are turning slow. With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat That shades from the heat's white waves, And shouldered whip with its greenhide plait, The driver plods with a gait like that Of his weary, patient slaves. He wipes is brow, for the day is hot, And he spits to the left with spite; He shouts at 'Bally', and flicks at 'Scot', And he raises the dust on the back of 'Spot', And spits to the dusty right. He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form In front of a settler's door, And ask for a drink, and remark, 'It's warm,' Or say, 'There's signs of a thunderstorm;' But he seldom utters more. But the rains are heavy on roads like these; And, fronting his lonely home, For weeks together the settler sees The teams bogged down to the axletrees, Or ploughing the sodden loam. And then when the roads are at their worst, The bushman's children hear The cruel blows of the whips reversed While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst, And bellow with pain and fear. And thus with little of joy or rest Are the long, long journey's done; And thus - 'tis a cruel war at best - Is distance fought in the mighty West, And the lonely battles won. Henry Lawson 1867 - 1922 This was the first Lawson I read, and I fell in love with writing. Thank you Fran Bolger, where ever you are, for the introduction to literature. |
| Dulce et decorum est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, - My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori." Wilfred Owen 1893-1918 We studied war poetry in our final year at school. This poem has stayed in my memory about the pointlessness & propaganda in war. The title roughly translates to 'it is honourable to die for one's country.' Owen died only days before the end of WWI. |
Storm.
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