The Poem Reader

In today’s correspondence a poetry book detailing the lives of British Queens— with a note enclosed and a question: what does it mean to be a Queen?  

I could reply and say— this precious stone set in a silver sea: a symbol, like a banner, for mens’ love. But these are not my words.  

I could reply and say— glorying in the glories of my people, sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest. But these are not my words.  

I could declare— that each Queen is tissue paper thin, transluscent but combined, are my flesh. But I will not solidify my words,  

instead I will command my secretary to write, with many kind thanks for the little book etc, but to say my thoughts on Queenship can only be ascertained by my actions. 

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Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the wayWith blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,The village master taught his little school;A man severe he was, and stern to view,I knew him well, and every truant knew;Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to traceThe days disasters in his morning face;Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee,At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:Full well the busy whisper, circling round,Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd:Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,The love he bore to learning was in fault.The village all declar'd how much he knew;'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too:Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,And e'en the story ran that he could gauge.In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill,For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still;While words of learned length and thund'ring soundAmazed the gazing rustics rang'd around;And still they gaz'd and still the wonder grew,That one small head could carry all he knew.But past is all his fame. The very spotWhere many a time he triumph'd is forgot.

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And did those feet in ancient timeWalk upon Englands mountains green:And was the holy Lamb of God,On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,Shine forth upon our clouded hills?And was Jerusalem builded here,Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold:Bring me my arrows of desire:Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:Till we have built Jerusalem,In Englands green & pleasant Land.

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I wander thro' each charter'd street,Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,And mark in every face I meetMarks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,In every Infant's cry of fear,In every voice, in every ban,The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper's cryEvery blackning Church appalls;And the hapless Soldier's sighRuns in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro' midnight streets I hearHow the youthful Harlot's curseBlasts the new-born Infant's tear,And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

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Sometime when you’re feeling important;Sometime when your ego’s in bloomSometime when you take it for grantedYou’re the best qualified in the room,

Sometime when you feel that your goingWould leave an unfillable hole,Just follow these simple instructionsAnd see how they humble your soul;

Take a bucket and fill it with water,Put your hand in it up to the wrist,Pull it out and the hole that’s remainingIs a measure of how you’ll be missed.

You can splash all you wish when you enter,You may stir up the water galore,But stop and you’ll find that in no timeIt looks quite the same as before.

The moral of this quaint exampleIs do just the best that you can,Be proud of yourself but remember,There’s no indispensable man.

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Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference

.

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The rain set early in to-night,     The sullen wind was soon awake,It tore the elm-tops down for spite,       And did its worst to vex the lake:       I listened with heart fit to break.When glided in Porphyria; straight       She shut the cold out and the storm,And kneeled and made the cheerless grate       Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;       Which done, she rose, and from her formWithdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,       And laid her soiled gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall,       And, last, she sat down by my side       And called me. When no voice replied,She put my arm about her waist,       And made her smooth white shoulder bare,And all her yellow hair displaced,       And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,       And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,Murmuring how she loved me — she       Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,To set its struggling passion free       From pride, and vainer ties dissever,       And give herself to me for ever.But passion sometimes would prevail,       Nor could to-night's gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so pale       For love of her, and all in vain:       So, she was come through wind and rain.Be sure I looked up at her eyes       Happy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipped me; surprise       Made my heart swell, and still it grew       While I debated what to do.That moment she was mine, mine, fair,       Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hair       In one long yellow string I wound       Three times her little throat around,And strangled her. No pain felt she;       I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee,       I warily oped her lids: again       Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.And I untightened next the tress       About her neck; her cheek once moreBlushed bright beneath my burning kiss:       I propped her head up as before,       Only, this time my shoulder boreHer head, which droops upon it still:       The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will,       That all it scorned at once is fled,       And I, its love, am gained instead!Porphyria's love: she guessed not how       Her darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now,       And all night long we have not stirred,       And yet God has not said a word!

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IHalf a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of Death   Rode the six hundred.“Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!” he said.Into the valley of Death   Rode the six hundred.

II“Forward, the Light Brigade!”Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew   Someone had blundered.   Theirs not to make reply,   Theirs not to reason why,   Theirs but to do and die.   Into the valley of Death   Rode the six hundred.

IIICannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of them   Volleyed and thundered;Stormed at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of hell   Rode the six hundred.

IVFlashed all their sabres bare,Flashed as they turned in airSabring the gunners there,Charging an army, while   All the world wondered.Plunged in the battery-smokeRight through the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReeled from the sabre stroke   Shattered and sundered.Then they rode back, but not   Not the six hundred.

VCannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind them   Volleyed and thundered;Stormed at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell.They that had fought so wellCame through the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of hell,All that was left of them,   Left of six hundred.

VIWhen can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!   All the world wondered.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,   Noble six hundred!

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Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,What strenuous singles we played after tea,We in the tournament - you against me!Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,The warm-handled racket is back in its press,But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,And cool the verandah that welcomes us inTo the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,As I struggle with double-end evening tie,For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,And westering, questioning settles the sun,On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stairAnd there on the landing's the light on your hair.By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,She drove to the club in the late summer haze,Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bellsAnd mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,Above us the intimate roof of the car,And here on my right is the girl of my choice,With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.We sat in the car park till twenty to oneAnd now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

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