He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with the golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams beneath your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams…

~ William Butler Yeats

Comrades, To Con

The peaceful night that round me flows,
Breaks through your iron prison doors,
Free through the world your spirit goes,
Forbidden hands are clasping yours.
The wind is our confederate
The night has left the doors ajar;
We meet beyond earth’s barred gate,
Where all the world’s wild rebels are.

~ Eva Gore-Booth

Going on an Errand

A pound of tea at one and three
And a pot of raspberry jam
Two new laid eggs a dozen pegs
And a pound of rashers of ham.

I’ll say it over all the way
And then I’m sure not to forget
For if I chance to bring things wrong
My Mother gets in such a sweat.

A pound of tea at one and three
And a pot of raspberry jam
Two new laid eggs a dozen pegs
And a pound of rashers of ham.

There in the hay the children play
They’re having such fine fun
I’ll go there too that’s what I’ll do
As soon as my errands are done

A pound of tea at one and three
A pot of er new laid jam
Two raspberry eggs with a dozen pegs
And a pound of rashers of ham.

There’s Teddy White flying his kite
He thinks himself grand I declare
I’d like to make it fly up sky high
Ever so much higher than the old church spire

And then – but there

A pound of three at one and tea
A pot of new laid jam
Two dozen eggs, some raspberry pegs
And a pound of rashers of ham.

Now here’s the shop outside I’ll stop
And run my orders through again
I haven’t forgot – it’s better not
It shows I’m pretty quick that’s plain.

A pound of tea at one and three
A dozen of raspberry ham
A pot of eggs with a dozen pegs
And a rasher of new laid jam.

~ by Anonymous

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

~ Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932

Mars has been enjoying poetry. (I’m quite sorry I gave away some of my Literature textbooks now!) Here’s a poem that I rather like by Rudyard Kipling. (FYI, I’m a bit of an ambivalent admirer of his… his politics was just rubbish, no?)

If —

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!

~ Rudyard Kipling