Welcome back to Season 17 of the Well Read Poem! This season's theme is "When Homer Nods: Bad Poetry by Good Poets." Until this season, our readings on The Well Read Poem have nearly all been drawn from the well of the great, or at least the good, waters of poetry, which would of course take a lifetime and more to exhaust. And so it has been deemed appropriate at summer's close, as we return to school and the daily round, that we should partake slightly of a few select vintages of bad poetry by otherwise accomplished poets for the sake of variety and the amusement of all.

Today's selection is "On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poem reading begins at timestamp 7:47. 

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

                        I.

      Fifty times the rose has flower'd and faded,
      Fifty times the golden harvest fallen,
      Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

                        II.

            She beloved for a kindliness
            Rare in fable or history,
            Queen, and Empress of India,
            Crown'd so long with a diadem
            Never worn by a worthier,
            Now with prosperous auguries
            Comes at last to the bounteous
            Crowning year of her Jubilee.

                        III.

      Nothing of the lawless, of the despot,
      Nothing of the vulgar, or vainglorious,
      All is gracious, gentle, great and queenly.

                        IV.

            You then joyfully, all of you,
            Set the mountain aflame to-night,
            Shoot your stars to the firmament,
            Deck your houses, illuminate
            All your towns for a festival,
            And in each let a multitude
            Loyal, each, to the heart of it,
            One full voice of allegiance,
            Hail the fair Ceremonial
            Of this year of her Jubilee.

                        V.

      Queen, as true to womanhood as Queenhood,
      Glorying in the glories of her people,
      Sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest!

                        VI.

            You, that wanton in affluence,
            Spare not now to be bountiful,
            Call your poor to regale with you,
            All the lowly, the destitute,
            Make their neighborhood healthfuller,
            Give your gold to the hospital,
            Let the weary be comforted,
            Let the needy be banqueted,
            Let the maim'd in his heart rejoice
            At this glad Ceremonial,
            And this year of her Jubilee.

                        VII.

      Henry's fifty years are all in shadow,
      Gray with distance Edward's fifty summers,
      Even her Grandsire's fifty half forgotten.

                        VIII.

            You, the Patriot Architect,
            You that shape for eternity,
            Raise a stately memorial,
            Make it regally gorgeous,
            Some Imperial Institute,
            Rich in symbol, in ornament,
            Which may speak to the centuries,
            All the centuries after us,
            Of this great Ceremonial,
            And this year of her Jubilee.

                        IX.

      Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce!
      Fifty years of ever-brightening Science!
      Fifty years of ever-widening Empire!

                        X.

            You, the Mighty, the Fortunate,
            You, the Lord-territorial,
            You, the Lord-manufacturer,
            You, the hardy, laborious,
            Patient children of Albion,
            You, Canadian, Indian,
            Australasian, African,
            All your hearts be in harmony,
            All your voices in unison.
            Singing, 'Hail to the glorious
            Golden year of her Jubilee!'

                        XI.

      Are there thunders moaning in the distance?
      Are there spectres moving in the darkness?
      Trust the Hand of Light will lead her people,
      Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish,
      And the Light is Victor, and the darkness
      Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.
 

Welcome to the final episode in Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "Summer" by Christina Rossetti. Poem reading begins at timestamp 3:06 or 6:44.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

Summer

by Christina Rossetti

Winter is cold-hearted,
  Spring is yea and nay,
Autumn is a weathercock
  Blown every way:
Summer days for me
  When every leaf is on its tree;

When Robin's not a beggar,
  And Jenny Wren's a bride,
And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
  Over the wheat-fields wide,
  And anchored lilies ride,
And the pendulum spider
  Swings from side to side,

And blue-black beetles transact business,
  And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
  That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.

Before green apples blush,
  Before green nuts embrown,
Why, one day in the country
  Is worth a month in town;
  Is worth a day and a year
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
  That days drone elsewhere.

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.  

Today's poem is “The Cat” by Charles Baudelaire translated by Roy Campbell. Poem begins at timestamps 2:46 (in French) and 4:49 (in English).

Le Chat

by Charles Baudelaire, trans. Roy Campbell

Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux;
Retiens les griffes de ta patte,
Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux,
Mêlés de métal et d'agate.

Lorsque mes doigts caressent à loisir
Ta tête et ton dos élastique,
Et que ma main s'enivre du plaisir
De palper ton corps électrique,

Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard,
Comme le tien, aimable bête
Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard,

Et, des pieds jusques à la tête,
Un air subtil, un dangereux parfum
Nagent autour de son corps brun.

The Cat 

Come, my fine cat, against my loving heart;
Sheathe your sharp claws, and settle.
And let my eyes into your pupils dart
Where agate sparks with metal.

Now while my fingertips caress at leisure
Your head and wiry curves,
And that my hand's elated with the pleasure
Of your electric nerves,

I think about my woman — how her glances
Like yours, dear beast, deep-down
And cold, can cut and wound one as with lances;

Then, too, she has that vagrant
And subtle air of danger that makes fragrant
Her body, lithe and brown.

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.  

Today's poem is “Marsyas” by Jose-Maria de Heredia translated by Thomas Banks. Poem begins at timestamps 3:21 (in French) and 4:50 (in English).

Marsyas

by Jose-Maria de Heredia, trans. by Thomas Banks

Your voice once charmed these trees whose burning wood
Has scorched your skin and bone, and the red stain
Of your spilled life flows slowly to the plain
In mountain brooks dyed crimson with your blood. Jealous Apollo full of heavenly pride
With iron rod shattered your reeds that long Made lions peaceful and taught birds their song:
With Phrygia’s singer Phrygian song has died. Nothing remains of you except the dry
Remnant of flesh Apollo in his hate
Left on a yew-branch hanging; No pained cry
Or tender gift of song opposed your fate. Your flute is heard no more; hung on the trees
Your flayed skin is the plaything of the breeze.

Marsyas

by Jose-Maria de Heredia

Les pins du bois natal que charmait ton haleine
N’ont pas brûlé ta chair, ô malheureux ! Tes os
Sont dissous, et ton sang s’écoule avec les eaux
Que les monts de Phrygie épanchent vers la plaine. Le jaloux Citharède, orgueil du ciel hellène,
De son plectre de fer a brisé tes roseaux
Qui, domptant les lions, enseignaient les oiseaux ;
Il ne reste plus rien du chanteur de Célène. Rien qu’un lambeau sanglant qui flotte au tronc de l’if
Auquel on l’a lié pour l’écorcher tout vif.
Ô Dieu cruel ! Ô cris ! Voix lamentable et tendre ! Non, vous n’entendrez plus, sous un doigt trop savant,
La flûte soupirer aux rives du Méandre...
Car la peau du Satyre est le jouet du vent.

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we want to thank Emily Williams Raible, who suggested the theme "Poems in Translation" to us*, who probably should have thought of it ourselves, but, for whatever reason, failed to do so. Be this as it may, it is a theme rich in possibilities, and we hope that it will be a source of much enjoyment to all our listeners. We will introduce six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.  *By "us", we mean, of course, "me" (Thomas Banks).

Today's poem is "On His Brother's Death" by Catullus, translated by Aubrey Beardsley. Poem begins at timestamps 5:50 (in Latin) and 8:21 or 11:07 (in English).

On His Brother's Death

by Catullus, trans. by Aubrey Beardsley

By ways remote and distant waters sped,
Brother, to thy sad grave-side am I come,
That I may give the last gifts to the dead,
And vainly parley with thine ashes dumb:
Since she who now bestows and now denies
Hath ta'en thee, hapless brother, from mine eyes.
But lo! these gifts, the heirlooms of past years,
Are made sad things to grace thy coffin shell;
Take them, all drenched with a brother's tears,
And, brother, for all time, hail and farewell!

Frater, Ave Atque Vale (Catullus 101)

Latin   Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus advenio has miseras, frater, ad inferias, ut te postremo donarem munere mortis et mutam nequiquam adloquerer cinerem, quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum, heu miser indigne frater adempte mihi. Nunc tamen interea haec, prisco quae more parentum tradita sunt tristi munere ad inferias, accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.

As befits the time of year, we are reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. 

Today's poem is "Christmas" by John Betjeman. Reading begins at timestamp 5:05.

Christmas

by John Betjeman

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!'
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true? And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. 

Today's poem is "Noël" by Théophile Gautier in translation by Agnes Lee. Reading begins at timestamps 4:33 and 6:18.

Noël (Christmas)

by Théophile Gautier, trans. by Agnes Lee

Black is the sky and white the ground.
O ring, ye bells, your carol's grace!
The Child is born! A love profound
Beams o'er Him from His Mother's face.

No silken woof of costly show
Keeps off the bitter cold from Him.
But spider-webs have drooped them low,
To be His curtain soft and dim.

Now trembles on the straw downspread
The Little Child, the Star beneath.
To warm Him in His holy bed,
Upon Him ox and ass do breathe.

Snow hangs its fringes on the byre.
The roof stands open to the tryst
Of aureoled saints, that sweetly choir
To shepherds, "Come, behold the Christ!"

As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. 

Today's poem is "Good King Wenceslas" by Vaclav Svoboda in translation by John Mason Neale. Reading begins at timestamp 6:26.

Good King Wenceslas

by Vaclav Svoboda, translation by John Mason Neale

Good King Wenceslas look’d out,     On the Feast of Stephen; When the snow lay round about,     Deep, and crisp, and even: Brightly shone the moon that night,     Though the frost was cruel, When a poor man came in sight,     Gath’ring winter fuel.   “Hither page and stand by me,     If thou know’st it, telling, Yonder peasant, who is he?     Where and what his dwelling?” “Sire, he lives a good league hence.     Underneath the mountain; Right against the forest fence,     By Saint Agnes’ fountain.”   “Bring me flesh,and bring me wine,     Bring me pine-logs hither: Thou and I will see him dine,     When we bear them thither.” Page and monarch forth they went,     Forth they went together; Through the rude wind’s wild lament,     And the bitter weather.   “Sire, the night is darker now,     And the wind blows stronger; Fails my heart, I know not how,     I can go no longer.” “Mark my footsteps, good my page;     Tread thou in them boldly; Thou shalt find the winter’s rage     Freeze thy blood less coldly.”   In his master’s steps he trod,     Where the snow lay dinted; Heat was in the very sod     Which the Saint had printed. Therefore, Christian men, be sure,     Wealth or rank possessing, Ye who now will bless the poor,     Shall yourselves find blessing.

As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. 

Today's poem is "Christmas Carol" by Sara Teasdale. Reading begins at timestamps 4:08 and 7:08.

Christmas Carol

by Sara Teasdale

The kings they came from out the south,    All dressed in ermine fine; They bore Him gold and chrysoprase,    And gifts of precious wine.   The shepherds came from out the north,    Their coats were brown and old; They brought Him little new-born lambs—    They had not any gold.   The wise men came from out the east,    And they were wrapped in white; The star that led them all the way    Did glorify the night.   The angels came from heaven high,    And they were clad with wings; And lo, they brought a joyful song    The host of heaven sings.   The kings they knocked upon the door,    The wise men entered in, The shepherds followed after them    To hear the song begin.   The angels sang through all the night    Until the rising sun, But little Jesus fell asleep    Before the song was done.

As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. 

Today's poem is "Mistletoe" by Walter de la Mare. Reading begins at timestamps 4:50 and 7:36.

Mistletoe

by Walter de la Mare

Sitting under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), One last candle burning low, All the sleepy dancers gone, Just one candle burning on, Shadows lurking everywhere: Some one came, and kissed me there.   Tired I was; my head would go Nodding under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), No footsteps came, no voice, but only, Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely, Stooped in the still and shadowy air Lips unseen—and kissed me there.   This podcast is brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. To find out more about from Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com.

As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. 

Today's poem is "The Magi" by William Butler Yeats. Reading begins at timestamps  4:50 and 9:37.

The Magi

by William Butler Yeats

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depths of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering side by side, And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more, Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied, The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries.

Today's poem is "The English War" by Dorothy L. Sayers. Poem begins at timestamp 3:55. 

“The English War” 

by Dorothy L. Sayers

Praise God, now, for an English war
The grey tide and the sullen coast,
The menace of the urgent hour,
The single island, like a tower,
Ringed with an angry host.
This is the war that England knows,
When all the world holds but one man

King Philip of the galleons,
Louis, whose light outshone the sun’s,
The conquering Corsican.
When Europe, like a prison door,
Clangs, and the swift, enfranchised sea runs narrower than a village brook;
And men who love us not, yet look
To us for liberty;
When no allies are left, no help to count upon from alien hands,
No waverers remain to woo,
No more advice to listen to,
And only England stands.

This is the war we always knew,
When every county keeps her own,
When Kent stands sentry in the lane
And Fenland guards her dyke and drain, Cornwall, her cliffs of stone;
When from the Cinque Ports and the Wight,
From Plymouth Sound and Bristol Town,
There comes a noise that breaks our sleep,
Of the deep calling to the deep
Where the ships go up and down.
And near and far across the world
Hold open wide the water-gates,
And all the tall adventurers come
Homeward to England, and Drake’s drum Is beaten through the Straits.

This is the war that we have known
And fought in every hundred years,
Our sword, upon the last, steep path,
Forged by the hammer of our wrath
On the anvil of our fears.
Send us, O God, the will and power
To do as we have done before;
The men that ride the sea and air are the same men their fathers were
To fight the English war.

And send, O God, an English peace –
Some sense, some decency, perhaps
Some justice, too, if we are able,
With no sly jackals round our table,
Cringing for blood-stained scraps;
No dangerous dreams of wishful men
Whose homes are safe, who never feel
The flying death that swoops and stuns,
The kisses of the curtseying guns
Slavering their street with steel;
No dream, Lord God, but vigilance,
That we may keep, by might and main,
Inviolate seas, inviolate skies –
But if another tyrant rise,
Then we shall fight again.

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "On the Move" by Thom Gunn. Poem reading begins at timestamp 4:01.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

On the Move

by Thom Gunn

The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows Some hidden purpose, and the gust of birds That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows, Has nested in the trees and undergrowth. Seeking their instinct, or their poise, or both, One moves with an uncertain violence Under the dust thrown by a baffled sense Or the dull thunder of approximate words.   On motorcycles, up the road, they come: Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boys, Until the distance throws them forth, their hum Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh. In goggles, donned impersonality, In gleaming jackets trophied with the dust, They strap in doubt – by hiding it, robust – And almost hear a meaning in their noise.   Exact conclusion of their hardiness Has no shape yet, but from known whereabouts They ride, direction where the tyres press. They scare a flight of birds across the field: Much that is natural, to the will must yield. Men manufacture both machine and soul, And use what they imperfectly control To dare a future from the taken routes.   It is a part solution, after all. One is not necessarily discord On earth; or damned because, half animal, One lacks direct instinct, because one wakes Afloat on movement that divides and breaks. One joins the movement in a valueless world, Choosing it, till, both hurler and the hurled, One moves as well, always toward, toward.   A minute holds them, who have come to go: The self-defined, astride the created will They burst away; the towns they travel through Are home for neither bird nor holiness, For birds and saints complete their purposes. At worst, one is in motion; and at best, Reaching no absolute, in which to rest, One is always nearer by not keeping still.   From Collected Poems. Copyright © 1994 by Thom Gunn. Reprinted for educational purposed only.

For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries.

Today's poem is "The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna" by Charles Wolfe. Poem begins at timestamp 4:40. 

“The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna” 

by Charles Wolfe

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
    As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
    O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
    The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
    And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
    Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
    With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
    And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
    And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
    And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
    And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
    And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him —
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
    In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done
    When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
    That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
    From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
    But we left him alone with his glory!

For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries.

Today's poem is "Into Battle" by Julian Grenfell. Poem begins at timestamp 3:46. 

“Into Battle” 

by Julian Grenfell

The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight, And who dies fighting has increase.   The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fulness after dearth.   All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their bright comradeship, The Dog star, and the Sisters Seven, Orion's belt and sworded hip:   The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend; They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges end.   The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight.   The blackbird sings to him: "Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing, Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing."   In dreary doubtful waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; — O patient eyes, courageous hearts!   And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only joy of battle takes Him by the throat and makes him blind, Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will.   The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries.

Today's poem is “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars” by Richard Lovelace. Poem begins at timestamp 8:24. 

“To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars” 

by Richard Lovelace

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.   True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.   Yet this inconstancy is such As thou, too, shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more.

 

For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries.

Today's poem is “To Pompeius” Ode 2,7 by Horace, translated by John Davidson. Poem begins at timestamp 12:55. 

 

For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries.

Today's poem is "David's Lament for Saul and Jonathan," from II Samuel 1 in the King James Version. Poem begins at timestamp 8:29. 

David's Lament for Saul and Jonathan

by David (in II Samuel 1:19-27, KJV)

The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!

Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph.

Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain, upon you, nor fields of offerings: for there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil.

From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan turned not back, and the sword of Saul returned not empty.

Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided: they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions.

Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights, who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel.

How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places.

I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.

How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!

This podcast is a production of The Literary Life Podcast. 

Learn more about Thomas Banks and the classes he offers at HouseofHumaneLetters.com.

For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we are reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this verse form in Shakespeare's day.

Today's poem is Idea 61: "Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part," by Michael Drayton. Poem begins at timestamp 8:14. 

Idea 61: Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part

by Michael Drayton

Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes— Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!

For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we are reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this verse form in Shakespeare's day.

Today's poem is Delia 45, "Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night," by Samuel Daniel. Poem begins at timestamp 10:47. 

Delia 45

by Samuel Daniel

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: Relieve my languish, and restore the light, With dark forgetting of my cares, return; And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventur'd youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease dreams, th' imagery of our day-desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow; Never let rising sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain; And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

 

For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we are reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this verse form in Shakespeare's day.

Today's poem is Sonnet 138, "When my love swears that she is made of truth" by William Shakespeare. Poem begins at timestamp 6:55. 

Sonnet 138

by William Shakespeare

When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told.     Therefore I lie with her and she with me,     And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we are reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this verse form in Shakespeare's day.

Today's poem is Sonnet 106, "When in the chronicle of wasted time" by William Shakespeare. Poem begins at timestamp 4:48. 

Sonnet 106

by William Shakespeare

When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we will be reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this poet form in Shakespeare's day.

To get access to the replays of the Literary Life Online Conference on Shakespeare, visit houseofhumaneletters.com. 

Today's poem is Sonnet 18, "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?" Poem begins at timestamp 8:20.

Sonnet XVIII

by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date; Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:    So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "Adlestrop" by Edward Thomas. Poem readings begin at timestamps 3:07 and 6:08.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

Adlestrop

by Edward Thomas

Yes. I remember Adlestrop— The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.   The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop—only the name   And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky.   And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we will be reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this poet form in Shakespeare's day.

For more information and to register for the Literary Life Online Conference, visit houseofhumaneletters.com. 

Today's poem is Sonnet 1, "From fairest creatures we desire increase." Poem begins at timestamp 9:35.

Sonnet I

by William Shakespeare

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But, as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory.
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.
 Pity the world, or else this glutton be—
 To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

Welcome back to our final poem in this eleventh season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we have been reading poems about writers, by writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes.

Today's poem is “On Shakespeare, 1630” by John Milton. Poem begins at timestamp 5:17.

On Shakespeare, 1630

by John Milton

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labor of an age in pilèd stones, Or that his hallowed relics should be hid    Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame, What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art,    Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart    Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,    Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,    Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes.

Today's poem is “Edward Lear” by W. H. Auden. Lear was more than just a well-known nonsense poet, but was a talented painter and musician in his own right. Poem begins at timestamp 10:05.

Edward Lear

by W. H. Auden

Left by his friend to breakfast alone on the white
Italian shore, his Terrible Demon arose
Over his shoulder; he wept to himself in the night,
A dirty landscape-painter who hated his nose.

The legions of cruel inquisitive They
Were so many and big like dogs: he was upset
By Germans and boats; affection was miles away:
But guided by tears he successfully reached his Regret.

How prodigiuous the welcome was. Flowers took his hat
And bore him off to introduce him to the tongs;
The demon's false nose made the table laugh; a cat
Soon had him waltzing madly, let him squeeze her hand;
Words pushed him to the piano to sing comic songs;

And children swarmed to him like settlers. He became a land.

Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes.

Today's poem is “To Walter de la Mare” by T. S. Elliot. Poem begins at timestamp 3:52.

To Walter de la Mare

by T. S. Eliot

The children who explored the brook and found
A desert island with a sandy cove
(A hiding place, but very dangerous ground,

For here the water buffalo may rove,
The kinkajou, the mungabey, abound
In the dark jungle of a mango grove,

And shadowy lemurs glide from tree to tree -
The guardians of some long-lost treasure-trove)
Recount their exploits at the nursery tea

And when the lamps are lit and curtains drawn
Demand some poetry, please. Whose shall it be,
At not quite time for bed?…

                           Or when the lawn
Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return
Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn,
The sad intangible who grieve and yearn;

When the familiar is suddenly strange
Or the well known is what we yet have to learn,
And two worlds meet, and intersect, and change;

When cats are maddened in the moonlight dance,
Dogs cower, flitter bats, and owls range
At witches' sabbath of the maiden aunts;

When the nocturnal traveller can arouse
No sleeper by his call; or when by chance
An empty face peers from an empty house;

By whom, and by what means, was this designed?
The whispered incantation which allows
Free passage to the phantoms of the mind?

By you; by those deceptive cadences
Wherewith the common measure is refined;
By conscious art practised with natural ease;

By the delicate, invisible web you wove -
The inexplicable mystery of sound.

Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes.

Today's poem is “The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel” by John Betjeman. Poem begins at timestamp 3:54.

The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel

by John Betjeman

He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer
As he gazed at the London skies
Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains
Or was it his bees-winged eyes?

To the right and before him Pont Street
Did tower in her new built red,
As hard as the morning gaslight
That shone on his unmade bed,

“I want some more hock in my seltzer,
And Robbie, please give me your hand —
Is this the end or beginning?
How can I understand?

“So you’ve brought me the latest Yellow Book:
And Buchan has got in it now:
Approval of what is approved of
Is as false as a well-kept vow.

“More hock, Robbie — where is the seltzer?
Dear boy, pull again at the bell!
They are all little better than cretins,
Though this is the Cadogan Hotel.

“One astrakhan coat is at Willis’s —
Another one’s at the Savoy:
Do fetch my morocco portmanteau,
And bring them on later, dear boy.”

A thump, and a murmur of voices —
(”Oh why must they make such a din?”)
As the door of the bedroom swung open
And TWO PLAIN CLOTHES POLICEMEN came in:

“Mr. Woilde, we ‘ave come for tew take yew
Where felons and criminals dwell:
We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly
For this is the Cadogan Hotel.”

He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book.
He staggered — and, terrible-eyed,
He brushed past the plants on the staircase
And was helped to a hansom outside.

Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes.

Today's poem is “On First Looking into Chapman's Homer” by John Keats, written as an hommage to the great epics of Homer as translated by George Chapman. Poem begins at timestamp 5:44.

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

by John Keats

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes.

Today's poem is “The Lost Leader” by Robert Browning, written as a criticism of William Wordsworth. Poem begins at timestamp 6:16.

The Lost Leader

by Robert Browning

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat— Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, —He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!   We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

 

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The British Journalist" by Humbert Wolfe; poem begins at timestamp 2:50.

The British Journalist

by Humbert Wolfe

You cannot hope to bribe or twist
(thank God!) the British journalist.
But, seeing what the man will do
unbribed, there’s no occasion to.

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The Chimney Sweeper" by William Blake; poem begins at timestamp 5:53.

The Chimney Sweeper: A Little Black Thing Among the Snow

by William Blake

A little black thing among the snow, Crying "weep! 'weep!" in notes of woe! "Where are thy father and mother? say?" "They are both gone up to the church to pray.   Because I was happy upon the heath, And smil'd among the winter's snow, They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe.   And because I am happy and dance and sing, They think they have done me no injury, And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King, Who make up a heaven of our misery."

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "Surgeons must be very careful" by Emily Dickinson; poem begins at timestamp 6:28.

Surgeons must be very careful

by Emily Dickinson

Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit - Life!

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "July, 1964" by Donald Davie. Poem readings begin at timestamps 3:30 and 7:29.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

 

 

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The Song of the Shirt" by Thomas Hood; poem begins at timestamp 4:25.

The Song of the Shirt

by Thomas Hood

With fingers weary and worn,
      With eyelids heavy and red,
    A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
      Plying her needle and thread—
        Stitch! stitch! stitch!
    In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
    And still with the voice of dolorous pitch
    She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

    "Work! Work! Work!
  While the cock is crowing aloof!
    And work—work—work,
  Till the stars shine through the roof!
  It's O! to be a slave
    Along with the barbarous Turk,
  Where woman has never a soul to save
  If this is Christian work!

    "Work—work—work
  Till the brain begins to swim,
    Work—work—work
  Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
  Seam, and gusset, and band,
    Band, and gusset, and seam,
  Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
    And sew them on in a dream!

    "O, Men with Sisters dear!
    O, Men! with Mothers and Wives!
  It is not linen you're wearing out,
    But human creatures' lives!
      Stitch—stitch—stitch,
  In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
  Sewing at once, with a double thread,
  A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

    "But why do I talk of Death!
    That Phantom of grisly bone,
  I hardly fear his terrible shape,
    It seems so like my own—
    It seems so like my own,
    Because of the fasts I keep;
  O God! that bread should be so dear,
    And flesh and blood so cheap!

    "Work—work—work!
    My labour never flags;
  And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
    A crust of bread—and rags.
  That shatter'd roof,—and this naked floor—
    A table—a broken chair—
  And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
    For sometimes falling there!

    "Work—work—work!
  From weary chime to chime,
    Work—work—work—
  As prisoners work for crime!
    Band, and gusset, and seam,
    Seam, and gusset, and band,
  Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
    As well as the weary hand.

    "Work—work—work,
  In the dull December light,
    And work—work—work,
  When the weather is warm and bright—
  While underneath the eaves
    The brooding swallows cling,
  As if to show me their sunny backs
    And twit me with the spring.

    "O, but to breathe the breath
  Of the cowslip and primrose sweet!—
    With the sky above my head,
  And the grass beneath my feet;
  For only one short hour
    To feel as I used to feel,
  Before I knew the woes of want
    And the walk that costs a meal!

    "O, but for one short hour!
      A respite however brief!
  No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
    But only time for Grief!
  A little weeping would ease my heart,
    But in their briny bed
  My tears must stop, for every drop
    Hinders needle and thread!

    "Seam, and gusset, and band,
  Band, and gusset, and seam,
      Work, work, work,
  Like the Engine that works by Steam!
  A mere machine of iron and wood
    That toils for Mammon's sake—
  Without a brain to ponder and craze
    Or a heart to feel—and break!"

      —With fingers weary and worn,
    With eyelids heavy and red,
  A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
    Plying her needle and thread—
      Stitch! stitch! stitch!
    In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
  And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—
  Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—
  She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are going to read six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "Men Who March Away" by Thomas Hardy; poem begins at timestamp 3:07.

Men Who March Away

by Thomas Hardy

What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away?   Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye, Who watch us stepping by With doubt and dolorous sigh? Can much pondering so hoodwink you! Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye?   Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see— Dalliers as they be— England's need are we; Her distress would leave us rueing: Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see!   In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just, And that braggarts must Surely bite the dust, Press we to the field ungrieving, In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just.   Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away.

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are going to read six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "Fanfare for the Makers" by Louis MacNeice; poem begins at timestamp  5:02.

Fanfare for the Makers

by Louis MacNeice

A cloud of witnesses. To whom? To what?
To the small fire that never leaves the sky.
To the great fire that boils the daily pot.

To all the things we are not remembered by,
Which we remember and bless. To all the things
That will not notice when we die,

Yet lend the passing moment words and wings.

So fanfare for the Makers: who compose
A book of words or deeds who runs may write
As many who do run, as a family grows

At times like sunflowers turning towards the light.
As sometimes in the blackout and the raids
One joke composed an island in the night.

As sometimes one man’s kindness pervades
A room or house or village, as sometimes
Merely to tighten screws or sharpen blades

Can catch a meaning, as to hear the chimes
At midnight means to share them, as one man
In old age plants an avenue of limes

And before they bloom can smell them, before they span
The road can walk beneath the perfected arch,
The merest green print when the lives began

Of those who walk there with him, as in default
Of coffee men grind acorns, as in despite
Of all assaults conscripts counter assault,

As mothers sit up late night after night
Moulding a life, as miners day by day
Descend blind shafts, as a boy may flaunt his kite

In an empty nonchalant sky, as anglers play
Their fish, as workers work and can take pride
In spending sweat before they draw their pay.

As horsemen fashion horses while they ride,
As climbers climb a peak because it is there,
As life can be confirmed even in suicide:

To make is such. Let us make. And set the weather fair.

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Loveliest of Trees" by A. E. Houseman; poem begins at timestamp 6:10.

Loveliest of Trees

by A. E. Houseman

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost; poem begins at timestamp 7:34.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

by Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "To Autumn" by John Keats; poem begins at timestamp 2:34.

To Autumn

by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;       To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,       For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.   Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,    Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook       Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep    Steady thy laden head across a brook;    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,       Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.   Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn    Among the river sallows, borne aloft       Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;       And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.    

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is Robert Louis Stevenson's "Bed in Summer"; poem begins at timestamp 5:55.

Bed in Summer

by Robert Louis Stevenson

In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day.   I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me in the street.   And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Sumer is i-cumin in" by an anonymous Englishman of the Middle Ages; poem begins at timestamp 1:34.

Sumer is i-cumin in

by Anonymous

Sumer is i-cumin in— Lhude sing, cuccu! Groweth sed and bloweth med And springth the wude nu. Sing, cuccu!   Awe bleteth after lomb, Lhouth after calve cu, Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth— Murie sing, cuccu! Cuccu, cuccu, Wel singes thu, cuccu. Ne swik thu naver nu!   Sing, cuccu, nu. Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu, nu.

In this ninth season, we are going to read six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "The Rhodora" by Ralph Waldo Emerson; poem begins at timestamp 5:07.

The Rhodora

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

On being asked, whence is the flower.

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place.

Today's poem is "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats. Poem begins at timestamp 2:23.

"Ode to a Nightingale"

by John Keats

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains          My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains          One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,          But being too happy in thine happiness,—                 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees                         In some melodious plot          Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,                 Singest of summer in full-throated ease.   O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been          Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green,          Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,          Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,                 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,                         And purple-stained mouth;          That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,                 And with thee fade away into the forest dim:   Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget          What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret          Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,          Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;                 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow                         And leaden-eyed despairs,          Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,                 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.   Away! away! for I will fly to thee,          Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,          Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night,          And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,                 Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;                         But here there is no light,          Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown                 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.   I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,          Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet          Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;          White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;                 Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;                         And mid-May's eldest child,          The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,                 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.   Darkling I listen; and, for many a time          I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,          To take into the air my quiet breath;                 Now more than ever seems it rich to die,          To cease upon the midnight with no pain,                 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad                         In such an ecstasy!          Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—                    To thy high requiem become a sod.   Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!          No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard          In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path          Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,                 She stood in tears amid the alien corn;                         The same that oft-times hath          Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam                 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.   Forlorn! the very word is like a bell          To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well          As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades          Past the near meadows, over the still stream,                 Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep                         In the next valley-glades:          Was it a vision, or a waking dream?                 Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "The Lonely Hunter" by William Sharp (pseudonym Fiona McLeod). Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:21.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

The Lonely Hunter

by William Sharp

Green branches, green branches, I see you
        beckon; I follow!
Sweet is the place you guard, there in the
        rowan-tree hollow.
There he lies in the darkness, under the frail
        white flowers,
Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet
        midsummer hours.

But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he
        is sleeping now,
And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may
        crown his moon-white brow:
And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden
        hollow
Wherein he dreams I am with him---and,
        dreaming, whispers, "Follow!"

Green wind from the green-gold branches,
        what is the song you bring?
What are all songs for me, now, who no more
        care to sing?
Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to
        me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on
        a lonely hill.

Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a
        shadowy place;
White is the hunter's quarry, a lost-loved hu-
        man face:
O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow
        of failing breath,
Led o'er a green hill lonely by the shadowy
        hound of Death?

Green branches, green branches, you sing of
        a sorrow olden,
But now it is midsummer weather, earth-
        young, sunripe, golden:
Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan-
        tree hollow,
But never a green leaf whispers, "Follow, oh,
        Follow, Follow!"

O never a green leaf whispers, where the
        green-gold branches swing:
O never a song I hear now, where one was
        wont to sing
Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to
        me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on
        a lonely hill.

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place.

Today's poem is "Old Adam, the Carrion Crow" by Thomas Beddoes. Poem begins at timestamp 7:00.

 

"Old Adam, the Carrion Crow"

by Thomas Beddoes

Old Adam, the carrion crow,
        The old crow of Cairo;
    He sat in the shower, and let it flow
        Under his tail and over his crest;
          And through every feather
          Leak'd the wet weather;
        And the bough swung under his nest;
        For his beak it was heavy with marrow.
          Is that the wind dying? O no;
          It's only two devils, that blow,
          Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
          In the ghosts' moonshine.
      Ho! Eve, my grey carrion wife,
        When we have supped on king's marrow,
    Where shall we drink and make merry our life?
        Our nest it is queen Cleopatra's skull,
          'Tis cloven and crack'd,
          And batter'd and hack'd,
        But with tears of blue eyes it is full:
        Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo!
          Is that the wind dying? O no;
          It's only two devils, that blow
          Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
          In the ghosts' moonshine.

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Le Corbeau et le Renard (The Crow and the Fox)" by Jean de la Fontaine, translated from the French by Norman Spector. Poem begins at timestamp 7:08.

"Le Corbeau et le Renard (The Crow and the Fox)"

by Jean de la Fontaine (trans. by Norman Spector)

At the top of a tree perched Master Crow;
In his beak he was holding a cheese.
Drawn by the smell, Master Fox spoke, below.
The words, more or less, were these:
"Hey, now, Sir Crow! Good day, good day!
How very handsome you do look, how grandly distingué!
No lie, if those songs you sing
Match the plumage of your wing,
You’re the phoenix of these woods, our choice."
Hearing this, the Crow was all rapture and wonder.
To show off his handsome voice,
He opened beak wide and let go of his plunder.
The Fox snapped it up and then said, "My Good Sir,
Learn that each flatterer
Lives at the cost of those who heed.
This lesson is well worth the cheese, indeed."
The Crow, ashamed and sick,
Swore, a bit late, not to fall again for that trick.

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place.

Today's poem is "The Oven Bird" by Robert Frost. Poem begins at timestamp 3:42.

"The Oven Bird"

by Robert Frost

There is a singer everyone has heard, Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird, Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again. He says that leaves are old and that for flowers Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten. He says the early petal-fall is past When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers On sunny days a moment overcast; And comes that other fall we name the fall. He says the highway dust is over all. The bird would cease and be as other birds But that he knows in singing not to sing. The question that he frames in all but words Is what to make of a diminished thing.

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place.

Today's poem is "The Eagle" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poem begins at timestamp  7:51.

"The Eagle"

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.   The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.