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English Poems - متون ادبی و اشعار انگلیسی

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#631 Posted: 3 Aug 2011 07:35

Stellenbosch

Composite Columns

The General ‘eard the firin’ on the flank,
An’ ‘e sent a mounted man to bring ‘im back
The silly, pushin’ person’s name an’ rank
‘Oo’d dared to answer Brother Boer’s attack:
For there might ‘ave been a serious engagement,
An’ ‘e might ‘ave wasted ‘alf a dozen men;
So ‘e ordered ‘im to stop ‘is operations round the kopjes,
An’ ‘e told ‘im off before the Staff at ten!

And it all goes into laundry,
But it never comes out in the wash,
‘Ow we’re sugared about by the old men
(‘Eavy-sterned amateur old men!)
That ‘amper an’ ‘inder an’ scold men
For fear o’ Stellenbosch!

The General ‘ad “produced a great effect,”
The General ‘ad the country cleared – almost;
And the Boers ‘ad us bloomin’ well on toast!
For we might ‘ave crossed the drift before the twilight,
Instead o’ sitting down an’ takin’ root;
But we was not allowed, so the Boojers scooped the crowd,
To the last survivin’ bandolier an’ boot.

The General saw the farm’ouse in ‘is rear,
With its stoep so nicely shaded from the sun;
Sez ‘e, “I’ll pith my tabernacle ‘ere,”
An’ ‘e kept us muckin’ round till ‘e ‘ad done.
For ‘e might ‘ave caught the confluent pneumonia
>From sleepin’ in his gaiters in a dew;
So ‘e took a book an’ dozed while the other columns closed,
And De Wet’s commando out an’ trickled through!

The General saw the mountain-range ahead,
With their ‘elios showin’ saucy on the ‘eight,
So ‘e ‘eld us to the level ground instead,
An’ telegraphed the Boojers wouldn’t fight.
For ‘e might ‘ave gone an’ sprayed ‘em with a pompom,
Or ‘e might ‘ave slung a squadron out to see –
But ‘e wasn’t takin’ chances in them ‘igh an’ ‘ostile kranzes –
He was markin’ time to earn a K.C.B.

The General got ‘is decorations thick
(The men that backed ‘is lies could not complain),
The Staff ‘ad D.S.O.’s till we was sick,
An’ the soldier – ‘ad the work to do again!
For ‘e might ‘ave known the District was an ‘otbed,
Instead of ‘andin’ over, upside-down,
To a man ‘oo ‘ad to fight ‘alf a year to put it right,
While the General sat an’ slandered ‘im in town!

An’ it all went into the laundry,
But it never came out in the wash.
We were sugared about by the old men
(Panicky, perishin’ old men)
That ‘amper an’ ‘inder an’ scold men
For fear o’ Stellenbosch!

hi dr!

leaderlover

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#632 Posted: 3 Aug 2011 07:35

A St. Helena Lullaby

"A Priest in Spite of Himself"

"How far is St. Helena from a little child at play!"
What makes you want to wander there with all the world
between.
Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he'll run away.
(No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!)

"How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris street?"
I haven't time to answer now--the men are falling fast.
The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat.
(If you take the first step, you will take the last!)

"How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz?"
You couldn't hear me if I told--so loud the cannons roar.
But not so far for people who are living by their wits.
("Gay go up" means "Gay go down" the wide world o'er!)

"How far is St. Helena from the Emperor of France."
I cannot see-- I cannot tell--the Crowns they dazzle so.
The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to
dance.
(After open whether you may look for snow!)

"How far is St. Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar?"
A longish way -- longish way--with ten more to run.
It's South across the water underneath a falling star.
(What you cannot finish you must leave undone!)

"How fair is St. Helena from the Beresina ice?"
An ill way--a chill way--the ice begins to crack.
But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice.
(When you can't go forward you must e'en come back!)

"How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo?"
A near way--a clear way--the ship will take you soon.
A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do.
(Morning never tries you till the afternoon!)

"How far from St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven's Grace?"
That no one knows--that no one knows--and no one ever will.
But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face,
And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!

hi dr!

leaderlover

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#633 Posted: 3 Aug 2011 07:35

The Storm Cone

1932

This is the midnight-let no star
Delude us-dawn is very far.
This is the tempest long foretold-
Slow to make head but sure to hold

Stand by! The lull 'twixt blast and blast
Signals the storm is near, not past;
And worse than present jeopardy
May our forlorn to-morrow be.

If we have cleared the expectant reef,
Let no man look for his relief.
Only the darkness hides the shape
Of further peril to escape.

It is decreed that we abide
The weight of gale against the tide
And those huge waves the outer main
Sends in to set us back again.

They fall and whelm. We strain to hear
The pulses of her labouring gear,
Till the deep throb beneath us proves,
After each shudder and check, she moves!

She moves, with all save purpose lost,
To make her offing from the coast;
But, till she fetches open sea,
Let no man deem that he is free!

hi dr!

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#634 Posted: 3 Aug 2011 07:37

The Story of Ung

Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,
Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow.
Fashioned the form of a tribesman -- gaily he whistled and sung,
Working the snow with his fingers. Read ye the Story of Ung!

Pleased was his tribe with that image -- came in their hundreds to scan --
Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: "Verily, this is a man!
Thus do we carry our lances -- thus is a war-belt slung.
Lo! it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!"

Later he pictured an aurochs -- later he pictured a bear --
Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair --
Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone --
Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone.

Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still --
Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill --
Hunters and fishers and trappers, presently whispering low:
"Yea, they are like -- and it may be -- But how does the Picture-man know?"

"Ung -- hath he slept with the Aurochs -- watched where the Mastodon roam?
Spoke on the ice with the Bow-head -- followed the Sabre-tooth home?
Nay! These are toys of his fancy! If he have cheated us so,
How is there truth in his image -- the man that he fashioned of snow?"

Wroth was that maker of pictures -- hotly he answered the call:
"Hunters and fishers and trappers, children and fools are ye all!
Look at the beasts when ye hunt them!" Swift from the tumult he broke,
Ran to the cave of his father and told him the shame that they spoke.

And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft,
Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed:
"If they could see as thou seest they would do what thou hast done,
And each man would make him a picture, and -- what would become of my son?

"There would be no pelts of the reindeer, flung down at thy cave for a gift,
Nor dole of the oily timber that comes on the Baltic drift;
No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale;
No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale.

"Thou hast not toiled at the fishing when the sodden trammels freeze,
Nor worked the war-boats outward through the rush of the rock-staked seas,
Yet they bring thee fish and plunder -- full meal and an easy bed --
And all for the sake of thy pictures." And Ung held down his head.

"Thou hast not stood to the Aurochs when the red snow reeks of the fight;
Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright.
And the heart of the hairy Mammoth, thou sayest, they do not see,
Yet they save it whole from the beaches and broil the best for thee.

"And now do they press to thy pictures, with opened mouth and eye,
And a little gift in the doorway, and the praise no gift can buy:
But -- sure they have doubted thy pictures, and that is a grievous stain --
Son that can see so clearly, return them their gifts again!"

And Ung looked down at his deerskins -- their broad shell-tasselled bands --
And Ung drew downward his mitten and looked at his naked hands;
And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard his father, behind:
"Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe is blind!"

Straight on the glittering ice-field, by the caves of the lost Dordogne,
Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on bone
Even to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled and sung,
Blessing his tribe for their blindness. Heed ye the Story of Ung!

hi dr!

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#635 Posted: 3 Aug 2011 07:37

The Story of Uriah

"Now there were two men in one city; the one rich, and the other poor."

Jack Barrett went to Quetta
Because they told him to.
He left his wife at Simla
On three-fourths his monthly screw.
Jack Barrett died at Quetta
Ere the next month's pay he drew.

Jack Barrett went to Quetta.
He didn't understand
The reason of his transfer
From the pleasant mountain-land.
The season was September,
And it killed him out of hand.

Jack Barrett went to Quetta
And there gave up the ghost,
Attempting two men's duty
In that very healthy post;
And Mrs. Barrett mourned for him
Five lively months at most.

Jack Barrett's bones at Quetta
Enjoy profound repose;
But I shouldn't be astonished
If now his spirit knows
The reason of his transfer
From the Himalayan snows.

And, when the Last Great Bugle Call
Adown the Hurnai throbs,
And the last grim joke is entered
In the big black Book of Jobs.
And Quetta graveyards give again
Their victims to the air,
I shouldn't like to be the man
Who sent Jack Barrett there

hi dr!

leaderlover

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#636 Posted: 3 Aug 2011 07:37

The Stranger

Canadian
The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk--
I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock,
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wanted to,
They are used to the lies I tell;
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy or sell.

The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control--
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.

This was my father's belief
And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf--
And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.

hi dr!

leaderlover

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#637 Posted: 3 Aug 2011 07:38

Study of an Elevation, In Indian Ink

This ditty is a string of lies.
But-how the deuce did Gubbins rise?

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.
Stands at the top of the tree;
And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led
To the hoisting of Potiphar G.

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,
Is seven years junior to Me;
Each bridge that he makes either buckles or breaks,
And his work is as rough as he.

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,
Is coarse as a chimpanzee;
And I can't understand why you gave him your hand,
Lovely Mehitabel Lee.

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,
Is dear to the Powers that Be;
For They bow and They smile in an affable style,
Which is seldom accorded to Me.

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,
Is certain as certain can be
Of a highly paid post which is claimed by a host
Of seniors -- including Me.

Careless and lazy is he,
Greatly inferior to Me.
That is the spell that you manage so well,
Commonplace Potiphar G.?

Lovely Mehitabel Lee,
Let me inquire of thee,
Should I have riz to where Potiphar is,
Hadst thou been mated to Me?

hi dr!

leaderlover

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#638 Posted: 3 Aug 2011 07:39

"Such as in Ships"

SUCH as in Ships and brittle Barks
Into the Seas descend
Shall learn how wholly on those Arks
Our Victuals do depend.
For, when a Man would bite or sup,
Or buy him Goods or Gear,
He needs must call the Oceans up,
And move an Hemisphere.

Consider, now, that Indian Weed
Which groweth o'er the Main,
With Teas and Cottons for our Need,
And Sugar of the Cane-
Their Comings We no more regard
Than daily Corn or Oil:
Yet, when Men waft Them Englandward,
How infinite the Toil!

Nation and People harvesteth
The tropique Lands among,
And Engines of tumultuous Breath
Do draw the Yield along-
Yea, even as by Hecatombs
Which, presently struck down
Into our Navies' labouring Wombs
Make Pennyworths in Town.

hi dr!

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#639 Posted: 3 Aug 2011 07:40

Supplication of the Black Aberdeen

1928

I PRAY! My little body and whole span
Of years is Thine, my Owner and my Man.
For Thou hast made me-unto Thee I owe
This dim, distressed half-soul that hurts me so,
Compact of every crime, but, none the less,
Broken by knowledge of its naughtiness.
Put me not from Thy Life-'tis all I know.
If Thou forsake me, whither shall I go?

Thine is the Voice with which my Day begins:
Thy Foot my refuge, even in my sins.
Thine Honour hurls me forth to testify
Against the Unclean and Wicked passing by.
(But when Thou callest they are of Thy Friends,
Who readier than I to make amends?)
I was Thy Deputy with high and low-
If Thou dismiss me, whither shall I go?

I have been driven forth on gross offence
That took no reckoning of my penitence.
And, in my desolation-faithless me!-
Have crept for comfort to a woman's knee!
Now I return, self-drawn, to meet the just
Reward of Riot, Theft and Breach of Trust.
Put me not from Thy Life-though this is so.
If Thou forsake me, whither shall I go?

Into The Presence, flattening while I crawl-
>From head to tail, I do confess it all.
Mine was the fault-deal me the stripes-but spare
The Pointed Finger which I cannot bear!
The Dreadful Tone in which my Name is named,
That sends me 'neath the sofa-frill ashamed!
(Yet, to be near Thee, I would face that woe.)
If Thou reject me, whither shall I go?

Can a gift turn Thee? I will bring mine all-
My Secret Bone, my Throwing-Stick, my Ball.
Or wouldst Thou sport? Then watch me hunt awhile,
Chasing, not after conies, but Thy Smile,

Content, as breathless on the turf I sit,
Thou shouldst deride my little legs and wit-
Ah! Keep me in Thy Life for a fool's show!
If Thou deny me, whither shall I go? ...

Is the Dark gone? The Light of Eyes restored?
The Countenance turned meward, O my Lord?
The Paw accepted, and-for all to see-
The Abject Sinner throned upon the Knee?
The Ears bewrung, and Muzzle scratched because
He is forgiven, and All is as It was? . . .
Now am I in Thy Life, and since 'tis so-
That Cat awaits the Judgment. May I go?

hi dr!

leaderlover

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#640 Posted: 3 Aug 2011 07:40

The Supports

"On the Gate"
Song of the Waiting Seraphs
(From "Debits and Credits")

Full Chorus.

To Him Who bade the Heavens abide, yet cease not from their motion,
To Him Who tames the moonstruck tide a day round the Ocean –
Let His Names be magnified in all poor folks’ devotion!

Powers and Gifts.

Not for Prophecies or Powers, Visions, Gifts, or Graces,
But the unregardful hours that grind us in our places
With the burden on our backs, the weather in our faces.

Toils.

Not for any Miracle of easy Loaves and Fishes,
But for doing, ‘gainst our will, work against our wishes –
Such as finding food to fill daily-emptied dishes.

Glories.

Not for Voices, Harps or Wings or rapt illumination,
But the grosser Self that springs of use and occupation,
Unto which the Spirit clings as her last salvation.

Powers, Glories, Toils, and Gifts.

(He Who launched our Ship of Fools many anchors gave us,
Lest one gale should start them all – one collision stave us.
Praise Him for the petty creeds
That prescribe in paltry needs
Solemn rites to trivial deeds and, by small things, save us!)

Services and Loves.

Heart may fail, and Strength outwear, and Purpose turn to Loathing,
But the everyday affair of business, meals, and closing,
Builds the bulkhead ‘twixt Despair and the Edge of Nothing.

Patiences.

(Praise Him, then, Who orders it that, though Earth be flaring,
And the crazy skies are lit
By the searchlights of the Pit,
Man should not depart a whit from his wonted bearing.)

Hopes.

He Who bids the wild-swans’ hosts still maintain their flight on
Air-roads over islands lost –
Ages since ‘neath Ocean lost –
Beaches of some sunken coast their fathers would alight on –

Faiths.

He shall guide us through this dark, not by new-blown glories,
But by every ancient mark our fathers used before us,
Till our children ground their ark where the proper shore is.

Services, Patiences, Faiths, Hopes, and Loves.

He Who used the clay that clings on our boots to make us,
Shall not suffer earthly things to remove or shake us:
But, when Man denies His Lord,
Habit without Fleet or Sword
(Custom without threat or word)
Sees the ancient fanes restored – the timeless rites o’ertake us!

Full Chorus.

For He Who makes the Mountains smoke and rives the Hill asunder,
And, to-morrow, leads the grass –
Mere unconquerable grass –
Were the fuming crater was, to heal and bide it under,
He shall not – He shall not –
Shall not lay on us the yoke of too long Fear and Wonder!

hi dr!

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شعر و ادبیات /

English Poems - متون ادبی و اشعار انگلیسی

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