Meter and Rhyme

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

The Explosion by Philip Larkin

On the day of the explosion Shadows pointed towards the pithead: In the sun the slagheap slept.

Down the lane came men in pitboots Coughing oath-edged talk and pipe-smoke, Shouldering off the freshened silence.

One chased after rabbits; lost them; Came back with a nest of lark's eggs; Showed them; lodged them in the grasses.

So they passed in beards and moleskins, Fathers, brothers, nicknames, laughter, Through the tall gates standing open.

At noon, there came a tremor; cows Stopped chewing for a second; sun, Scarfed as in a heat-haze, dimmed.

The dead go on before us, they Are sitting in God's house in comfort, We shall see them face to face -

Plain as lettering in the chapels It was said, and for a second Wives saw men of the explosion

Larger than in life they managed - Gold as on a coin, or walking Somehow from the sun towards them,

One showing the eggs unbroken.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

Shropshire Lad XLVIII by A. E. Housman

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong. Think rather,—call to thought, if now you grieve a little, The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn; Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry: Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason, I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun. Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

Ay, look high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation; All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain: Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation— Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

By A. E. Housman

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists? And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his; In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is; Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade; But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare, And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat, And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson

From the bonny bells of heather They brewed a drink long-syne, Was sweeter far then honey, Was stronger far than wine. They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in a blessed swound For days and days together In their dwellings underground.

There rose a king in Scotland, A fell man to his foes, He smote the Picts in battle, He hunted them like roes. Over miles of the red mountain He hunted as they fled, And strewed the dwarfish bodies Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country, Red was the heather bell; But the manner of the brewing Was none alive to tell. In graves that were like children's On many a mountain head, The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland Rode on a summer's day; And the bees hummed, and the curlews Cried beside the way. The king rode, and was angry, Black was his brow and pale, To rule in a land of heather And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals, Riding free on the heath, Came on a stone that was fallen And vermin hid beneath. Rudely plucked from their hiding, Never a word they spoke; A son and his aged father -- Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger, He looked on the little men; And the dwarfish and swarthy couple Looked at the king again. Down by the shore he had them; And there on the giddy brink -- "I will give you life, ye vermin, For the secret of the drink."

There stood the son and father, And they looked high and low; The heather was red around them, The sea rumbled below. And up and spoke the father, Shrill was his voice to hear: "I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear.

"Life is dear to the aged, And honour a little thing; I would gladly sell the secret," Quoth the Pict to the king. His voice was small as a sparrow's, And shrill and wonderful clear: "I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear.

"For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honour Under the eye of my son. Take him, O king, and bind him, And cast him far in the deep; And it's I will tell the secret That I have sworn to keep."

They took the son and bound him, Neck and heels in a thong, And a lad took him and swung him, And flung him far and strong, And the sea swallowed his body, Like that of a child of ten; -- And there on the cliff stood the father, Last of the dwarfish men.

"True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall never avail: Here dies in my bosom The secret of Heather Ale."

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

Island by Langston Hughes

Wave of sorrow, Do not drown me now:

I see the island Still ahead somehow.

I see the island And its sands are fair:

Wave of sorrow, Take me there.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

Longfellow’s Visit to Venice by John Betjeman

Near the celebrated Lido where the breeze is fresh and free Stands the ancient port of Venice called the City of the Sea.

All its streets are made of water, all its homes are brick and stone Yet it has a picturesqueness which is justly all its own.

Here for centuries have artists come to see the vistas quaint Here Bellini set his easel, herе he taught his School to paint.

Here thе youthful Giorgione gazed upon the domes and towers And interpreted his era in a way which pleases ours.

A later artist, Tintoretto, also did his paintings here Massive works which generations have continued to revere.

Still to-day come modern artists to portray the buildings fair And their pictures may be purchased on San Marco's famous Square.

When the bell notes from the belfries and the campaniles chime Still to-day we find Venetians elegantly killing time

In their gilded old palazzos, while the music in our ears Is the distant band at Florians mixed with songs of gondoliers.

Thus the New World meets the Old World and the sentiments expressed Are melodiously mingled in my warm New England breast.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

A. E. Housman and a Few Friends by Humbert Wolfe

When lads have done with labour In Shropshire, one will cry, 'Let's go and kill a neighbour,' And t'other answers 'Aye!'

So this one kills his cousins, And that one kills his dad; And, as they hang by dozens At Ludlow, lad by lad,

Each of them one-and-twenty, All of them murderers, The hangman mutters: 'Plenty Even for Housman's verse.'

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

A Shropshire Lad XXXII by Alfred Edward Housman

From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I.

Now—for a breath I tarry Nor yet disperse apart— Take my hand quick and tell me, What have you in your heart.

Speak now, and I will answer; How shall I help you, say; Ere to the wind's twelve quarters I take my endless way.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

Sonnet: Against Entropy by John M. Ford

The worm drives helically through the wood And does not know the dust left in the bore Once made the table integral and good; And suddenly the crystal hits the floor. Electrons find their paths in subtle ways, A massless eddy in a trail of smoke; The names of lovers, light of other days Perhaps you will not miss them. That's the joke. The universe winds down. That's how it's made. But memory is everything to lose; Although some of the colors have to fade, Do not believe you'll get the chance to choose. Regret, by definition, comes too late; Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

O What Is That Sound by W. H. Auden

O what is that sound which so thrills the ear Down in the valley drumming, drumming? Only the scarlet soldiers, dear, The soldiers coming.

O what is that light I see flashing so clear Over the distance brightly, brightly? Only the sun on their weapons, dear, As they step lightly.

O what are they doing with all that gear, What are they doing this morning, morning? Only their usual manoeuvres, dear, Or perhaps a warning.

O why have they left the road down there, Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling? Perhaps a change in their orders, dear, Why are you kneeling?

O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care, Haven't they reined their horses, horses? Why, they are none of them wounded, dear, None of these forces.

O is it the parson they want, with white hair, Is it the parson, is it, is it? No, they are passing his gateway, dear, Without a visit.

O it must be the farmer that lives so near. It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning? They have passed the farmyard already, dear, And now they are running.

O where are you going? Stay with me here! Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving? No, I promised to love you, dear, But I must be leaving.

O it's broken the lock and splintered the door, O it's the gate where they're turning, turning; Their boots are heavy on the floor And their eyes are burning.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

A Hymn to God the Father by John Donne

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sin their door? Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore; And, having done that, thou hast done; I fear no more.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

If I Could Tell You by W H Auden

Time will say nothing but I told you so, Time only knows the price we have to pay; If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show, If we should stumble when musicians play, Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although, Because I love you more than I can say, If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow, There must be reasons why the leaves decay; Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow, The vision seriously intends to stay; If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go, And all the brooks and soldiers run away; Will Time say nothing but I told you so? If I could tell you I would let you know.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

In Memory of W. B. Yeats III by W. H. Auden

Earth, receive an honoured guest: William Yeats is laid to rest. Let the Irish vessel lie Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark All the dogs of Europe bark, And the living nations wait, Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace Stares from every human face, And the seas of pity lie Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

Spider Sonnet by John Whitworth

The solution to pollution is to stop ingesting spiders, Just say no to the arachnida that copulate inside us, How they pullulate and ovulate, the octopod articulate, Auriculate, testiculate and oft times unguiculate, The narrative of nightmare and the stuff of holy terror, They're the creatures that convince you all your life has been an error. So you're sicker than a parrot and you wish that you were dead? Just you wait till they migrate and drill themselves into your head. Creepy-crawly, creepy-crawly with a subtle sideways motion, Some detestable detritus from the bottom of the ocean, Something feral, fanged and furry with a flush of nasty habits, Now they're ferreting like ferrets, now they're rabbitting like rabbits, Now they're occupying occiputs and populating dreams… Eating spiders isn't nearly as attractive as it seems.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

Ashes of Life by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike; Eat I must, and sleep I will, — and would that night were here! But ah! — to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again! — with twilight near!

Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through, — There's little use in anything as far as I can see.

Love has gone and left me, — and the neighbors knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse, — And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There's this little street and this little house.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

Train for Ill, A Ballad by Robert Samuel Gwynn

The train for Ill is a long train That takes on passengers in Pain, Where prayers are offered to complain To skies of unrelenting rain And all roads run downhill. And we who slowly file aboard Clutch tickets we can scarce afford; Protesting our unjust reward, We take the train for Ill.

The platform soon grows loud with those Who wear dark bands and Sunday clothes, Whose shared emotion plainly shows With handkerchiefs near every nose. They watch the coaches fill, And as our group departs a few Shed tears, which others fail to do: Survivors' benefits accrue On the train for Ill.

With ashes smeared on every face The children who appear to chase The last car seem to run in place As if inclined to lose the race. Their cries grow short and shrill And fall behind as we descend, Cars swaying lightly in the wind, A grade that shudders to the end Of the train for Ill.

Oh, if there were some way we could Journey instead to distant Good! We touch old charms and knock on wood But each mile makes it understood That we never will. To our sorrow we must learn The shining hopes for which we yearn Are stamped, like tickets, "No return" On the train for Ill.

How soon it seems the soft light goes— Then summer's heat, then corn in rows, Then on a wall one brilliant rose Signals a stop as petals close In the growing chill. Our faltering voices raise to sing Remembrances of how the spring Gathered its green regrets to bring To the train for Ill.

"Shall we know any good again?" Some cry. "How many times? And when?" The warnings on our medicine Offer no clues what may be in Each dark and bitter pill. Beside the tracks two lovers kiss. We know we have no part in this, The daily dose we never miss On the train for Ill.

And at the end what will remain? An emptiness that can contain All losses and all hopes of gain, Even nostalgic thoughts of Pain, That city on the hill? With no more failings to confess We lift our voices up to bless Each frail design of loveliness, All sweetness that grows less and less Aboard the train for Ill.

[meter-and-rhyme-corner]

Them There Out There In Here Right Now by John Whitworth

There’s a tickle in your nostrils like the turning of the milk, There’s a swish across your fingers like the whimpering of silk, Like the flutters of a death’s head, like the squitters of a mouse; You can feel them in the lobby, you can feel them in the house, There’s a flickering of faces, there’s a bristling of hair, At the elbow of a passage, at the winding of a stair,       Till you feel them everywhere                 In the air.                         Yes, you feel them everywhere. Pitter-patter like the creeping of the waves across the stones, You can trace the gothic filigree of tiny little bones, Trace their frettings with your fingers on the velvet of the dark; Trace their restless to-and-froing like the swimming of a shark, To-and-froing in their going like a prowling picaroon In a wilderness of starlight on the deserts of the moon,       And they’ll be here very soon                   How they croon                           They’ll be here so very soon. They are swarming in the dawning, there’s no turning of the tide. They are homing through the gloaming and you’ve nowhere left to hide. They are swinging from the cornice, they are sliding down the sill. Have they come to do you good or have they come to do you ill? As they whisper at the window, as they mutter at the door, With a scrabbling down the chimney and a squeezing through the floor,       Till you’re theirs for evermore;                   It’s for sure                         That you’re theirs for evermore.