The Poem Reader

The tree that never had to fightFor sun and sky and air and light,But stood out in the open plainAnd always got its share of rain,Never became a forest kingBut lived and died a scrubby thing.The man who never had to toilTo gain and farm his patch of soil,Who never had to win his shareOf sun and sky and light and air,Never became a manly manBut lived and died as he began.Good timber does not grow with ease:The stronger wind, the stronger trees;The further sky, the greater length;The more the storm, the more the strength.By sun and cold, by rain and snow,In trees and men good timbers grow.Where thickest lies the forest growth,We find the patriarchs of both.And they hold counsel with the starsWhose broken branches show the scarsOf many winds and much of strife.This is the common law of life. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Subtitled"Hal o' the Draft" -- Puck of Pook's Hill.If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street;Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the dark —Brandy for the Parson,Baccy for the Clerk;Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,And watch the wall, my darling,While the Gentlemen go by!Running round the woodlump if you chance to findLittle barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.Put the brishwood back again — and they'll be gone next day!If you see the stable-door setting open wide;If you see a tired horse lying down inside;If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;If the lining's wet and warm — don't you ask no more!If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.If they call you "pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!Knocks and footsteps round the house — whistles after dark —You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie —They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!If you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,You'll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood —A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good!Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the dark —Brandy for the Parson,'Baccy for the Clerk;Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie —Watch the wall, my darling,While the Gentlemen go by! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

‘Tis not that I am weary grownOf being yours, and yours alone,But with what face can I inclineTo damn you to be only mine?You, whom some kinder power did fashionBy merit and by inclinationThe joy at least of a whole nation.Let meaner spirits of your sexWith humble aims their thoughts perplex,And boast if by their arts they canContrive to make one happy man;While moved by an impartial senseFavours, like Nature, you dispenseWith universal influence.See the kind seed-receiving earthTo every grain affords a birth:On her no showers unwelcome fall,Her willing womb retains 'em all,And shall my Caelia be confined?No, live up to thy mighty mind,And be the mistress of Mankind! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat:They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note.The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar,"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!"Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing!Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried, But what shall we do for a ring?"They sailed away, for a year and a day,To the land where the bong-tree grows;And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose."Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."So they took it away, and were married next day By the turkey who lives on the hill.They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon;And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

To Beatriz Bibiloni Webster de Bullrich I. The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night. Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable. Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you. The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for. The big wave brought you. Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words. The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city. Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are the illustrious toys you have left me. I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn. Your dark rich life… I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your mirror knows. II. What can I hold you with? I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs. I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon. I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghost that living men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses. I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness humour my life. I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal. I offer her that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow – the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities. I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born. I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself. I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat. Please subscribe, like and tell your friends (if they like poems). This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,Attempted to Believe Matilda:The effort very nearly killed her,And would have done so, had not SheDiscovered this Infirmity.For once, towards the Close of Day,Matilda, growing tired of play,And finding she was left alone,Went tiptoe to the TelephoneAnd summoned the Immediate AidOf London's Noble Fire-Brigade.Within an hour the Gallant BandWere pouring in on every hand,From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow.With Courage high and Hearts a-glow,They galloped, roaring through the Town,'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'Inspired by British Cheers and LoudProceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,They ran their ladders through a scoreOf windows on the Ball Room Floor;And took Peculiar Pains to SouseThe Pictures up and down the House,Until Matilda's Aunt succeededIn showing them they were not needed;And even then she had to payTo get the Men to go away, It happened that a few Weeks laterHer Aunt was off to the TheatreTo see that Interesting PlayThe Second Mrs. Tanqueray.She had refused to take her NieceTo hear this Entertaining Piece:A Deprivation Just and WiseTo Punish her for Telling Lies.That Night a Fire did break out--You should have heard Matilda Shout!You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,And throw the window up and callTo People passing in the Street--(The rapidly increasing HeatEncouraging her to obtainTheir confidence) -- but all in vain!For every time she shouted 'Fire!'They only answered 'Little Liar!'And therefore when her Aunt returned,Matilda, and the House, were Burned.Thanks for reading The Poem Reader! Please subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers;How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!I have long dream'd of such a kind of man,So surfeit-swell'd, so old and so profane;But, being awaked, I do despise my dream.Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gapeFor thee thrice wider than for other men.Reply not to me with a fool-born jest:Presume not that I am the thing I was;For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,That I have turn'd away my former self;So will I those that kept me company.When thou dost hear I am as I have been,Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,The tutor and the feeder of my riots:Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death,As I have done the rest of my misleaders,Not to come near our person by ten mile.For competence of life I will allow you,That lack of means enforce you not to evil:And, as we hear you do reform yourselves,We will, according to your strengths and qualities,Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord,To see perform'd the tenor of our word. Set on. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com