I saw traces of Dylan Thomas now & then. quite good, for strict form
KS
On 02/07/07, joe green <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Some Tuckerman poems. I have a version of "The Cricket" edited by Ben but he told me it is classified.
>
> THREE SONNETS
>
> But unto him came swift calamity
> In the sweet springtime when his beds were green;
> And my heart waited, trustfully serene,
> For the new blossom on my household tree.
> But flowers and gods and quaint philosophy
> Are poor, in truth, to fill the empty place;
> Nor any joy nor season's jollity
> Can aught indeed avail to grace our grief.
> Can spring return to him a brother's face,
> Or bring my darling back to me—to me?
> Undimmed the May went on with bird and bower;
> The summer filled and faded like a flower;
> But rainy autumn and the red-turned leaf
> Found us at tears and wept for company.
>
>
>
> Each common object too, the house, the grove,
> The street, the face, the ware in the window, seems
> Alien and sad, the wreck of perished dreams;
> Painfully present, yet remote in love.
> The day goes down in rain, the winds blow wide.
> I leave the town; I climb the mountain side,
> Striving from stumps and stones to wring relief,
> And in the senseless anger of my grief,
> I rave and weep, I roar to the unmoved skies;
> But the wild tempest carries away my cries.
> Then back I turn to hide my face in sleep,
> Again with dawn the same dull round to sweep,
> And buy and sell and prate and laugh and chide,
> As if she had not lived, or had not died.
>
>
>
> And so, as this great sphere (now turning slow
> Up to the light from that abyss of stars,
> Now wheeling into gloom through sunset bars)—
> With all its elements of form and flow,
> And life in life; where crowned, yet blind, must go
> The sensible king,—is but an Unity
> Compressed of motes impossible to know;
> Which worldlike yet in deep analogy,
> Have distance, march, dimension, and degree;
> So the round earth—which we the world do call—
> Is but a grain in that that mightiest swells,
> Whereof the stars of light are particles,
> As ultimate atoms of one infinite Ball,
> On which God moves, and treads beneath his feet the All!
>
>
> GREEN RIVER CEMETERY
> DEDICATION HYMN
>
> Beside the River's dark green flow,
> Here, where the pine trees weep,
> Red Autumn's winds will coldly blow
> Above their dreamless sleep:
>
> Their sleep, for whom with prayerful breath
> We've put apart today
> This spot, for shadowed walks of Death,
> And gardens of decay.
>
> This crumbling bank with Autumn crowned,
> These pining woodland ways,
> Seem now no longer common ground;
> But each in turn conveys
>
> A saddened sense of something more:
> Is it the dying year?
> Or a dim shadow, sent before,
> Of the next gathering here?
>
> Is it that He, the silent Power,
> Has now assumed the place
> And drunk the light of morning's house,
> The life of Nature's grace?
>
> Not so-the spot is beautiful,
> And holy is the sod;
> Tis we are faint, our eyes are dull;
> All else is fair in God.
>
> So let them lie, their graves bedecked,
> Whose bones these shades invest,
> Nor grief deny, nor fear suspect,
> The beauty of their rest.
>
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