Poems for Monday, June 20

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1127

Soft as the massacre of Suns
By Evening's sabres slain

1263

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry -
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll -
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul -


1265

The most triumphant Bird I ever knew or met
Embarked upon a Twig Today
And till Dominion set
I famish to behold so eminent a sight
And sang for nothing scrutable
But intimate Delight.
Retired, and resumed his transitive Estate -
To what delicious Accident
Does finest Glory fit!


1442

To mend each tattered Faith
There is a needle fair
Though no appearance indicate -
'Tis threaded in the Air -

And though it do not wear
As if it never Tore
'Tis very comfortable indeed
And spacious as before -


1549

My Wars are laid away in Books -
I have one Battle more -
A Foe whom I have never seen
But oft has scanned me o'er -
And hesitated me between
And others at my side,
But chose the best - Neglecting me - till
All the rest, have died -
How sweet if I am not forgot
By Chums that passed away -
Since Playmates at threescore and ten
Are such a scarcity -


1660

Glory is that bright tragic thing
That for an instant
Means Dominion
Warms some poor name
That never felt the Sun
Gently replacing
In oblivion -


1765

That Love is all there is
Is all we know of Love;
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.

Candace's Poem for Monday, June 6

W. H. Auden

one of "Two Songs for Hedli Anderson"

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.