Pet poems/ page 7 of 126 /
When you were nine, and I was six years old,Do you remember how we wandered forth,Two small explorers, through the summer fields,With apple turnovers provisioned well,And trampled down the farmer's mowing grass,In haste to pluck the little red-stemmed rose?
And how the farmer in his fury roseWith hot red face, as ogres wore of old,And eyeing angrily his battered grass,With wingèd words he drove the culprits forth,And swore a whipping would be theirs as wellThe next time they profaned his sacred fields?
Regretfully we left those sunny fields(For there alone it grew, our longed-for rose),And sate us down beside a little wellThat bubbled up 'midst stonework grey and old,And watched the slow soft runlets spouting forth,To lose themselves amidst the spongy grass
Now sitt thee downe, Melpomene,Wrapt in a sea-coal robe,And tell the dolefull tragedie,That late was playd at Globe;For noe man that can singe and sayeBut was scard on St
There is something deep inside me, I don’t know whoplaced it there
Once I thought that if I walked with you to the endof Russian literature, bumped into Yesenin and hissoft words, mingled with the throng that formedaround Pushkin or waited patiently at the SenateSquare while you threw pieces of Blok, Akhmatovaand poor old Mayakovsky to eager readers whopecked at your references, I would come tounderstand all that you represent
"I went through the world, but I paused not now
At the gladsome heart and the joyous brow:
I went through the world, and I stay'd to mark
Where the heart was sore, and the spirit dark:
And the grief of others, though sad to see,
Was fraught with a demon's joy to me!
The seconde parte of crafty rethoryke
Maye well be called dysposycyon
822 That doth so hyghe mater aromatytyke
823 Adowne dystyll / by consolacyon