(Ode To Autumn

)

It's autumn, all fruitful and oozing,
There are vines, nuts, and cider for boozing;
Noise from gnats, lambs and crickets then follows
And it ends with a robin and swallows.

The reverie of poor Susan

She's in London, but pines for the Lakes
Whose memory a caged thrush awakes.
She enjoys a brief visionary gleam
Till the sight fades away like a dream.

Oh God, I've got to get in on this. There's today's studying out the window.

In the meantime, Marion, you just earned a sincere, unexpected, hearty peal of belly laughter. Maybe I’m just a sucker for Houseman. I’ve just pissed off half the library, anyways, so.

Also, I echo Chris re. George. My money's on that gem. But then, maybe THAT'S just because I don't like Pound.

This gets addictive, doesn't it?

Wholly inappropriate for a family publication (so thank heavens there's the Sphere):

"Oh what can ail thee knight-at-arms
'Midst such Autumnal trumpery?"
"I met an Elphin Princess, Sir;
Then the slut bloody dumpèd me!"

Or even Housman, Robert.

My head is hung.

I'm lying awake nights thinking of these.

How do I love thee? With depth and height and breadth,
freely, purely, wholely, while life lingers,
with breath, smiles, tears, and even after death,
and other ways--but I've run out of fingers.

I tell this story oft, and sigh:
Before me lay two trails.
I took the one less traveled by
Because my coin said tails.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
I pull my horse's strap.
I've miles to go before I sleep,
But can't a fellow nap?