Middle-Age Enthusiasms -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem submitted by Hita Adwanikar, as a follow-up
to last week's poem by Gwendolyn Brooks:

(Poem #1631) Middle-Age Enthusiasms To M. H. We passed where flag and flower Signalled a jocund throng; We said: "Go to, the hour Is apt!" - and joined the song; And, kindling, laughed at life and care, Although we knew no laugh lay there. We walked where shy birds stood Watching us, wonder-dumb; Their friendship met our mood; We cried: "We'll often come: We'll come morn, noon, eve, everywhen!" - We doubted we should come again. We joyed to see strange sheens Leap from quaint leaves in shade; A secret light of greens They'd for their pleasure made. We said: "We'll set such sorts as these!" - We knew with night the wish would cease. "So sweet the place," we said, "Its tacit tales so dear, Our thoughts, when breath has sped, Will meet and mingle here!"... "Words!" mused we. "Passed the mortal door, Our thoughts will reach this nook no more." -- Thomas Hardy

Some more of the ubiquitous 'We'. I usually find it difficult to like Thomas
Hardy, although I appreciate his works. There is something very real, and
yet disappointing about his take on life and its experiences. Hardy's 'We'
are older and disillusioned. They pretend to hold on to dreams which they
have already set aside as unreal. The contrast between 'we said' and 'mused
we' suggests a bravado, a mask put on by each of them for the collective.
They have given up, but they still have to accept that they have given up.
And it is difficult for us to decide, whether they have lost enthusiasm or
gained maturity.

- Hita.

Souls And Rain-Drops -- Sidney Lanier

Guest poem submitted by Hita Adwanikar:

(Poem #1490) Souls And Rain-Drops Light rain-drops fall and wrinkle the sea, Then vanish, and die utterly. One would not know that rain-drops fell If the round sea-wrinkles did not tell. So souls come down and wrinkle life And vanish in the flesh-sea strife. One might not know that souls had place Were't not for the wrinkles in life's face. -- Sidney Lanier

The transience of life is a great theme -- and I would like to suggest
my favourite poem about it. 'Sea-wrinkles' have now found a place in my
vocabulary.

Sidney Lanier was born at Macon, Ga., on the third of February, 1842.
His earliest passion was for music. As a child he learned to play,
almost without instruction, on every kind of instrument he could find. A
precocious musical talent, Lanier was drawn to philosophy and Romantic
poetry, but he postponed his intentions for further study to volunteer
for Confederate Civil War duty. In the years that followed, Lanier
worked in Georgia, Alabama and Texas as a tutor, teacher, and law clerk
while writing poetry and Tiger-Lillies, his novel of the war. Towards
the end of his life, Lanier suffered from a crippling case of
tuberculosis that eventually killed him at the age of 39.

Hita.