My Lost Youth -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Guest poem sent in by Erin Mansell

(Poem #1166) My Lost Youth Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thunder'd o'er the tide! And the dead sea-captains, as they lay In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighbourhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the schoolboy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' And Deering's woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Hi again,
Your new series has inspired me and I thought I should send in this poem.
The movie it was featured in was "In the Bedroom" with Sissy Spacek and
Marisa Tomei amongst others.  A poker friend of the father in the movie
keeps quoting poetry at their games and he (the father) keeps asking him to
move on from a particular poet.  When the doctor's son dies he quotes to him
a verse of this poem.  See below.  I thought it was very touching and
remembered enough to find it later and then realized the that I should have
known who the author was.  Ironically it would also fit with your exhausting
theme of the sea (for which I sent in the Sea Dirge) as well as the movie
theme. However, when I read it makes me take a deep breath bittersweet with
long long thoughts.
Enjoy,
Erin

Bio of Longfellow: http://eclecticesoterica.com/longfellow_bio.html

Movie info:
http://www.cinemaclock.com/aw/crva.aw/o./p.clock/j.e/f.In_the_Bedroom/r.alb/
m.Edmonton/i.3641/sr.html

The verse quoted in the movie:

 There are things of which I may not speak;
 There are dreams that cannot die;
 There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
 And bring a pallor into the cheek,
 And a mist before the eye.
 And the words of that fatal song
 Come over me like a chill:
 'A boy's will is the wind's will,
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

The Ballad Of William Bloat -- Raymond Calvert

Interesting theme proposed by Frank O'Shea - in Frank's
words:

How about a series on poems featured in movies.

You already have "Code Poem for the French Resistance" [Poem #197]from the
film "Carve Her Name With Pride". And "O Captain, My Captain!"[Poem #157]
from "Dead Poets Society". And I seem to recall a film in which
"Invictus"[Poem #221] was central - a teacher trying to get a student to
tease out the meaning; what was the film?

Here is another one, the first verse of which is read aloud from the old book
of verse in the cave in one of the meetings of the Dead Poets Society. Whenever
I recite it, I have to warn listeners not to make up their politically correct
and sensitive minds until I have finished.

(Poem #1165) The Ballad Of William Bloat In a mean abode on the Shankill Road Lived a man named William Bloat; And he had a wife, the curse of his life, Who always got his goat. 'Til one day at dawn, with her nightdress on He slit her pretty throat. With a razor gash he settled her hash Oh never was crime so quick But the steady drip on the pillowslip Of her lifeblood made him sick. And the pool of gore on the bedroom floor Grew clotted and cold and thick. Now he was right glad he had done as he had As his wife lay there so still But a sudden awe of the mighty law Filled his heart with an icy chill. So to finish the fun so well begun He resolved himself to kill. He took the sheet from his wife's cold feet And twisted it into a rope And he hanged himself from the pantry shelf, 'Twas an easy end, let's hope. In the face of death with his latest breath He said "to hell with the Pope." Now the strangest turn in this whole concern Is only just beginning. He went to Hell, but his wife got well And is still alive and sinning. For the razor blade was Dublin made But the sheet was Belfast linen. -- Raymond Calvert

The poem is variously attributed to that prolific creator of such verses,
Anon.  But I have also seen the name Raymond Calvert as author. I would be
happy to know something about him. [I found several attributions to Calvert,
so I've gone ahead and followed suit - martin]

The Shankill Road is the centre of militant Protestantism (more accurately,
anti-papistry) in Belfast and is rarely out of the news when it comes to
"loyalist" paramilitary activity.

I have also seen the last two lines written as

   For the razor blade was German made
   But the sheet was English linen.

Presumably a leftover from one of the World Wars and possibly when it first
appeared.

Frank O'Shea

[Martin adds]
Curiously enough, apart from "Funeral Blues"[Poem #256], I can't think of
any memorable poetry featured in a movie (Jackson's first "Lord of the
Rings" movie disappointed me in that respect - I expected at least one poem
as a voiceover.) Maybe I just don't watch enough of the right sort of movie.
I'm looking forward to seeing what people come up with.

(Afterthought: no, I lied - there was the very memorable, and heartily
recommended, "Il Postino")

Summoned by Bells (excerpt) -- John Betjeman

Guest poem sent in by Zubaer Mahboob

(Poem #1164) Summoned by Bells (excerpt) Walking from school is a consummate art: Which route to follow to avoid the gangs, Which paths to find that lead, circuitous, To leafy squirrel haunts and plopping ponds, For dreams of Archibald and Tiger Tim; Which hiding place is safe, and when it is; What time to leave to dodge the enemy. I only once was trapped. I knew the trap - I heard it in their tones: "Walk back with us." I knew they weren't my friends; but that soft voice Wheedled me from my route to cold Swain's Lane. There in a holly bush they threw me down, Pulled off my shorts, and laughed and ran away; And, as I struggled up, I saw grey brick, The cemetery railings and the tomb. -- John Betjeman

The passage is from John Betjeman's autobiographical book of verse "Summoned
by Bells" which, on account of its length (not to mention copyright issues),
is unlikely to feature here in its entirety, but which nonetheless contains
some of Betjeman's most evocative poetry. Betjeman has long been one of my
favorite poets, although I have occasionally wondered why I feel such
affection for a man whose lifelong theme was middle England, and a very
specific soft-focus vision of it. Rereading "Summoned by Bells" after a gap
of several years, it seems to me that it has much to do with a certain form
of Englishness that many of us of a South Asian origin were familiar with at
an impressionable age. Those who picked up the patterns of the English
language from the gentle, civilized pages of Brighter Grammar or Fundamental
English may know what I am talking about, and may even be able to identify,
to some extent, with this harmless infatuation.

This stanza, from the second chapter of Summoned, describes an incident from
Betjeman's childhood in north London during the twilit years of the Great
War.  Although too young to understand its significance, Betjeman can hear
plainly the booming sound of artillery fire coming across the channel from
Poperinghe and Mons. On his way to school, he is taunted by cruel
classmates, who have concluded from his exotic name: "Betjeman's a German
spy/ Shoot him down and let him die." Hence, the circuitous response on the
part of the young schoolboy. A few stanzas later, comedy makes its
appearance. The budding poet is handing over his very first 'anthology' -
boldly entitled "The Best of Betjeman" - to his American schoolmaster for
his review and opinion. This is none other than the expatriate TS Eliot who,
even years later when both were established poets, would refuse to tell
Betjeman what he thought of his juvenilia: "At the time/ A boy called Jelly
said 'He thinks they are bad'/ But he himself is still too kind to say."

On a personal note, last July on a trip to London, I was walking up Swain's
Lane on my way to Highgate Cemetery - there to check out the graves of
George Eliot and Marx among others - and these lines bring back to me with
great immediacy the flavour of the neighborhood. 85 years later, it's still
holly, grey brick, railing and tombs, just the way Betjeman knew it.

Zubaer

The Song Of The Dead -- Rudyard Kipling

Many, many thanks to everyone who identified and sent in today's poem

(Poem #1163) The Song Of The Dead Hear now the Song of the Dead -- in the North by the torn berg-edges -- They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges. Song of the Dead in the South -- in the sun by their skeleton horses, Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust of the sear river-courses. Song of the Dead in the East -- in the heat-rotted jungle hollows, Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof -- in the brake of the buffalo-wallows. Song of the Dead in the West -- in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them, Where the wolverene tumbles their packs from the camp and the grave-mound they made them; Hear now the Song of the Dead! I We were dreamers, dreaming greatly, in the man-stifled town; We yearned beyond the sky-line where the strange roads go down. Came the Whisper, came the Vision, came the Power with the Need, Till the Soul that is not man's soul was lent us to lead. As the deer breaks -- as the steer breaks -- from the herd where they graze, In the faith of little children we went on our ways. Then the wood failed -- then the food failed -- then the last water dried -- In the faith of little children we lay down and died. On the sand-drift -- on the veldt-side -- in the fern-scrub we lay, That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way. Follow after -- follow after! We have watered the root, And the bud has come to blossom that ripens for fruit! Follow after -- we are waiting, by the trails that we lost, For the sounds of many footsteps, for the tread of a host. Follow after -- follow after -- for the harvest is sown: By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own! When Drake went down to the Horn And England was crowned thereby, 'Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed Our Lodge -- our Lodge was born (And England was crowned thereby!) Which never shall close again By day nor yet by night, While man shall take his life to stake At risk of shoal or main (By day nor yet by night). But standeth even so As now we witness here, While men depart, of joyful heart, Adventure for to know (As now bear witness here!) II We have fed our sea for a thousand years And she calls us, still unfed, Though there's never a wave of all her waves But marks our English dead: We have strawed our best to the weed's unrest, To the shark and the sheering gull. If blood be the price of admiralty, Lord God, we ha' paid in full! There's never a flood goes shoreward now But lifts a keel we manned; There's never an ebb goes seaward now But drops our dead on the sand -- But slinks our dead on the sands forlore, From the Ducies to the Swin. If blood be the price of admiralty, If blood be the price of admiralty, Lord God, we ha' paid it in! We must feed our sea for a thousand years, For that is our doom and pride, As it was when they sailed with the 'Golden Hind', Or the wreck that struck last tide -- Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef Where the ghastly blue-lights flare. If blood be the price of admiralty, If blood be the price of admiralty, If blood be the price of admiralty, Lord God, we ha' bought it fair! -- Rudyard Kipling

Note: I've not tried to indicate Kipling's italics - instead, see

[broken link] http://whitewolf.newcastle.edu.au/words/authors/K/KiplingRudyard/verse/volumeXI/songdead.html

  warrigal: 1: Australian wild horse [syn: warragal] 2: wolflike
    yellowish-brown wild dog of Australia [syn: dingo, warragal, Canis dingo]
  kloof: (South African) A deep ravine.

Kipling's "Song of the Dead" is, in some ways, diametrically opposed to the
Navy Hymn [Poem #1162]. Where the latter appeals to God as a shield and a
shelter from a hostile universe, "Song of the Dead" looks instead to an
abstract accounting principle that demands a price for every inch of terrain
won.

This is a deeply entrenched sentiment, whether consciously or subconsciously
- the feeling that every gain has its corresponding price, and, conversely,
that every price paid shall reap its corresponding gain - a sort of
bargaining with the universe (often, though not always, personified through
a deity).

Today's poem is a powerful exploration of the idea, singing the song of the
dead in a thousand echoing voices, carving out a tale of loss and triumph,
and an overwhelming sense of the ceaseless struggle against the vast and
impersonally deadly forces of nature. And yet, in the end it is triumph that
wins through - the price that has been demanded has been paid in full, and
Man has proven himself equal to it. And it shall be paid again, and though
we must feed our seas, not a death shall be wasted. For that, as Kipling so
magnificently puts it, is our doom and our pride.

martin

Afterthought: Note the archaisms - to cite just three, 'sear', 'wolverene'
and 'forlore' where we would, today, have 'sere', 'wolverine' and 'forlorn'.
This is not quite the same as the 'dialect' Kipling often uses in his poems,
but it serves much the same purpose - conveying meaning via the words, and
atmosphere by their forms.

Links:

  I was first introduced to this poem through Poul Anderson's novel of the
  same name. There's a review here:
    http://www.lostbooks.org/guestreviews/2002-01-03-1.html

  I am reminded of a fragment from Tolkien's "Lament for Boromir"
     ... so many bones there lie
     On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky
        -- Poem #46

  And one from Jordin Kare's "Fire in the Sky":
    But the Gods do not give lightly of the powers they have made
    And with Challenger and seven, once again the price is paid
        -- [broken link] http://tinyurl.com/58qh

  And thanks to Manu Anand for pointing out that the end
  of Tennyson's Ulysses goes very well alongside today's poem:
    One equal temper of heroic hearts,
    Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
    To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
        -- Poem #121

martin

Almighty Ruler of the All -- Robert A Heinlein

In memory of the Columbia and her crew...

(Poem #1162) Almighty Ruler of the All Almighty ruler of the all Whose power extends to great and small, Who guides the stars with steadfast law, Whose least creation fills with awe - Oh grant Thy mercy and Thy grace To those who venture into space. -- Robert A Heinlein

Notes:
  From the short story "Ordeal in Space", collected in "The Past Through
    Tomorrow"
  Intended as an additional verse to the Navy Hymn ("Eternal Father, Strong
    to Save")

As Heinlein fans are doubtless aware, his work includes several examples of
verse by fictional poets. "The Green Hills of Earth" [Poem #241] is
undoubtedly the best known, but today's poem runs it a close second (helped,
no doubt, by the popularity of the Navy Hymn).

I was moved to think of this (and of several other poems and songs) today,
and to reflect that, no matter how much one reads about the dangers and
perils of spaceflight, it never really strikes home until something like
this happens. It is far easier to believe in "those in peril on the sea" -
the seventeen years since Challenger have made astronauts safely invulnerable
in the public consciousness. No more.

Requiesat in Pacem.

Links:
  There is, unsurprisingly, a lot of filk appropriate to the occasion. I
  considered running some, but hesitated to separate the words from the
  music - go listen instead. I recommend "Fire in the Sky" and "Hope Eyrie"
  from the Virtual Filksing
    http://www.prometheus-music.com/eli/virtual.html

  A few minstrels links:
   Poem #276: High Flight
   Poem #609: Winged Man

 The original Navy Hymn:
   [broken link] http://www.chinfo.navy.mil/navpalib/questions/eternal.html
 There are also several additional verses; astonishingly, the Heinlen one is
 not among them.

PostScript: I am also reminded of the Poul Anderson novel "We Have Fed our
Seas", which was titled after one of Kipling's poems; I was actually
planning on running that one, but unfortunately could not find the poem. If
you have a copy, please write in.

martin