A Dream Pang -- Robert Frost

Guest poem sent in by Kevin Litzinger

(Poem #1276) A Dream Pang I had withdrawn in forest, and my song Was swallowed up in leaves that blew away; And to the forest edge you came one day (this was my dream) and looked and pondered long, But did not enter, though the wish was strong: You shook your pensive head as who should say, "I dare not--too far in his footsteps stray-- He must seek me would he undo the wrong." Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all, Behind low boughs the trees let down outside; And the sweet pang it cost me not to call and tell you that I saw does still abide. But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof, For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof. -- Robert Frost

I've been wanting to submit this poem for quite some time, because it means
so much to me, and then a few days ago I saw a Robert Frost poem and was
upset because I wanted to submit a Frost poem. Well, I decided to submit
anyway. This poem is very poignant to me in so many ways: like the last
Frost poem [Poem #1272], he uses nature as a metaphor for life, or, as I
believe in this poem, his dream life or daydreams. But this poem displays
more of the dream of love.

It has a man, pining for a woman, guiltily:
"He must seek me would he undo the wrong."

It shows the fear I think almost all men have of women, and this may be the
same vice versa, but Ive never been a woman. But I think we are generally
afraid of women, and we simply overcome it, and that's what his final line
is meant to me.

"For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof"

The dream of the love of a woman that we fear, yet desire as well, is
fulfilled, and the woman is there to prove it.

--Kevin Litzinger

The Wind and the Sea -- Paul Lawrence Dunbar

(Poem #1275) The Wind and the Sea I stood by the shore at the death of day, As the sun sank flaming red; And the face of the waters that spread away Was as gray as the face of the dead. And I heard the cry of the wanton sea And the moan of the wailing wind; For love's sweet pain in his heart had he, But the gray old sea had sinned. The wind was young and the sea was old, But their cries went up together; The wind was warm and the sea was cold, For age makes wintry weather. So they cried aloud and they wept amain, Till the sky grew dark to hear it; And out of its folds crept the misty rain, In its shroud, like a troubled spirit. For the wind was wild with a hopeless love, And the sea was sad at heart At many a crime that he wot of, Wherein he had played his part. He thought of the gallant ships gone down By the will of his wicked waves; And he thought how the churchyard in the town Held the sea-made widows' graves. The wild wind thought of the love he had left Afar in an Eastern land, And he longed, as long the much bereft, For the touch of her perfumed hand. In his winding wail and his deep-heaved sigh His aching grief found vent; While the sea looked up at the bending sky And murmured: "I repent." But e'en as he spoke, a ship came by, That bravely ploughed the main, And a light came into the sea's green eye, And his heart grew hard again. Then he spoke to the wind: "Friend, seest thou not Yon vessel is eastward bound? Pray speed with it to the happy spot Where thy loved one may be found." And the wind rose up in a dear delight, And after the good ship sped; But the crafty sea by his wicked might Kept the vessel ever ahead. Till the wind grew fierce in his despair, And white on the brow and lip. He tore his garments and tore his hair, And fell on the flying ship. And the ship went down, for a rock was there, And the sailless sea loomed black; While burdened again with dole and care, The wind came moaning back. And still he moans from his bosom hot Where his raging grief lies pent, And ever when the ships come not, The sea says: "I repent." -- Paul Lawrence Dunbar

Today's wonderfully and darkly whimsical fairytale of a poem took me
completely by surprise - my eye was caught by the striking opening verse,
but that led me to expect a very different sort of poem, something more
along the lines of Lampman or Poe.

I love the way the tone gradually shifts as the poem progresses. Dunbar
subtly injects personalities into the wind and the sea, so that what seems
at first like metaphor becomes personification, and the focus moves from the
"I" of the first verse to the wind and the sea themselves. And with that
transition, the language acquires a definite touch of whimsy, and what I can
only describe as a "children's story" sort of phrasing, until by its end the
poem is totally fantastic. .

Also, not being too familiar with Dunbar's work aside from a few pieces
seen in other anthologies, it was nice to discover how versatile he could
be. His work is not uniformly good, of course, and his dialect poems get
annoying (as dialect poems are ever wont to do), but reading several of his
poems in succession was definitely a pleasant experience.

martin

The Time I've Lost in Wooing -- Thomas Moore

I've just realised that we have not run a single poem by Thomas Moore! So
here's another glaring omission rectified...

(Poem #1274) The Time I've Lost in Wooing The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light, that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn'd the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman's looks, And folly's all they've taught me. Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him, the sprite, Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted. Like him, too, Beauty won me, But while her eyes were on me, If once their ray Was turn'd away, Oh! winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No, vain, alas! th' endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever. -- Thomas Moore

Note: Moore wrote these words to an old Irish air, "Pease Upon a Trencher"

I like today's poem both for its musicality - it scarcely needs a footnote
to realise that it is a song rather than a poem - and for its unabashed lack
of seriousness (in the sense of lightness rather than silliness). It reminds
me of Millay's

   And put a ribbon on my my hair
   To please a passing lad,
   And, "One thing there's no getting by --
   I've been a wicked girl," said I:
   "But if I can't be sorry, why,
   I might as well be glad

though, of course, Moore's narrator espoused a far more 'acceptable'
viewpoint than Millay's.

The viewpoint itself is thoroughly trite, and it is only the beauty of the
words that redeems the banality of the sentiment, but this they do a more
than adequate job of. In particular, songs often follow a different set of
conventions from 'pure' poetry, and today's piece falls well within those
conventions.

Incidentally, Herrick's "Night Piece, To Julia" scans almost precisely to
today's song - I wonder if Herrick had the same tune in mind, or whether
it's just an easily-hit-upon pattern. Interestingly enough, my comment on
the former

  Another of those wonderfully musical poems the rhythm of which sticks in
  my mind long after the words have faded.

proved itself true - I hadn't thought of Herrick's poem in ages, but the
rhythms of today's piece instantly recalled it.

martin

Links:

  There's a MIDI file here: [broken link] http://www.contemplator.com/folk5/wooing.html

  Biography: http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/tmoore.htm

Love among the Ruins -- Robert Browning

(Poem #1273) Love among the Ruins Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles, Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop As they crop-- Was the site once of a city great and gay, (So they say) Of our country's very capital, its prince Ages since Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war. Now the country does not even boast a tree, As you see, To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to, (else they run Into one) Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest Twelve abreast. And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er-spreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone-- Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. Now--the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks-- Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games. And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey Melt away-- That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,--and then All the men! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each. In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force-- Gold, of course. O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best. -- Robert Browning

Note: First published in volume I of Men and Women, 1855, in fourteen
 six-line stanzas; changed to present seven twelve-line stanzas in 1863.
 Written in January 1852. There has been much learned and irrelevant
 argument [nicely put - martin] about the supposed location of the ruins
 Browning is describing.
    -- RPO (http://eir.library.utoronto.ca/rpo/display/poem283.html)

A charming and somewhat quirky poem, though the quirkiness lies more in the
form than in the content. The tripping metre, with its interspersed long and
short lines, is a bold but successful experiment; it is in a sense a little
too obtrusive, in that it draws attention away from what the poem is
actually saying, but once the initial novelty wears off, it fits the tone of
the poem nicely, and adds greatly to the reader's pleasure in the pure sound
of the words.

Apart from the poem's beautiful imagery, I love the way in which Browning
weaves the narrator's twin reveries together. In particular, I love the
sequence

   When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
       Till I come.

   But he looked upon the city, every side...

with its altogether unexpected segue from love back to history. Indeed,
although the narrator wraps up the poem with a very final "love is best", he
spends far more time musing about the ruins than about his waiting love, so
that when he says "love is best" he is making a passionate choice, not just
mouthing an idle platitude.

The other thing I love about the poem is its extravagaince - Browning could
be a beautifully controlled poet, but he was seldom a restrained one. Of
course, extravagance by itself is more likely to produce a bad poem than a
good one; it is the mixture of extravagance and perfect control that makes
Browning one of the greats.

martin

Birches -- Robert Frost

Guest poem sent in by Raji Rao

(Poem #1272) Birches When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground, Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm, I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows-- Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. -- Robert Frost

Maybe this is not one of Frost's popular poems, but it sure is an
interesting one. This is one of my favourite poems. Frost uses simple
language to  bring his readers into a deep and abiding relationship with the
world around them. This poem describes Frost's growth from a  young "swinger
of birches" to an old man who went through various trials and challenges.
The comparison of the birch tree to that of a girl bending with her hands on
her knees to dry her hair is awesome and also rings a bell, illustrating the
poet's power to blend observation and imagination.

He describes in a symbolic manner the harsh realities of life, the way in
which the boy swings on a birch tree. He also talks about the ups and downs
and the hardships experienced by people in life, with the various conditions
and movement of the birch tree.  Frost uses nature to symbolize aspects of
real life situations that humans undergo. He also fancies to be a swinger of
birches in the end, meaning to say he has grown old now as he has already
experienced life's sweet misery, and only left to wait for death. (I'd like
to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white
trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and
set me down again.)

My favourite lines in the poem are:
    And life is too much like a pathless wood
    Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
    Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
    From a twig's having lashed across it open.
    I'd like to get away from earth awhile
    And then come back to it and begin over.
    May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
    And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
    Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
    I don't know where it's likely to go better.

These lines reveal Frost's love for life.  He compares life to a pathless
wood, where he symbolizes man's quest to happiness. And in the lines, "where
you face.....across it open" he describes life as a never-ending journey of
sadness and misery mixed with happiness.  He also frankly states his wish not
to die when he says: "I'd like to get away from earth .....Not to return".

Reading this poem, one can experience an acute sense of understanding
towards life in general. It's invigorating and entertaining at the same
time.

Rajeshwari Rao Subbu

[Martin adds]

Another thing I like about today's poem is the way it highlights the
versatility of iambic pentameter, and how well it can be blended with the more
irregular rhythms of speech. The poem starts off regularly enough, the first
four or so lines being flowing sequences of iambs which gradually give way to a
more varied pattern as the poem progresses and the narrator sinks deeper into
his reverie, and ending with a line that is so removed from the metre that it
acts more as a sort of slghtly detached, one-line coda than as part of the
'main body' of the poem.