How will the legend of the age of trees Feel, when the last tree falls in England? When the concrete spreads and the town conquers The country’s heart; when contraceptive Tarmac’s laid where farm has faded, Tramline flows where slept a hamlet, And shop-fronts, blazing...
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night....
This isn’t death, it’s glory! It isn’t dark, it’s light; It isn’t stumbling, groping Or even faith, ---- it’s sight! This isn’t grief, it’s having. My last tear wiped away. It’s sunrise, it’s the morning Of my eternal day! This isn’t even praying, It’s...
On the throne of emptiness I sit and wait To see wings of freedom appear From a land enthronged with gold – Such a beautiful state – As to put a mind at rest And throw away my fear. Arthur De Kusel was killed climbing in Chamonix in July 1970. ...
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers of spring; To which, beside their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such thing. Who would have thought my...
Lent is a tree without blossom, without leaf, Barer than blackhorn in its winter sleep All unadorned. Unlike Christmas with decrees The setting-up, the dressing-up of trees, Lent is a taking down, a stripping bare, A starkness after all has been withdrawn Of surplus...
A rose, planted by my father’s hands, so long ago. Less fruitful now, thinner, less flowers. “It’s old,” said the old man, my father, “It’s tired. It’s near the end of its life.” Who’d have thought it? A rose, growing old, tired, dying? My father did. He understood,...
Only the present is thy part and fee And happy thou, If, though thou didst not beat thy future brow, Thou could'st well see What present things required of thee. They ask enough; why should'st thou further go? Raise not the mud Of future depths, but drink the clear...
Honour is flashed off exploit, so we say; And those strokes once that gashed flesh or galled shield Should tongue that time now, trumpet now that field, And, on the fighter, forge his glorious day. On Christ they do and on the martyr may; But be the war within, the...
Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair, Do what you may do, what, do what you may, And wisdom is early to despair: Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done To keep at bay Age and age's evils, hoar hair, Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death's worst,...
And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing. Oh my only light, It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night. George Herbert (1593-1633). The...
To every man there openeth A Way, and Ways, and a Way. And the High Soul climbs the High way, And the Low Soul gropes the Low, And in between, on the misty flats, The rest drift to and fro. But to every man there openeth A High Way, and a Low. And every man decideth...