MADHU MALTI

Home-Thoughts, from Abroad : Robert Browning : : April Poems : : Month Poems : :

Robert Browning : : Home-Thoughts, from Abroad : : : : Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

“Home Thoughts From Abroad” , An April Poem probably written in 1845 , By Robert Browning ( ) first appeared in Browning’s 1845 collection Dramatic Romances and Lyrics is About praising England while Abroad staying in Italy with his poetic “Home Thoughts” alongside his feeling homesickness , during the spring time of April which as he recalls, the different Song birds singing in the springtime, and the trees showcasing in England with the new leaves : For instance, in the line , “That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,” : : “brushwood sheaf” are the ‘bound bundles’ of branches of the small trees & bushes; Not cut out yet. : “elm tree” is a hard tough Shade Tree ; Its “round bole” is a round trunk with thick bark which now show the “tiny leaf” with the advent of April bringing Spring. : : : :
“While the chaffinch ( small European Finch : The songbird also known as Fringilla,Coelebs ) sings in cheerful voice “on the orchard bough” : ( “orchard bough” are the larger branches of the cultivated ( fruit) trees in ‘grove’ garden without bushes. ) The bird’s Songs can be heard on their singing especially in the morning. The Poet turns then to the trees and birds he recalls spring from the month of May, As in the 2 Nd Stanza line, “And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge. ” : Here, the ” white throat”is greyish brown ‘warbler’ , the singer bird adding embellishments to a Song having white throats ( patches ) and underparts. : “all the swallows” , are small long winged ‘Song birds’ also noted for swift graceful flight and the exact regularity of his migrations ; Here in the Spring Month of May. “Hark” , meaning the song birds are recalling for the come back like earlier time. : : The Poet’s thoughts proceed further with “the Pear trees in the hedge ( in row ) “that will blossom in May time scattering blossoms and “dewdrops.. . on the clover”: “clover” is a trefoil plant ( of genus Trifolium ) in the nearby field “–at the bent spray’s edge –” : that is, the dew drops sprayed all over the surface of the plant leaves. The wise bird, Song “thrush” , which “sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture ! ” : that is, for fear , or say to prevent you to think he ‘never could take up anew’ ( confirming in this way of his joy on effortless beautiful singing ) :” The first fine careless rapture!” : , that is , the first time in effortless elegance to experience in bliss or ecstasy. : The yearly return of Spring is the same yet its beauty and freshness reappear anew. And New birth and New life can always be re-emerged on its return which happens year by year. Over and over all the past years in the same way.: : “The fields look rough” when covered “with hoary dew”, ( the state of greyish ) , here , meaning old looking , ‘weighty’ dew drops put it’s weight on the slender grassy leaves in the morning to go bent down like someone old , in the field. The sun comes up and the dews are then gone , or say , shaken off ( from the bent old one’s shaking hands ! ? ) by the Noon Time of the Mid- day ; and on being released with the loss of weight of the dew drops, the grassy leaves, then stand upright.: Thus, “the noontide wakes anew,” and “All will be gay.”, that is shiny in the sunlight and look cheery : : “The buttercups , the little children’s dower”: that is, the flowery ‘gifts to possess’ ( dowery is a word derived from dower! You know!? ) , that ‘portion’ will shine “far brighter than the gaudy melon-flower” that Italy has to offer ( To Browning, the Poet at the Springtime during his Stay , away from England, his home land ): Meaning, here, The Two flowers , and The Springtime At Two different Nations, At the same time, too showy differently, by comparison ; tastelessly showy. : : : :

“Home Thoughts” , An April Poem By Robert Browning: Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India January 25 , 2023 : : : : : : : : : :

Spring : Edna St. Vincent Millay : : April Poems : : Month Poems : :

**Edna St. Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892 Rockland, Maine, US– October 19, 1950,aged 58**
Austerlitz, New York, US ) was an American lyrical poet and playwright. Millay was a renowned social figure and noted feminist in New York City during the Roaring Twenties and beyond. She wrote much of her prose and hackwork verse under the pseudonym Nancy Boyd. Notable awards
**Pulitzer Prize for Poetry** **( 1923 ) & Robert Frost Medal 1943 ) : Spouse**
Eugen Jan Boissevain( m. 1923 ; died 1949 ) : : literary critic Edmund Wilson calling her “one of the only poets writing in English in our time who have attained to anything like the stature of great literary figures.” By the 1930s, her critical reputation began to decline, as modernist critics dismissed her work for its use of traditional poetic forms and subject matter, in contrast to modernism’s exhortation to “make it new.” However, the rise of feminist literary criticism in the 1960s and 1970s revived an interest in Millay’s works

**“Babbling , Strewing Flowers! Comes like an idiots “: Edna St Vincent Millay**

Ornamental red leaves plants in the bryant park, kodaikanal. Kodaikanal is a city near Palani in the hills of the Dindigul district in the state of Tamil Nadu, India.Its name in the Tamil language means `The Gift of the Forest`.

**Wild purple and white crocus in spring, beacon hill park, victoria, british columbia, canada**

**Blooming crocus plants with funnel-shaped flowers , Spiky slander leaves**

Spring
BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
To what purpose, April, do you return again? 1
Beauty is not enough. 2
You can no longer quiet me with the redness 3
Of little leaves opening stickily. 4
I know what I know. 5
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe 6
The spikes of the crocus. 7
The smell of the earth is good. 8
It is apparent that there is no death. 9
But what does that signify? 10
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots. 12
Life in itself 13
Is nothing, 14
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. 15
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, 16
April 17
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. 18

“Spring” , An April Poem By Edna St. Vincent Millay is About An Elicitation of what the Month Of April brings along with its Spring. ” Beauty is not enough ” ( line 2 ) reason for the ( yearly ) return of April again. The fancies she describes appear fabricated to her. She knows that it’s not the truth. There is far more death and decay under the surface. She says, “I know what I know. ( line 5 ) . . Life in itself Is nothing.” ( line 12 & 13 ) & ” It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?” ( line 9 & 10 ) : : And describes spring as an “idiot” in the last few lines of the poem.: : : :

line 1 To 9 : : ” To what purpose, April, do you return again? 1
Beauty is not enough. 2
You can no longer quiet me with the redness 3
Of little leaves opening stickily. 4
I know what I know. 5
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe 6
The spikes of the crocus. 7
The smell of the earth is good. 8
It is apparent that there is no death.” 9

About asking April representing spring (Example of Apostrophe ), “To what purpose, April, do you return again?” ( line 1 ) : Although , Beauty and Peace are brought by April, She is not impressed by this behavioural pattern. Spring suggests new life and that there is “no death,” but that’s not true. The concealing ground is hiding with the buried corpses which have decaying smell and engrossed look under the surface. She has lived through the seasons before. So she says,”I know what I know.” ( line 5 ) : “You can no longer quiet me with the redness 3
Of little leaves opening stickily.” 4 : These are the actuating imageries but that can not silence her, and calm down and stop her utter words of protest and even harsh criticism. As she observes ” The spike of the crocus.” ( line 7 ) Meaning the slender grass like leaves of “crocus” feeling its spiky sharp points and ” The smell of the earth” which is “good” ( line 8 ) : : ( ignoring by not mentioning of the white / yellow / purple flowers showcased by the same crocus plants : well , also note that some variety of crocus could be poisonous ! So, Beware of that beauty !? ) ; yet not forgetting to mention of the hot sun in her words of criticism,” The sun is hot on my neck.. .” ( line 6 ) : : : :

lines 10 To 18 : : ” But what does that signify? 10
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots. 12
Life in itself 13
Is nothing, 14
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. 15
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, 16
April 17
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.” 18

About asking for the expressible meaning , or any inferable understanding if April can come up with. There is the “under ground” world of the ‘dead’ with the “brains of men / Eaten by maggots.” ( maggots are the / decaying/dead — brain eating larva of blown Fly ) : : ” Life in itself 13
Is nothing, 14
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.” 15 : : These lines 13 , 14 & 15 suggest the ‘nothingness’ Of ‘life’. : : She sees spring as “an idiot” coming “yearly, down this hill.”( line 16 ) . It comes with beautyful and colorful flowers, scattering all around the earth that looks beautiful, and with that unintelligently talk about its presence, just like a baby saying ‘gibberish’ , as said in line 18, “Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.” 18 : : This way, decorating with hope of making it attractive, is nothing but an act of an “idiot”: : The Only Picture that has emerged before the Worldviews of the Speaker/ the Poet is that April with spring has just made up its yearly return in her life undergoing with so many deaths and darkness all around the world which is full of skepticism. That is why this mental rejection of the apparently beutiful Spring. : : : :

T S Eliot wrote “The Waste Land” and published it in the year 1922 and with its First line, ” April is the cruelest month” in its 1 St Section , ” Burial of the Dead” : ( Visit the Previous Post dtd.Jan 23 , 2023 ) His Poem is About brokenness and loss and Eliot’s numerous allusions to the First World War suggesting the war which played a significant part in bringing about this social, psychological, and emotional collapse. The month of April is disposed of , in inflicting pain , or suffering in the sense as if in course of actions , or happenings, it were to bring “stirring Dull roots” with spring rain.” ( said Eliot ) That will be deplorable and not celebrated as we understand in common parlance. The destructive image such as April ,” breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire”( said Eliot ): His Poem, “The Waste Land” in a way laid out in the new Modernism realised for the 20 Th Century Poetry post world war I . American Poet , Edna Vincent Millay wrote in the same way, her April Poem, “Spring” just a few years after the End of the First World War : Expressing her ‘ lamentations’ rather than ‘celebrating’: To understand this Negativity, No more summoning the imaginative re-creation , rebirth & New life in fulfilling lively with romanticised elicitations that had been found in numerous poetry of earlier time right from Wordsworth and further on , Not Only In English Language , but in the languages of all the Nations : IN the Light Of ‘Millions of Death’ in the World Wars & 20 Th Century , growing up with more threatening wars between the Nations ; and the most Surprising Deathly Trends in the New Diseases like COVID 19 , Etc. devastatingly thrown in Upon the Humanity by The Nature (!?) that we see happening around us in Today’s Time ; The Continuing Similar Trend is the most demanding bettering amendatory , required from the Sensitivity of the Poets of the creative minds To give us their enlightened Visionary Poetry Of Our Time. One Corrective Here , Expecting Series of More Elsewhere. : : Hoping To Survive , This Way Too, : : : :

“Spring “, An April Poem By Edna St Vincent Millay : Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India January 24 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

The Waste Land : T S Eliot : : April Poems : : Month Poems : :

The Waste Land
BY T. S. ELIOT
‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σίβυλλα τί θέλεις; respondebat illa: άποθανεîν θέλω.’

For Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro.

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: ‘Stetson!
‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

‘My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
I never know what you are thinking. Think.’

I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

‘What is that noise?’
The wind under the door.
‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’
Nothing again nothing.
‘Do
‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
‘Nothing?’

I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’
But

O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’
‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
‘What shall we ever do?’
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

III. The Fire Sermon

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d.
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
‘Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smooths her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

The river sweats
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails
Wide
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach
Past the Isle of Dogs.
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala

Elizabeth and Leicester
Beating oars
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores
Southwest wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala

‘Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’

‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’
I made no comment. What should I resent?’

‘On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.’
la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wins
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
DA
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
DA
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands

I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih

T. S. Eliot, “The Waste Land” from Collected Poems: 1909-1962. Copyright © 2020 by T. S. Eliot.
Source: Collected Poems: 1909-1962 (Faber and Faber, Ltd., 2020)
: : From poetryfoundation.org : For Educational Purposes only

“The Waste Land” By T S Eliot is About brokenness and loss and Eliot’s numerous allusions to the First World War suggesting the war which played a significant part in bringing about this social, psychological, and emotional collapse ; but included here as an ” April Poem ” , just because of its Opening line , ” April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.” : : Meaning , the month of April is disposed of in inflicting pain or suffering in the sense as if in course of actions or happenings, it were to bring “stirring Dull roots” with spring rain.” That will be deplorable and not celebrated as we understand in common parlance. The destructive image such as April ,” breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire”:

Notes for each of the Stanzas Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 23 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

To R D ; March 4 Th , 1988 : : Denis Levertov : : March Poems : : Month Poems : :

Denis Levertov ( 24 October,1923 At Priscilla Denise Levertoff – 20 December, 1997 : Aged 77 years , At Seattle , Washington , U S ) : : POET: Active 1946 To 1997 : : Shelly Memorial Award 1984 & Robert Frost Medal 1990 : Lannan Literary Award for Poetry. : her war poetry was published in her 1971 book To Stay Alive, a collection of anti-Vietnam War letters, newscasts, diary entries, and conversations. :Suffering is another major theme in Levertov’s war poetry. The poems “Poetry, Prophecy, Survival,” “Paradox and Equilibrium,” and “Poetry and Peace: Some Broader Dimensions” revolve around war, injustice, and prejudice. In her volume Life at War, Levertov uses imagery to express the disturbing violence of the Vietnam War. Throughout these poems, she addresses violence and savagery, yet tries to bring grace into the equation, mixing the beauty of language and the ugliness of the horrors of war. : Levertov’s first successful Vietnam poetry was her book Freeing of the Dust : . After years of writing such poetry, Levertov eventually came to the conclusion that beauty and poetry and politics can’t go together. : : Levertov wrote and published 24 books of poetry, and also criticism and translations. She also edited several anthologies. : Levertov’s ‘What Were They Like?’ is currently included in the Pearson Edexcel GCSE (9–1) English Literature poetry anthology,[13] and the Conflict cluster of the OCR GCSE (9-1) English Literature poetry anthology, ‘Towards a World Unknown.’ : :

To R. D., MARCH 4th, 1988 You were my mentor. Without knowing it,
I outgrew the need for a mentor.
Without knowing it, you resented that,
and attacked me. I bitterly resented
the attack, and without knowing it
freed myself to move forward
without a mentor. Love and long friendship
corroded, shrank, and vanished from sight
into some underlayer of being.
The years rose and fell, rose and fell,
and the news of your death after years of illness
was a fact without resonance for me,
I had lost you long before, and mourned you,
and put you away like a folded cloth
put away in a drawer. But today I woke
while it was dark, from a dream
that brought you live into my life:
I was in a church, near the Lady Chapel
at the head of the west aisle. Hearing a step
I turned: you were about to enter
the row behind me, but our eyes met
and you smiled at me, your unfocussed eyes
focussing in that smile to renew
all the reality our foolish pride extinguished.
You moved past me then, and as you sat down
beside me, I put a welcoming hand
over yours, and your hand was warm.
I had no need
for a mentor, nor you to be one;
but I was once more
your chosen sister, and you
my chosen brother
We heard strong harmonies rise and begin to fill
the arching stone,
sounds that had risen here through centuries.

Denise Levertov wrote to her longtime correspondent Robert Duncan after Duncan’s death , on 3 February , 1997. Duncan was a Poet Mentor of Levertov in her youth. They were good friends, but they had a falling-out, which is referred in this poem. It was included in a book of their letters. According to Bell Randall’s review of The Letters of Robert Duncan and Denise Levertov, “ : As a reader , you are offered a rare chance to understand where two old friends went wrong.” The Poem , “To R D; March 4, 1988” , is ‘A Threnody’ (Hymn : memorial for a dead person ) : : A tender sorrowful grief for the lost Friendship which is being rediscovered after a death. Love in the friendship can be channelised towards rapprochement as late as the time even on hearing death ; As the same has happened here in this poem on March 4 , 1988 . As what Billy Mills wrote ( in gurdian dated March 23 , 2012 ) : ” March love can be directed towards the winter gone by as much as the spring to come.” : : : :

In Honour of Friendship, ” To R D; March 4, 1988 : : A March Poem By Denis Levertov : : Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India January 22 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

Stella’s Birthday March 13 , 1727 : : March Poems : : Month Poems : :

Jonathan Swift ( ) -Irish poet, satirist, essayist, and political pamphleteer Jonathan Swift was born in Dublin, Ireland. He spent much of his early adult life in England before returning to Dublin to serve as Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin for the last 30 years of his life….

Stella’s Birthday March 13, 1727
BY JONATHAN SWIFT
This day, whate’er the Fates decree,
Shall still be kept with joy by me:
This day then let us not be told,
That you are sick, and I grown old;
Nor think on our approaching ills,
And talk of spectacles and pills.
To-morrow will be time enough
To hear such mortifying stuff.
Yet, since from reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing thought,
Which can, in spite of all decays,
Support a few remaining days:
From not the gravest of divines
Accept for once some serious lines.

Although we now can form no more
Long schemes of life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while time is running fast,
Can look with joy on what is past.

Were future happiness and pain
A mere contrivance of the brain,
As atheists argue, to entice
And fit their proselytes for vice;
(The only comfort they propose,
To have companions in their woes;)
Grant this the case; yet sure ’tis hard
That virtue, styl’d its own reward,
And by all sages understood
To be the chief of human good,
Should, acting, die, nor leave behind
Some lasting pleasure in the mind;
Which by remembrance will assuage
Grief, sickness, poverty, and age;
And strongly shoot a radiant dart
To shine through life’s declining part.

Say, Stella, feel you no content,
Reflecting on a life well spent?
Your skilful hand employ’d to save
Despairing wretches from the grave;
And then supporting with your store
Those whom you dragg’d from death before?
So Providence on mortals waits,
Preserving what it first creates.
Your gen’rous boldness to defend
An innocent and absent friend;
That courage which can make you just
To merit humbled in the dust;
The detestation you express
For vice in all its glitt’ring dress;
That patience under torturing pain,
Where stubborn stoics would complain:
Must these like empty shadows pass,
Or forms reflected from a glass?
Or mere chimæras in the mind,
That fly, and leave no marks behind?
Does not the body thrive and grow
By food of twenty years ago?
And, had it not been still supplied,
It must a thousand times have died.
Then who with reason can maintain
That no effects of food remain?
And is not virtue in mankind
The nutriment that feeds the mind;
Upheld by each good action past,
And still continued by the last?
Then, who with reason can pretend
That all effects of virtue end?

Believe me, Stella, when you show
That true contempt for things below,
Nor prize your life for other ends,
Than merely to oblige your friends;
Your former actions claim their part,
And join to fortify your heart.
For Virtue, in her daily race,
Like Janus, bears a double face;
Looks back with joy where she has gone
And therefore goes with courage on:
She at your sickly couch will wait,
And guide you to a better state.

O then, whatever Heav’n intends,
Take pity on your pitying friends!
Nor let your ills affect your mind,
To fancy they can be unkind.
Me, surely me, you ought to spare,
Who gladly would your suff’rings share;
Or give my scrap of life to you,
And think it far beneath your due;
You, to whose care so oft I owe
That I’m alive to tell you so.
— Jonathan Swift : : : : ….Source: The Poems of Jonathan Swift (edited by Harold Williams) (Oxford University Press, 1958)

“Stella’s Birthday March 13, 1727” , A March Poem By Jonathan Swift is About the happier aspects of living on the birthday of the Poet’s beloved companion. The Poet tells Stella with authority to do as per the instructions especially ” to look with joy on what is past.” : He puts an emphasis on not worrying about an uncertain future. : : The Poem throws light on the important Relationship in the life of the writer , poet. : : : :

Notes for each of the lines of the poem Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 21 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

Kyoto March : Gary Snider : : March Poems : : Month Poems : :

Kyoto: March
BY GARY SNYDER
A few light flakes of snow 1
Fall in the feeble sun; 2
Birds sing in the cold, 3
A warbler by the wall. The plum 4
Buds tight and chill soon bloom. 5
The moon begins first 6
Fourth, a faint slice west 7
At nightfall. Jupiter half-way 8
High at the end of night- 9
Meditation. The dove cry 10
Twangs like a bow. 11
At dawn Mt. Hiei dusted white 12
On top; in the clear air 13
Folds of all the gullied green 14
Hills around the town are sharp, 15
Breath stings. Beneath the roofs 16
Of frosty houses 17
Lovers part, from tangle warm 18
Of gentle bodies under quilt 19
And crack the icy water to the face 20
And wake and feed the children 21
And grandchildren that they love. 22 : : : : — From poetryfoundation.org.com : : For Educational Purposes only. : :

“Kyoto March, A March Poem By Gary Snider is About Love , both “tangle warm Of gentle bodies under quilt” And ” A few light flakes of snow” that “Fall in the feeble sun” ( lines 1 & 2 ) : Thus , March can be both ‘Winter’ as well as ‘Spring’ : Due to the chill, “The plum Buds are tight and … Soon bloom” ( lines 4 & 5 ) : With their announcement of new season of Spring, “Birds sing in the cold, A warbler by the wall.” ( lines 3 & 4 ) : A small active songbird called, “A warbler by the wall.” adds ’embellishments’ to the song with its decorative details. So, the quality of chilling at the snow is not that perilous and will not jeopardize the blossoming. : : : :

The Poem becomes Skyward from “nightfall” through the Night Time till “the end of night” : : As in lines 6 To 11 : ” The moon begins first 6
Fourth, a faint slice west 7
At nightfall. Jupiter half-way 8
High at the end of night- 9
Meditation. The dove cry 10
Twangs like a bow.” 11 : And then “Breaths .. . in the clean air, At dawn” from the mountainous “gullied Hills”in snow capped “Mt. Hiei” To ” Beneath the roofs Of Frosty houses” As in lines 12 To 17,”At dawn Mt. Hiei dusted white 12
On top; in the clear air 13
Folds of all the gullied green 14
Hills around the town are sharp, 15
Breath stings. Beneath the roofs 16
Of frosty houses 17 : :

“Lovers part, from tangle warm 18
Of gentle bodies under quilt 19
And crack the icy water to the face 20
And wake and feed the children 21
And grandchildren that they love.” 22

“The Lovers”who have been tangled up throughout the night time of Cold Conditions finding a warmth breathed out from their twisted “gentle bodies under quilt” that have warded off the ’cause’ of getting ‘stiff’ with ‘shivering cold’: : They then have to be fully awakened from the sleepy eyed face for which they freshen up by ” the icy water” cracking yield of wakefulness “to the face” : : Thus a sharp change over from “tangle warm” To ‘solicited cold’ happening quickly. Because they have to “wake and feed the children” : ( line 21 ) “And grandchildren that they love.” : : : : This is how and what happens At Night Time and At Dawn , Next Day in the Month Of March in the city of “Kyoto”; A city in central Japan on southern Honshu ; a famous cultural centre that was once the Capital of Japan. : : : :

“Kyoto March”, A March Poem Of Love : during a winter – mixed Springtime, By Gary Snider: : Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India January 20 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

March Is The Month Of Expectations : Emily Dickinson : :

March is the Month of Expectation : : 1404 : : by Emily Dickinson : : : : .. …. … …… : : March is the Month of Expectation.
The things we do not know –
The Persons of prognostication
Are coming now –
We try to show becoming firmness –
But pompous Joy
Betrays us, as his first Betrothal
Betrays a Boy.

Emily Dickinson ( 1830–86) : : Complete Poems. 1924.

Part Five: The Single Hound

XLVIII

“March Is The Month Of Expectations”, A March Poem By Emily Dickinson is About the month of expectation , a welcome visitor bringing colour back to a winter-bleached world. : : ” The Persons of prognostication Are coming now –” Emily writes , Meaning a Sign of Something about to happen. Especially something that is important. : : : “The things we do not know” She looks for a presage beforehand. ” We try to show becoming firmness –” : The joy betrays as his first betrothal Betrays a Bo.” : Characterized by pretentious pomp and display. : : : :

The Bight: Elizabeth Bishop : March Poems : : Month Poems : :

Elizabeth Bishop : : The Bright : :

At low tide like this how sheer the water is. 1
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare 2
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches. 3
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed, 4
the water in the bight doesn’t wet anything,5
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible. 6
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire 7
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music. 8
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock 9
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves. 10
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash 11
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard, 12
it seems to me, like pickaxes, 13
rarely coming up with anything to show for it, 14
and going off with humorous elbowings. 15
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar 16
on impalpable drafts 17
and open their tails like scissors on the curves 18
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble. 19
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in 20
with the obliging air of retrievers, 21
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks 22
and decorated with bobbles of sponges. 23
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock 24
where, glinting like little plowshares, 25
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry 26
for the Chinese-restaurant trade. 27
Some of the little white boats are still piled up 28
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in, 29
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm, 30
like torn-open, unanswered letters. 31
The bight is littered with old correspondences. 32
Click. Click. Goes the dredge, 33
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl. 34
All the untidy activity continues, 35
awful but cheerful. 36

Elizabeth Bishop

“The Bight” , A March Poem as well as an ‘Occasional Poem'( having subtitle : On My Birthday ) By Elizabeth Bishop is About A section of coastline that dips or curves inward ( where it bends or recedes from the sea ) in Key West Florida, where she lived briefly. She describes low tide in a bight where birds, shattered boats, fishermen, and the poet herself are part of the scenery and her visionary seascape. The 36 lines ( with some rhythmic unity ) at a stretch does not follow any Rhyme. However, “glare” ( line 2 ) & Boudelair ( line 7 ) , “wishbone” ( line 19 ) & ” boats” ( line 20 ) & ” marl” ( line 34 ) & “cheerful” ( line 36 ) are interesting expressions with Poetic techniques. : : : :

1) lines 1 To 6 : : “At low tide like this how sheer the water is. 1
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare 2
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches. 3
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed, 4
the water in the bight doesn’t wet anything,5
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.” 6 : : : :

About describing the Water”At low tide”: : The Poem begins with the word “At Low tide” is a showy visual representation found as integrated throughout the poem. The water is ‘thinly’ transparent which we perceive from the expression, “how sheer the water is.” ( line 1 ) Meaning one could ‘see through’ it , “At low tide” : The plain water is filmy and clear. “marl” is a calcite or dolomite / mineral deposit crumbling loosely out of the low set water. She describes these ” White crumbling ribs of marl”( line 2 ) as protrusion : prominently projected “glare”in the light: brighter than the brilliance to which the vision is adapted. Her marking looks forthe “boats” that “are dry, the pilings dry as matches”. ( line 3 ) : “pilings” are the support laid to the structure in docks which sucks up water well rather than “being absorbed” in the water; hence looked as “dry as matches”( line 4 ) : ” the water in the bight doesn’t wet anything,” ( line 5 ): The water is always wet , that is every surface is caused to become wettish. : Thus, contrasting things are connected together, figuratively to call it ‘Oxymoron’ : : The water , here is sitting without move or rising. The things don’t get wet , and remain dried. : : The next line 6,”the colour of the gas flame turned as low as possible” : Meaning it is faint; slightly ablaze. : : : : As said in line 1 , “like this”, the readers have been engaged in the plotted scenery that The Poet has started with its Seascape being built in for here poem,”The Bite” : : : :

Notes for each of the remaining lines 7 To 36 Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 18 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

The End Of March : Elizabeth Bishop : : March Poems : : Month Poems : :

**“A Windy Day on the North Shore, Nantucket Island, Mass,” The Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs: Photography Collection, The New York Public Library.**

The End Of March by Elizabeth Bishop

It was cold and windy, scarcely the day
to take a walk on that long beach
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible,
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken,
seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind
numbed our faces on one side;
disrupted the formation
of a lone flight of Canada geese;
and blew back the low, inaudible rollers
in upright, steely mist.

The sky was darker than the water
–it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed
a track of big dog-prints (so big
they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on
lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string,
looping up to the tide-line, down to the water,
over and over. Finally, they did end:
a thick white snarl, man-size, awash,
rising on every wave, a sodden ghost,
falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost…
A kite string?–But no kite.

I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house,
my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box
set up on pilings, shingled green,
a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener
(boiled with bicarbonate of soda?),
protected from spring tides by a palisade
of–are they railroad ties?
(Many things about this place are dubious.)
I’d like to retire there and do nothing,
or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms:
look through binoculars, read boring books,
old, long, long books, and write down useless notes,
talk to myself, and, foggy days,
watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.
At night, a grog a l’américaine.
I’d blaze it with a kitchen match
and lovely diaphanous blue flame
would waver, doubled in the window.
There must be a stove; there is a chimney,
askew, but braced with wires,
and electricity, possibly
–at least, at the back another wire
limply leashes the whole affair
to something off behind the dunes.
A light to read by–perfect! But–impossible.
And that day the wind was much too cold
even to get that far,
and of course the house was boarded up.

On the way back our faces froze on the other side.
The sun came out for just a minute.
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand,
the drab, damp, scattered stones
were multi-colored,
and all those high enough threw out long shadows,
individual shadows, then pulled them in again.
They could have been teasing the lion sun,
except that now he was behind them
–a sun who’d walked the beach the last low tide,
making those big, majestic paw-prints,
who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.
— Elizabeth Bishop : : The End of March : : : :

“The End Of March”, A March Poem in cradling Rhythm By Elizabeth Bishop is About ‘In – between Time Of Seasons and the mindful notes about the pictorial recollection of the nearly ending Season. The Poetic elements meditate of the close of winter and hope to spring from the seascape to dreamscape ; looking backward and forward ; contemplating with newness over the aspects like “The End of March”, With brief “icy beach walk”and the vividly described landscape in the Nature including wind, Retreating ocean, sky, sea birds like geese, and entry of Animals with prints of a dog as big as lion, alongwith life details of the ” proto / crypto – dream – house” with a desire and her monologue to settle in , The “house boarded-up” for continuing cold, A brief egression of “the lion sun” together with aerial but tethered flying kite representing the better things to come.: : : :

Notes for each of the 4 Stanzas Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 17 , 2023 : : ; : : : : :

March : A E Housman : : March Poems : : Month Poems : :

A E Housman ( 1859 – 1936 ) : Alfred Edward Housman was born in Fockbury, Worcestershire, England, on March 26, 1859. He published two volumes of poetry during his life, including A Shropshire Lad (1896), which was widely read during World War I : : : : : A Shropshire Lad, XIII

**When I was one-and-twenty**
**I heard a wise man say,**
**‘Give crowns and pounds and guineas**
**But not your heart away;**

**Give pearls away and rubies**
**But keep your fancy free.’**
**But I was one-and-twenty,**
**No use to talk to me.**

**When I was one-and-twenty**
**I heard him say again,**
**‘The heart out of the bosom**
**Was never given in vain;**
**’Tis paid with sighs a plenty**
**And sold for endless rue.’**
**And I am two-and-twenty,**
**And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.**

**A. E. Housman**

**1896 A Shropshire Lad, XXXVI**

**White in the moon the long road lies,**
**The moon stands blank above;**
**White in the moon the long road lies**
**That leads me from my love.**

**Still hangs the hedge without a gust,**
**Still, still the shadows stay:**
**My feet upon the moonlit dust**
**Pursue the ceaseless way.**

**The world is round, so travellers tell,**
**And straight though reach the track,**
**Trudge on, trudge on, ’twill all be well,**
**The way will guide one back.**

**But ere the circle homeward hies**
**Far, far must it remove:**
**White in the moon the long road lies**
**That leads me from my love.**

**A. E. Housman**

A E Housman in 1910 , best known for his simple style, memorable and moving images that made his work popular during his lifetime. His collection A Shropshire Lad, a cycle of 63 poems, is his most widely read. It has sustained his reputation since his death in 1936 and includes poems like ‘Oh Who Is That Young Sinner,’ ‘1887,’ and ‘To an Athlete Dying Young.’ Housman is also remembered for his career as a classical scholar and his role as a professor of Latin at Cambridge University. His final collection was published in 1922, titled Last Poems.

A Shropshire Lad, X
A. E. Housman – 1859-1936

MARCH

The Sun at noon to higher air,
Unharnessing the silver Pair
That late before his chariot swam,
Rides on the gold wool of the Ram.

So braver notes the storm-cock sings
To start the rusted wheel of things,
And brutes in field and brutes in pen
Leap that the world goes round again.

The boys are up the woods with day
To fetch the daffodils away,
And home at noonday from the hills
They bring no dearth of daffodils.

Afield for palms the girls repair,
And sure enough the palms are there,
And each will find by hedge or pond
Her waving silver-tufted want.

In farm and field through all the shire
They eye beholds the heart’s desire;
Ah, let not only mine be vain,
For lovers should be loved again.

“March” , A March Poem By A E Housman is About Finding a Love With the coming Of Spring. What daffodils were for Wordsworth , sorrow was for A. E. Housman. Here , the Poet Or the Lad is cheerful and optimistic. His verdict in the last line,” Lovers should be loved again.” : : : ” In farm and field through all the shire. They eye beholds the heart’s desire. “ : : : :

Notes for each of the 5 Stanzas Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 16, 2023 : : : : : : : :