Bartlett's Poems for Occasions

by Geoffrey O'Brien

  I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned

  Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.

  I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.

  Let us sleep now . . .”

  WILFRED OWEN

  ENGLISH (1893-1918)

  There died a myriad

  There died a myriad,

  And of the best, among them,

  For an old bitch gone in the teeth,

  For a botched civilization,

  Charm, smiling at the good mouth,

  Quick eyes gone under earth’s lid,

  For two gross of broken statues,

  For a few thousand battered books.

  EZRA POUND

  AMERICAN (1885-1972)

  There Will Come Soft Rains

  (War Time)

  There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

  And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

  And frogs in the pools singing at night,

  And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

  Robins will wear their feathery fire

  Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

  And not one will know of the war, not one

  Will care at last when it is done.

  Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree

  If mankind perished utterly;

  And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,

  Would scarcely know that we were gone.

  SARA TEASDALE

  AMERICAN (1884-1933)

  plato told

  plato told

  him:he couldn’t

  believe it(jesus

  told him;he

  wouldn’t believe

  it)lao

  tsze

  certainly told

  him,and general

  (yes

  mam)

  sherman;

  and even

  (believe it

  or

  not)you

  told him:i told

  him;we told him

  (he didn’t believe it,no

  sir)it took

  a nipponized bit of

  the old sixth

  avenue

  el;in the top of his head:to tell

  him

  E. E. CUMMINGS

  AMERICAN (1894-1962)

  What Did I Learn in the Wars

  What did I learn in the wars:

  To march in time to swinging arms and legs

  Like pumps pumping an empty well.

  To march in a row and be alone in the middle,

  To dig into pillows, featherbeds, the body of a beloved woman,

  And to yell “Mama,” when she cannot hear,

  And to yell “God,” when I don’t believe in Him,

  And even if I did believe in Him

  I wouldn’t have told Him about the war

  As you don’t tell a child about grown-ups’ horrors.

  What else did I learn. I learned to reserve a path for retreat.

  In foreign lands I rent a room in a hotel

  Near the airport or railroad station.

  And even in wedding halls

  Always to watch the little door

  With the “Exit” sign in red letters.

  A battle too begins

  Like rhythmical drums for dancing and ends

  With a “retreat at dawn.” Forbidden love

  And battle, the two of them sometimes end like this.

  But above all I learned the wisdom of camouflage,

  Not to stand out, not to be recognized,

  Not to be apart from what’s around me,

  Even not from my beloved.

  Let them think I am a bush or a lamb,

  A tree, a shadow of a tree,

  A doubt, a shadow of a doubt,

  A living hedge, a dead stone,

  A house, a corner of a house.

  If I were a prophet I would have dimmed the glow of the vision

  And darkened my faith with black paper

  And covered the magic with nets.

  And when my time comes, I shall don the camouflage garb of my end:

  The white of clouds and a lot of sky blue

  And stars that have no end.

  YEHUDA AMICHAI

  HEBREW (1924-2000)

  TRANSLATED BY BENJAMIN HARSHAV AND BARBARA HARSHAV

  FROM THE AMERICAN STORY

  On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America

  The Muse, disgusted at an Age and Clime

  Barren of every glorious Theme,

  In distant Lands now waits a better Time,

  Producing Subjects worthy Fame:

  In happy Climes, where from the genial Sun

  And virgin Earth such Scenes ensue,

  The Force of Art by Nature seems outdone,

  And fancied Beauties by the true:

  In happy Climes the Seat of Innocence,

  Where Nature guides and Virtue rules,

  Where Men shall not impose for Truth and Sense

  The Pedantry of Courts and Schools:

  There shall be sung another golden Age,

  The rise of Empire and of Arts,

  The Good and Great inspiring epic Rage,

  The wisest Heads and noblest Hearts.

  Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;

  Such as she bred when fresh and young,

  When heav’nly Flame did animate her Clay,

  By future Poets shall be sung.

  Westward the Course of Empire takes its Way;

  The four first Acts already past,

  A fifth shall close the Drama with the Day;

  Time’s noblest offspring is the last.

  GEORGE BERKELEY

  IRISH (1685-1753)

  Paul Revere’s Ride

  Listen, my children, and you shall hear

  Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

  On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

  Hardly a man is now alive

  Who remembers that famous day and year.

  He said to his friend, “If the British march

  By land or sea from the town tonight,

  Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

  Of the North Church tower as a signal light, —

  One, if by land, and two, if by sea;

  And I on the opposite shore will be,

  Ready to ride and spread the alarm

  Through every Middlesex village and farm,

  For the country folk to be up and to arm.”

  Then he said, “Good night!” and with muffled oar

  Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

  Just as the moon rose over the bay,

  Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

  The Somerset, British man-of-war;

  A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

  Across the moon like a prison bar,

  And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

  By its own reflection in the tide.

  Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street

  Wanders and watches, with eager ears,

  Till in the silence around him he hears

  The muster of men at the barrack door,

  The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

  And the measured tread of the grenadiers,

  Marching down to their boats on the shore.

  Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,

  By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

  To the belfry-chamber overhead,

  And startled the pigeons from their perch

  On the sombre rafters, that round him made

  Masses and moving shapes of shade, —

  By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

  To the highest window in the wall,

  Where he paused to listen and look down

  A moment on the roofs of the town

  And the moonlight flowing over all.

  Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,

&nbs
p; In their night-encampment on the hill,

  Wrapped in silence so deep and still

  That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,

  The watchful night-wind, as it went

  Creeping along from tent to tent,

  And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”

  A moment only he feels the spell

  Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread

  Of the lonely belfry and the dead;

  For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

  On a shadowy something far away,

  Where the river widens to meet the bay, —

  A line of black that bends and floats

  On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

  Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,

  Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride

  On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

  Now he patted his horse’s side,

  Now gazed at the landscape far and near,

  Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,

  And turned and tightened his saddle girth;

  But mostly he watched with eager search

  The belfry’s tower of the Old North Church,

  As it rose above the graves on the hill,

  Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

  And lo! as he looks, on the belfry height

  A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

  He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,

  But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

  A second lamp in the belfry burns!

  A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

  A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

  And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

  Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;

  That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

  The fate of a nation was riding that night;

  And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,

  Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

  He has left the village and mounted the steep,

  And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

  Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

  And under the alders that skirt its edge,

  Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

  Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

  It was twelve by the village clock,

  When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

  He heard the crowing of the cock,

  And the barking of the farmer’s dog,

  And he felt the damp of the river fog,

  That rises after the sun goes down.

  It was one by the village clock,

  When he galloped into Lexington.

  He saw the gilded weathercock

  Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

  And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,

  Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

  As if they already stood aghast

  At the bloody work they would look upon.

  It was two by the village clock,

  When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

  He heard the bleating of the flock,

  And the twitter of birds among the trees,

  And felt the breath of the morning breeze

  Blowing over the meadows brown.

  And one was safe and asleep in his bed

  Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

  Who that day would be lying dead,

  Pierced by a British musket-ball.

  You know the rest. In books you have read,

  How the British Regulars fired and fled, —

  How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

  From behind each fence and farmyard wall,

  Chasing the redcoats down the lane,

  Then crossing the fields to emerge again

  Under the trees at the turn of the road,

  And only pausing to fire and load.

  So through the night rode Paul Revere;

  And so through the night went his cry of alarm

  To every Middlesex village and farm, —

  A cry of defiance, and not of fear,

  A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

  And a word that shall echo for evermore!

  For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

  Through all our history, to the last,

  In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

  The people will waken and listen to hear

  The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

  And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

  HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

  AMERICAN (1807-1882)

  Concord Hymn

  Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, 4 July 1837

  By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

  Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,

  Here once the embattled farmers stood

  And fired the shot heard round the world.

  The foe long since in silence slept;

  Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;

  And Time the ruined bridge has swept

  Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

  On this green bank, by this soft stream,

  We set today, a votive stone;

  That memory may their deed redeem,

  When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

  Spirit, that made those heroes dare

  To die, and leave their children free,

  Bid Time and Nature gently spare

  The shaft we raise to them and thee.

  RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  AMERICAN (1803-1882)

  Old Ironsides

  Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

  Long has it waved on high,

  And many an eye has danced to see

  That banner in the sky;

  Beneath it rung the battle shout,

  And burst the cannon’s roar; —

  The meteor of the ocean air

  Shall sweep the clouds no more!

  Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood

  Where knelt the vanquished foe,

  When winds were hurrying o’er the flood

  And waves were white below,

  No more shall feel the victor’s tread,

  Or know the conquered knee; —

  The harpies of the shore shall pluck

  The eagle of the sea!

  O better that her shattered hulk

  Should sink beneath the wave;

  Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

  And there should be her grave;

  Nail to the mast her holy flag,

  Set every thread-bare sail,

  And give her to the god of storms, —

  The lightning and the gale!

  OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

  AMERICAN (1809-1894)

  Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide

  Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,

  In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;

  Some great cause, God’s new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,

  Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,

  And the choice goes by for ever ’twixt that darkness and that light.

  Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand,

  Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land?

  Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet ’t is Truth alone is strong,

  And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng

  Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong.

  Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments see,

  That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion’s sea;

  Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry

  Of those Crises, God’s stern winnowers, from whose fe
et earth’s chaff must fly;

  Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by.

  Careless seems the great Avenger; history’s pages but record

  One death-grapple in the darkness ’twixt old systems and the Word;

  Truth for ever on the scaffold, Wrong for ever on the throne, —

  Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,

  Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.

  We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great,

  Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate,

  But the soul is still oracular; amid the market’s din,

  List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within, —

  “They enslave their children’s children who make compromise with sin.”

  JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

  AMERICAN (1819-1891)

  Battle-Hymn of the Republic

  Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

  He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

  He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:

  His truth is marching on.

  I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

  They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

  I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.

  His day is marching on.

  I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:

  “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;

  Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

  Since God is marching on.”

  He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;

  He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:

  Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!

  Our God is marching on.

  In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,

  With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:

  As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

  While God is marching on.

  JULIA WARD HOWE

  AMERICAN (1819-1910)

  Shiloh

  A Requiem (April, 1862)

  Skimming lightly, wheeling still,

  The swallows fly low

  Over the field in clouded days,

  The forest-field of Shiloh —

  Over the field where April rain

  Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain