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Best Famous Education Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Education poems. This is a select list of the best famous Education poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Education poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of education poems.

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Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

A Man

 George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T.
V.
His dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash from his rolled cigarettes dropped onto his undershirt.
Some of the ash was still burning.
Sometimes the burning ash missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing it away.
There was a knock on the trailer door.
He got slowly to his feet and answered the door.
It was Constance.
She had a fifth of unopened whiskey in a bag.
"George, I left that son of a bitch, I couldn't stand that son of a bitch anymore.
" "Sit down.
" George opened the fifth, got two glasses, filled each a third with whiskey, two thirds with water.
He sat down on the bed with Constance.
She took a cigarette out of her purse and lit it.
She was drunk and her hands trembled.
"I took his damn money too.
I took his damn money and split while he was at work.
You don't know how I've suffered with that son of a bitch.
" " Lemme have a smoke," said George.
She handed it to him and as she leaned near, George put his arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her.
"You son of a bitch," she said, "I missed you.
" "I miss those good legs of yours , Connie.
I've really missed those good legs.
" "You still like 'em?" "I get hot just looking.
" "I could never make it with a college guy," said Connie.
"They're too soft, they're milktoast.
And he kept his house clean.
George , it was like having a maid.
He did it all.
The place was spotless.
You could eat beef stew right off the crapper.
He was antisceptic, that's what he was.
" "Drink up, you'll feel better.
" "And he couldn't make love.
" "You mean he couldn't get it up?" "Oh he got it up, he got it up all the time.
But he didn't know how to make a woman happy, you know.
He didn't know what to do.
All that money, all that education, he was useless.
" "I wish I had a college education.
" "You don't need one.
You have everything you need, George.
" "I'm just a flunkey.
All the shit jobs.
" "I said you have everything you need, George.
You know how to make a woman happy.
" "Yeh?" "Yes.
And you know what else? His mother came around! His mother! Two or three times a week.
And she'd sit there looking at me, pretending to like me but all the time she was treating me like I was a whore.
Like I was a big bad whore stealing her son away from her! Her precious Wallace! Christ! What a mess!" "He claimed he loved me.
And I'd say, 'Look at my pussy, Walter!' And he wouldn't look at my pussy.
He said, 'I don't want to look at that thing.
' That thing! That's what he called it! You're not afraid of my pussy, are you, George?" "It's never bit me yet.
" "But you've bit it, you've nibbled it, haven't you George?" "I suppose I have.
" "And you've licked it , sucked it?" "I suppose so.
" "You know damn well, George, what you've done.
" "How much money did you get?" "Six hundred dollars.
" "I don't like people who rob other people, Connie.
" "That's why you're a fucking dishwasher.
You're honest.
But he's such an ass, George.
And he can afford the money, and I've earned it.
.
.
him and his mother and his love, his mother-love, his clean l;ittle wash bowls and toilets and disposal bags and breath chasers and after shave lotions and his little hard-ons and his precious love-making.
All for himself, you understand, all for himself! You know what a woman wants, George.
" "Thanks for the whiskey, Connie.
Lemme have another cigarette.
" George filled them up again.
"I missed your legs, Connie.
I've really missed those legs.
I like the way you wear those high heels.
They drive me crazy.
These modern women don't know what they're missing.
The high heel shapes the calf, the thigh, the ass; it puts rythm into the walk.
It really turns me on!" "You talk like a poet, George.
Sometimes you talk like that.
You are one hell of a dishwasher.
" "You know what I'd really like to do?" "What?" "I'd like to whip you with my belt on the legs, the ass, the thighs.
I'd like to make you quiver and cry and then when you're quivering and crying I'd slam it into you pure love.
" "I don't want that, George.
You've never talked like that to me before.
You've always done right with me.
" "Pull your dress up higher.
" "What?" "Pull your dress up higher, I want to see more of your legs.
" "You like my legs, don't you, George?" "Let the light shine on them!" Constance hiked her dress.
"God christ shit," said George.
"You like my legs?" "I love your legs!" Then george reached across the bed and slapped Constance hard across the face.
Her cigarette flipped out of her mouth.
"what'd you do that for?" "You fucked Walter! You fucked Walter!" "So what the hell?" "So pull your dress up higher!" "No!" "Do what I say!" George slapped again, harder.
Constance hiked her skirt.
"Just up to the panties!" shouted George.
"I don't quite want to see the panties!" "Christ, george, what's gone wrong with you?" "You fucked Walter!" "George, I swear, you've gone crazy.
I want to leave.
Let me out of here, George!" "Don't move or I'll kill you!" "You'd kill me?" "I swear it!" George got up and poured himself a shot of straight whiskey, drank it, and sat down next to Constance.
He took the cigarette and held it against her wrist.
She screamed.
HE held it there, firmly, then pulled it away.
"I'm a man , baby, understand that?" "I know you're a man , George.
" "Here, look at my muscles!" george sat up and flexed both of his arms.
"Beautiful, eh ,baby? Look at that muscle! Feel it! Feel it!" Constance felt one of the arms, then the other.
"Yes, you have a beautiful body, George.
" "I'm a man.
I'm a dishwasher but I'm a man, a real man.
" "I know it, George.
" "I'm not the milkshit you left.
" "I know it.
" "And I can sing, too.
You ought to hear my voice.
" Constance sat there.
George began to sing.
He sang "Old man River.
" Then he sang "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen.
" He sang "The St.
Louis Blues.
" He sasng "God Bless America," stopping several times and laughing.
Then he sat down next to Constance.
He said, "Connie, you have beautiful legs.
" He asked for another cigarette.
He smoked it, drank two more drinks, then put his head down on Connie's legs, against the stockings, in her lap, and he said, "Connie, I guess I'm no good, I guess I'm crazy, I'm sorry I hit you, I'm sorry I burned you with that cigarette.
" Constance sat there.
She ran her fingers through George's hair, stroking him, soothing him.
Soon he was asleep.
She waited a while longer.
Then she lifted his head and placed it on the pillow, lifted his legs and straightened them out on the bed.
She stood up, walked to the fifth, poured a jolt of good whiskey in to her glass, added a touch of water and drank it sown.
She walked to the trailer door, pulled it open, stepped out, closed it.
She walked through the backyard, opened the fence gate, walked up the alley under the one o'clock moon.
The sky was clear of clouds.
The same skyful of clouds was up there.
She got out on the boulevard and walked east and reached the entrance of The Blue Mirror.
She walked in, and there was Walter sitting alone and drunk at the end of the bar.
She walked up and sat down next to him.
"Missed me, baby?" she asked.
Walter looked up.
He recognized her.
He didn't answer.
He looked at the bartender and the bartender walked toward them They all knew eachother.
Written by David Herbert Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Snake

 A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.
In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree I came down the steps with my pitcher And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.
He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough And rested his throat upon the stone bottom, And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness, He sipped with his straight mouth, Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body, Silently.
Someone was before me at my water-trough, And I, like a second comer, waiting.
He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do, And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do, And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment, And stooped and drank a little more, Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me He must be killed, For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.
And voices in me said, If you were a man You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.
But must I confess how I liked him, How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless, Into the burning bowels of this earth? Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured? I felt so honoured.
And yet those voices: If you were not afraid, you would kill him! And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more That he should seek my hospitality From out the dark door of the secret earth.
He drank enough And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken, And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black, Seeming to lick his lips, And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air, And slowly turned his head, And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream, Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.
And as he put his head into that dreadful hole, And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther, A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole, Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after, Overcame me now his back was turned.
I looked round, I put down my pitcher, I picked up a clumsy log And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
I think it did not hit him, But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front, At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.
And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act! I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.
And I thought of the albatross And I wished he would come back, my snake.
For he seemed to me again like a king, Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld, Now due to be crowned again.
And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords Of life.
And I have something to expiate: A pettiness.
Taormina, 1923
Written by Wystan Hugh (W H) Auden | Create an image from this poem

The Unknown Citizen

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a
saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his
generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their
education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free

 1
AS a strong bird on pinions free, 
Joyous, the amplest spaces heavenward cleaving, 
Such be the thought I’d think to-day of thee, America, 
Such be the recitative I’d bring to-day for thee.
The conceits of the poets of other lands I bring thee not, Nor the compliments that have served their turn so long, Nor rhyme—nor the classics—nor perfume of foreign court, or indoor library; But an odor I’d bring to-day as from forests of pine in the north, in Maine—or breath of an Illinois prairie, With open airs of Virginia, or Georgia, or Tennessee—or from Texas uplands, or Florida’s glades, With presentment of Yellowstone’s scenes, or Yosemite; And murmuring under, pervading all, I’d bring the rustling sea-sound, That endlessly sounds from the two great seas of the world.
And for thy subtler sense, subtler refrains, O Union! Preludes of intellect tallying these and thee—mind-formulas fitted for thee—real, and sane, and large as these and thee; Thou, mounting higher, diving deeper than we knew—thou transcendental Union! By thee Fact to be justified—blended with Thought; Thought of Man justified—blended with God: Through thy Idea—lo! the immortal Reality! Through thy Reality—lo! the immortal Idea! 2 Brain of the New World! what a task is thine! To formulate the Modern.
.
.
.
.
Out of the peerless grandeur of the modern, Out of Thyself—comprising Science—to recast Poems, Churches, Art, (Recast—may-be discard them, end them—May-be their work is done—who knows?) By vision, hand, conception, on the background of the mighty past, the dead, To limn, with absolute faith, the mighty living present.
(And yet, thou living, present brain! heir of the dead, the Old World brain! Thou that lay folded, like an unborn babe, within its folds so long! Thou carefully prepared by it so long!—haply thou but unfoldest it—only maturest it; It to eventuate in thee—the essence of the by-gone time contain’d in thee; Its poems, churches, arts, unwitting to themselves, destined with reference to thee, The fruit of all the Old, ripening to-day in thee.
) 3 Sail—sail thy best, ship of Democracy! Of value is thy freight—’tis not the Present only, The Past is also stored in thee! Thou holdest not the venture of thyself alone—not of thy western continent alone; Earth’s résumé entire floats on thy keel, O ship—is steadied by thy spars; With thee Time voyages in trust—the antecedent nations sink or swim with thee; With all their ancient struggles, martyrs, heroes, epics, wars, thou bear’st the other continents; Theirs, theirs as much as thine, the destination-port triumphant: —Steer, steer with good strong hand and wary eye, O helmsman—thou carryest great companions, Venerable, priestly Asia sails this day with thee, And royal, feudal Europe sails with thee.
4 Beautiful World of new, superber Birth, that rises to my eyes, Like a limitless golden cloud, filling the western sky; Emblem of general Maternity, lifted above all; Sacred shape of the bearer of daughters and sons; Out of thy teeming womb, thy giant babes in ceaseless procession issuing, Acceding from such gestation, taking and giving continual strength and life; World of the Real! world of the twain in one! World of the Soul—born by the world of the real alone—led to identity, body, by it alone; Yet in beginning only—incalculable masses of composite, precious materials, By history’s cycles forwarded—by every nation, language, hither sent, Ready, collected here—a freer, vast, electric World, to be constructed here, (The true New World—the world of orbic Science, Morals, Literatures to come,) Thou Wonder World, yet undefined, unform’d—neither do I define thee; How can I pierce the impenetrable blank of the future? I feel thy ominous greatness, evil as well as good; I watch thee, advancing, absorbing the present, transcending the past; I see thy light lighting and thy shadow shadowing, as if the entire globe; But I do not undertake to define thee—hardly to comprehend thee; I but thee name—thee prophecy—as now! I merely thee ejaculate! Thee in thy future; Thee in thy only permanent life, career—thy own unloosen’d mind—thy soaring spirit; Thee as another equally needed sun, America—radiant, ablaze, swift-moving, fructifying all; Thee! risen in thy potent cheerfulness and joy—thy endless, great hilarity! (Scattering for good the cloud that hung so long—that weigh’d so long upon the mind of man, The doubt, suspicion, dread, of gradual, certain decadence of man;) Thee in thy larger, saner breeds of Female, Male—thee in thy athletes, moral, spiritual, South, North, West, East, (To thy immortal breasts, Mother of All, thy every daughter, son, endear’d alike, forever equal;) Thee in thy own musicians, singers, artists, unborn yet, but certain; Thee in thy moral wealth and civilization (until which thy proudest material wealth and civilization must remain in vain;) Thee in thy all-supplying, all-enclosing Worship—thee in no single bible, saviour, merely, Thy saviours countless, latent within thyself—thy bibles incessant, within thyself, equal to any, divine as any; Thee in an education grown of thee—in teachers, studies, students, born of thee; Thee in thy democratic fetes, en masse—thy high original festivals, operas, lecturers, preachers; Thee in thy ultimata, (the preparations only now completed—the edifice on sure foundations tied,) Thee in thy pinnacles, intellect, thought—thy topmost rational joys—thy love, and godlike aspiration, In thy resplendent coming literati—thy full-lung’d orators—thy sacerdotal bards—kosmic savans, These! these in thee, (certain to come,) to-day I prophecy.
5 Land tolerating all—accepting all—not for the good alone—all good for thee; Land in the realms of God to be a realm unto thyself; Under the rule of God to be a rule unto thyself.
(Lo! where arise three peerless stars, To be thy natal stars, my country—Ensemble—Evolution—Freedom, Set in the sky of Law.
) Land of unprecedented faith—God’s faith! Thy soil, thy very subsoil, all upheav’d; The general inner earth, so long, so sedulously draped over, now and hence for what it is, boldly laid bare, Open’d by thee to heaven’s light, for benefit or bale.
Not for success alone; Not to fair-sail unintermitted always; The storm shall dash thy face—the murk of war, and worse than war, shall cover thee all over; (Wert capable of war—its tug and trials? Be capable of peace, its trials; For the tug and mortal strain of nations come at last in peace—not war;) In many a smiling mask death shall approach, beguiling thee—thou in disease shalt swelter; The livid cancer spread its hideous claws, clinging upon thy breasts, seeking to strike thee deep within; Consumption of the worst—moral consumption—shall rouge thy face with hectic: But thou shalt face thy fortunes, thy diseases, and surmount them all, Whatever they are to-day, and whatever through time they may be, They each and all shall lift, and pass away, and cease from thee; While thou, Time’s spirals rounding—out of thyself, thyself still extricating, fusing, Equable, natural, mystical Union thou—(the mortal with immortal blent,) Shalt soar toward the fulfilment of the future—the spirit of the body and the mind, The Soul—its destinies.
The Soul, its destinies—the real real, (Purport of all these apparitions of the real;) In thee, America, the Soul, its destinies; Thou globe of globes! thou wonder nebulous! By many a throe of heat and cold convuls’d—(by these thyself solidifying;) Thou mental, moral orb! thou New, indeed new, Spiritual World! The Present holds thee not—for such vast growth as thine—for such unparallel’d flight as thine, The Future only holds thee, and can hold thee.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

25. My Father was a Farmer: A Ballad

 MY father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O;
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.
Then out into the world my course I did determine, O; Tho’ to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O; My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O: Resolv’d was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.
In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune’s favour, O; Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O; Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d, sometimes by friends forsaken, O; And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.
Then sore harass’d and tir’d at last, with Fortune’s vain delusion, O, I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O; The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O; But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O; So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O; To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O; For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.
Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O: No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow, O; I live to-day as well’s I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.
But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O, Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O: I make indeed my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O: But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O, Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen’rally upon me, O; Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur’d folly, O: But come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O.
All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O, The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O: Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O, A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.
Written by G K Chesterton | Create an image from this poem

The Song of Education

 III.
For the Creche Form 8277059, Sub-Section K I remember my mother, the day that we met, A thing I shall never entirely forget; And I toy with the fancy that, young as I am, I should know her again if we met in a tram.
But mother is happy in turning a crank That increases the balance in somebody's bank; And I feel satisfaction that mother is free From the sinister task of attending to me.
They have brightened our room, that is spacious and cool, With diagrams used in the Idiot School, And Books for the Blind that will teach us to see; But mother is happy, for mother is free.
For mother is dancing up forty-eight floors, For love of the Leeds International Stores, And the flame of that faith might perhaps have grown cold, With the care of a baby of seven weeks old.
For mother is happy in greasing a wheel For somebody else, who is cornering Steel; And though our one meeting was not very long, She took the occasion to sing me this song: "O, hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come When thy sleep will be broken with hooting and hum; There are handles want turning and turning all day, And knobs to be pressed in the usual way; O, hush thee, my baby, take rest while I croon, For Progress comes early, and Freedom too soon.
"
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

Number 3 on the Docket

 The lawyer, are you?
Well! I ain't got nothin' to say.
Nothin'! I told the perlice I hadn't nothin'.
They know'd real well 'twas me.
Ther warn't no supposin', Ketchin' me in the woods as they did, An' me in my house dress.
Folks don't walk miles an' miles In the drifted snow, With no hat nor wrap on 'em Ef everythin's all right, I guess.
All right? Ha! Ha! Ha! Nothin' warn't right with me.
Never was.
Oh, Lord! Why did I do it? Why ain't it yesterday, and Ed here agin? Many's the time I've set up with him nights When he had cramps, or rheumatizm, or somethin'.
I used ter nurse him same's ef he was a baby.
I wouldn't hurt him, I love him! Don't you dare to say I killed him.
'Twarn't me! Somethin' got aholt o' me.
I couldn't help it.
Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do! Yes, Sir.
No, Sir.
I beg your pardon, I -- I -- Oh, I'm a wicked woman! An' I'm desolate, desolate! Why warn't I struck dead or paralyzed Afore my hands done it.
Oh, my God, what shall I do! No, Sir, ther ain't no extenuatin' circumstances, An' I don't want none.
I want a bolt o' lightnin' To strike me dead right now! Oh, I'll tell yer.
But it won't make no diff'rence.
Nothin' will.
Yes, I killed him.
Why do yer make me say it? It's cruel! Cruel! I killed him because o' th' silence.
The long, long silence, That watched all around me, And he wouldn't break it.
I tried to make him, Time an' agin, But he was terrible taciturn, Ed was.
He never spoke 'cept when he had to, An' then he'd only say "yes" and "no".
You can't even guess what that silence was.
I'd hear it whisperin' in my ears, An' I got frightened, 'twas so thick, An' al'ays comin' back.
Ef Ed would ha' talked sometimes It would ha' driven it away; But he never would.
He didn't hear it same as I did.
You see, Sir, Our farm was off'n the main road, And set away back under the mountain; And the village was seven mile off, Measurin' after you'd got out o' our lane.
We didn't have no hired man, 'Cept in hayin' time; An' Dane's place, That was the nearest, Was clear way 'tother side the mountain.
They used Marley post-office An' ours was Benton.
Ther was a cart-track took yer to Dane's in Summer, An' it warn't above two mile that way, But it warn't never broke out Winters.
I used to dread the Winters.
Seem's ef I couldn't abear to see the golden-rod bloomin'; Winter'd come so quick after that.
You don't know what snow's like when yer with it Day in an' day out.
Ed would be out all day loggin', An' I set at home and look at the snow Layin' over everythin'; It 'ud dazzle me blind, Till it warn't white any more, but black as ink.
Then the quiet 'ud commence rushin' past my ears Till I most went mad listenin' to it.
Many's the time I've dropped a pan on the floor Jest to hear it clatter.
I was most frantic when dinner-time come An' Ed was back from the woods.
I'd ha' give my soul to hear him speak.
But he'd never say a word till I asked him Did he like the raised biscuits or whatever, An' then sometimes he'd jest nod his answer.
Then he'd go out agin, An' I'd watch him from the kitchin winder.
It seemed the woods come marchin' out to meet him An' the trees 'ud press round him an' hustle him.
I got so I was scared o' th' trees.
I thought they come nearer, Every day a little nearer, Closin' up round the house.
I never went in t' th' woods Winters, Though in Summer I liked 'em well enough.
It warn't so bad when my little boy was with us.
He used to go sleddin' and skatin', An' every day his father fetched him to school in the pung An' brought him back agin.
We scraped an' scraped fer Neddy, We wanted him to have a education.
We sent him to High School, An' then he went up to Boston to Technology.
He was a minin' engineer, An' doin' real well, A credit to his bringin' up.
But his very first position ther was an explosion in the mine.
And I'm glad! I'm glad! He ain't here to see me now.
Neddy! Neddy! I'm your mother still, Neddy.
Don't turn from me like that.
I can't abear it.
I can't! I can't! What did you say? Oh, yes, Sir.
I'm here.
I'm very sorry, I don't know what I'm sayin'.
No, Sir, Not till after Neddy died.
'Twas the next Winter the silence come, I don't remember noticin' it afore.
That was five year ago, An' it's been gittin' worse an' worse.
I asked Ed to put in a telephone.
I thought ef I felt the whisperin' comin' on I could ring up some o' th' folks.
But Ed wouldn't hear of it.
He said we'd paid so much for Neddy We couldn't hardly git along as 'twas.
An' he never understood me wantin' to talk.
Well, this year was worse'n all the others; We had a terrible spell o' stormy weather, An' the snow lay so thick You couldn't see the fences even.
Out o' doors was as flat as the palm o' my hand, Ther warn't a hump or a holler Fer as you could see.
It was so quiet The snappin' o' the branches back in the wood-lot Sounded like pistol shots.
Ed was out all day Same as usual.
An' it seemed he talked less'n ever.
He didn't even say `Good-mornin'', once or twice, An' jest nodded or shook his head when I asked him things.
On Monday he said he'd got to go over to Benton Fer some oats.
I'd oughter ha' gone with him, But 'twas washin' day An' I was afeared the fine weather'd break, An' I couldn't do my dryin'.
All my life I'd done my work punctual, An' I couldn't fix my conscience To go junketin' on a washin'-day.
I can't tell you what that day was to me.
It dragged an' dragged, Fer ther warn't no Ed ter break it in the middle Fer dinner.
Every time I stopped stirrin' the water I heerd the whisperin' all about me.
I stopped oftener'n I should To see ef 'twas still ther, An' it al'ays was.
An' gittin' louder It seemed ter me.
Once I threw up the winder to feel the wind.
That seemed most alive somehow.
But the woods looked so kind of menacin' I closed it quick An' started to mangle's hard's I could, The squeakin' was comfortin'.
Well, Ed come home 'bout four.
I seen him down the road, An' I run out through the shed inter th' barn To meet him quicker.
I hollered out, `Hullo!' But he didn't say nothin', He jest drove right in An' climbed out o' th' sleigh An' commenced unharnessin'.
I asked him a heap o' questions; Who he'd seed An' what he'd done.
Once in a while he'd nod or shake, But most o' th' time he didn't do nothin'.
'Twas gittin' dark then, An' I was in a state, With the loneliness An' Ed payin' no attention Like somethin' warn't livin'.
All of a sudden it come, I don't know what, But I jest couldn't stand no more.
It didn't seem 's though that was Ed, An' it didn't seem as though I was me.
I had to break a way out somehow, Somethin' was closin' in An' I was stiflin'.
Ed's loggin' axe was ther, An' I took it.
Oh, my God! I can't see nothin' else afore me all the time.
I run out inter th' woods, Seemed as ef they was pullin' me; An' all the time I was wadin' through the snow I seed Ed in front of me Where I'd laid him.
An' I see him now.
There! There! What you holdin' me fer? I want ter go to Ed, He's bleedin'.
Stop holdin' me.
I got to go.
I'm comin', Ed.
I'll be ther in a minit.
Oh, I'm so tired! (Faints)
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Sic transit gloria mundi

 "Sic transit gloria mundi,"
"How doth the busy bee,"
"Dum vivimus vivamus,"
I stay mine enemy!

Oh "veni, vidi, vici!"
Oh caput cap-a-pie!
And oh "memento mori"
When I am far from thee!

Hurrah for Peter Parley!
Hurrah for Daniel Boone!
Three cheers, sir, for the gentleman
Who first observed the moon!

Peter, put up the sunshine;
Patti, arrange the stars;
Tell Luna, tea is waiting,
And call your brother Mars!

Put down the apple, Adam,
And come away with me,
So shalt thou have a pippin
From off my father's tree!

I climb the "Hill of Science,"
I "view the landscape o'er;"
Such transcendental prospect,
I ne'er beheld before!

Unto the Legislature
My country bids me go;
I'll take my india rubbers,
In case the wind should blow!

During my education,
It was announced to me
That gravitation, stumbling,
Fell from an apple tree!

The earth upon an axis
Was once supposed to turn,
By way of a gymnastic
In honor of the sun!

It was the brave Columbus,
A sailing o'er the tide,
Who notified the nations
Of where I would reside!

Mortality is fatal --
Gentility is fine,
Rascality, heroic,
Insolvency, sublime!

Our Fathers being weary,
Laid down on Bunker Hill;
And tho' full many a morning,
Yet they are sleeping still, --

The trumpet, sir, shall wake them,
In dreams I see them rise,
Each with a solemn musket
A marching to the skies!

A coward will remain, Sir,
Until the fight is done;
But an immortal hero
Will take his hat, and run!

Good bye, Sir, I am going;
My country calleth me;
Allow me, Sir, at parting,
To wipe my weeping e'e.
In token of our friendship Accept this "Bonnie Doon," And when the hand that plucked it Hath passed beyond the moon, The memory of my ashes Will consolation be; Then, farewell, Tuscarora, And farewell, Sir, to thee!
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Sic transit gloria mundi

 "Sic transit gloria mundi,"
"How doth the busy bee,"
"Dum vivimus vivamus,"
I stay mine enemy!

Oh "veni, vidi, vici!"
Oh caput cap-a-pie!
And oh "memento mori"
When I am far from thee!

Hurrah for Peter Parley!
Hurrah for Daniel Boone!
Three cheers, sir, for the gentleman
Who first observed the moon!

Peter, put up the sunshine;
Patti, arrange the stars;
Tell Luna, tea is waiting,
And call your brother Mars!

Put down the apple, Adam,
And come away with me,
So shalt thou have a pippin
From off my father's tree!

I climb the "Hill of Science,"
I "view the landscape o'er;"
Such transcendental prospect,
I ne'er beheld before!

Unto the Legislature
My country bids me go;
I'll take my india rubbers,
In case the wind should blow!

During my education,
It was announced to me
That gravitation, stumbling,
Fell from an apple tree!

The earth upon an axis
Was once supposed to turn,
By way of a gymnastic
In honor of the sun!

It was the brave Columbus,
A sailing o'er the tide,
Who notified the nations
Of where I would reside!

Mortality is fatal --
Gentility is fine,
Rascality, heroic,
Insolvency, sublime!

Our Fathers being weary,
Laid down on Bunker Hill;
And tho' full many a morning,
Yet they are sleeping still, --

The trumpet, sir, shall wake them,
In dreams I see them rise,
Each with a solemn musket
A marching to the skies!

A coward will remain, Sir,
Until the fight is done;
But an immortal hero
Will take his hat, and run!

Good bye, Sir, I am going;
My country calleth me;
Allow me, Sir, at parting,
To wipe my weeping e'e.
In token of our friendship Accept this "Bonnie Doon," And when the hand that plucked it Hath passed beyond the moon, The memory of my ashes Will consolation be; Then, farewell, Tuscarora, And farewell, Sir, to thee!
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Through the Dark Sod -- as Education

 Through the Dark Sod -- as Education --
The Lily passes sure --
Feels her white foot -- no trepidation --
Her faith -- no fear --

Afterward -- in the Meadow --
Swinging her Beryl Bell --
The Mold-life -- all forgotten -- now --
In Ecstasy -- and Dell --
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Death of the Hired Man

 Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting for Warren.
When she heard his step, She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage To meet him in the doorway with the news And put him on his guard.
'Silas is back.
' She pushed him outward with her through the door And shut it after her.
"Be kind,' she said.
She took the market things from Warren's arms And set them on the porch, then drew him down To sit beside her on the wooden steps.
'When was I ever anything but kind to him? But I'll not have the fellow back,' he said.
'I told him so last haying, didn't I? "If he left then," I said, "that ended it.
" What good is he? Who else will harbour him At his age for the little he can do? What help he is there's no depending on.
Off he goes always when I need him most.
'He thinks he ought to earn a little pay, Enough at least to buy tobacco with, won't have to beg and be beholden.
" "All right," I say "I can't afford to pay Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.
" "Someone else can.
" "Then someone else will have to.
I shouldn't mind his bettering himself If that was what it was.
You can be certain, When he begins like that, there's someone at him Trying to coax him off with pocket-money, -- In haying time, when any help is scarce.
In winter he comes back to us.
I'm done.
' 'Shh I not so loud: he'll hear you,' Mary said.
'I want him to: he'll have to soon or late.
' 'He's worn out.
He's asleep beside the stove.
When I came up from Rowe's I found him here, Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep, A miserable sight, and frightening, too- You needn't smile -- I didn't recognize him- I wasn't looking for him- and he's changed.
Wait till you see.
' 'Where did you say he'd been? 'He didn't say.
I dragged him to the house, And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.
I tried to make him talk about his travels.
Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.
' 'What did he say? Did he say anything?' 'But little.
' 'Anything? Mary, confess He said he'd come to ditch the meadow for me.
' 'Warren!' 'But did he? I just want to know.
' 'Of course he did.
What would you have him say? Surely you wouldn't grudge the poor old man Some humble way to save his self-respect.
He added, if you really care to know, He meant to dear the upper pasture, too.
That sounds like something you have heard before? Warren, I wish you could have heard the way He jumbled everything.
I stopped to look Two or three times -- he made me feel so queer-- To see if he was talking in his sleep.
He ran on Harold Wilson -- you remember - The boy you had in haying four years since.
He's finished school, and teaching in his college.
Silas declares you'll have to get him back.
He says they two will make a team for work: Between them they will lay this farm as smooth! The way he mixed that in with other things.
He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft On education -- you know how they fought All through July under the blazing sun, Silas up on the cart to build the load, Harold along beside to pitch it on.
' 'Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.
' 'Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.
You wouldn't think they would.
How some things linger! Harold's young college boy's assurance piqued him.
After so many years he still keeps finding Good arguments he sees he might have used.
I sympathize.
I know just how it feels To think of the right thing to say too late.
Harold's associated in his mind with Latin.
He asked me what I thought of Harold's saying He studied Latin like the violin Because he liked it -- that an argument! He said he couldn't make the boy believe He could find water with a hazel prong-- Which showed how much good school had ever done him.
He wanted to go over that.
'But most of all He thinks if he could have another chance To teach him how to build a load of hay --' 'I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment.
He bundles every forkful in its place, And tags and numbers it for future reference, So he can find and easily dislodge it In the unloading.
Silas does that well.
He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests.
You never see him standing on the hay He's trying to lift, straining to lift himself.
' 'He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be Some good perhaps to someone in the world.
He hates to see a boy the fool of books.
Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk, And nothing to look backward to with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope, So now and never any different.
' Part of a moon was filling down the west, Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap.
She saw And spread her apron to it.
She put out her hand Among the harp-like morning-glory strings, Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, As if she played unheard the tenderness That wrought on him beside her in the night.
'Warren,' she said, 'he has come home to die: You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.
' 'Home,' he mocked gently.
'Yes, what else but home? It all depends on what you mean by home.
Of course he's nothing to us, any more then was the hound that came a stranger to us Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.
' 'Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.
' 'I should have called it Something you somehow haven't to deserve.
' Warren leaned out and took a step or two, Picked up a little stick, and brought it back And broke it in his hand and tossed it by.
'Silas has better claim on' us, you think, Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles As the road winds would bring him to his door.
Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day.
Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich, A somebody- director in the bank.
' 'He never told us that.
' 'We know it though.
' 'I think his brother ought to help, of course.
I'll see to that if there is need.
He ought of right To take him in, and might be willing to- He may be better than appearances.
But have some pity on Silas.
Do you think If he'd had any pride in claiming kin Or anything he looked for from his brother, He'd keep so still about him all this time?' 'I wonder what's between them.
' 'I can tell you.
Silas is what he is -- we wouldn't mind him-- But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide.
He never did a thing so very bad.
He don't know why he isn't quite as good As anyone.
He won't be made ashamed To please his brother, worthless though he is.
' 'I can't think Si ever hurt anyone.
' 'No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.
He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge.
You must go in and see what you can do.
I made the bed up for him there to-night.
You'll be surprised at him -- how much he's broken.
His working days are done; I'm sure of it.
' 'I'd not be in a hurry to say that.
' 'I haven't been.
Go, look, see for yourself.
But, Warren, please remember how it is: He' come to help you ditch the meadow.
He has a plan, You mustn't laugh at him.
He may not speak of it, and then he may.
I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloud Will hit or miss the moon.
' It hit the moon.
Then there were three there, making a dim row, The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.
Warren returned-- too soon, it seemed to her, Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.
'Warren?' she questioned.
'Dead,' was all he answered.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Arithmetic on the Frontier

 A great and glorious thing it is
 To learn, for seven years or so,
The Lord knows what of that and this,
 Ere reckoned fit to face the foe --
The flying bullet down the Pass,
That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass.
" Three hundred pounds per annum spent On making brain and body meeter For all the murderous intent Comprised in "villanous saltpetre!" And after -- ask the Yusufzaies What comes of all our 'ologies.
A scrimmage in a Border Station -- A canter down some dark defile -- Two thousand pounds of education Drops to a ten-rupee jezail -- The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride, Shot like a rabbit in a ride! No proposition Euclid wrote, No formulae the text-books know, Will turn the bullet from your coat, Or ward the tulwar's downward blow Strike hard who cares -- shoot straight who can -- The odds are on the cheaper man.
One sword-knot stolen from the camp Will pay for all the school expenses Of any Kurrum Valley scamp Who knows no word of moods and tenses, But, being blessed with perfect sight, Picks off our messmates left and right.
With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem, The troop-ships bring us one by one, At vast expense of time and steam, To slay Afridis where they run.
The "captives of our bow and spear" Are cheap -- alas! as we are dear.
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

Forard

 It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, 
For there's near a hundred for'ard, and they're stowed away like sheep, -- 
They are trav'lers for the most part in a straight 'n' honest path; 
But their linen's rather scanty, an' there isn't any bath -- 
Stowed away like ewes and wethers that is shore 'n' marked 'n' draft.
But the shearers of the shearers always seem to travel aft; In the cushioned cabins, aft, With saloons 'n' smoke-rooms, aft -- There is sheets 'n' best of tucker for the first-salooners, aft.
Our beef is just like scrapin's from the inside of a hide, And the spuds were pulled too early, for they're mostly green inside; But from somewhere back amidships there's a smell o' cookin' waft, An' I'd give my earthly prospects for a real good tuck-out aft -- Ham an' eggs 'n' coffee, aft, Say, cold fowl for luncheon, aft, Juicy grills an' toast 'n' cutlets -- tucker a-lor-frongsy, aft.
They feed our women sep'rate, an' they make a blessed fuss, Just as if they couldn't trust 'em for to eat along with us! Just because our hands are horny an' our hearts are rough with graft -- But the gentlemen and ladies always DINE together, aft -- With their ferns an' mirrors, aft, With their flow'rs an' napkins, aft -- `I'll assist you to an orange' -- `Kindly pass the sugar', aft.
We are shabby, rough, 'n' dirty, an' our feelin's out of tune, An' it's hard on fellers for'ard that was used to go saloon; There's a broken swell among us -- he is barracked, he is chaffed, An' I wish at times, poor devil, for his own sake he was aft; For they'd understand him, aft, (He will miss the bath-rooms aft), Spite of all there's no denyin' that there's finer feelin's aft.
Last night we watched the moonlight as it spread across the sea -- `It is hard to make a livin',' said the broken swell to me.
`There is ups an' downs,' I answered, an' a bitter laugh he laughed -- There were brighter days an' better when he always travelled aft -- With his rug an' gladstone, aft, With his cap an' spyglass, aft -- A careless, rovin', gay young spark as always travelled aft.
There's a notice by the gangway, an' it seems to come amiss, For it says that second-classers `ain't allowed abaft o' this'; An' there ought to be a notice for the fellows from abaft -- But the smell an' dirt's a warnin' to the first-salooners, aft; With their tooth and nail-brush, aft, With their cuffs 'n' collars, aft -- Their cigars an' books an' papers, an' their cap-peaks fore-'n'-aft.
I want to breathe the mornin' breeze that blows against the boat, For there's a swellin' in my heart -- a tightness in my throat -- We are for'ard when there's trouble! We are for'ard when there's graft! But the men who never battle always seem to travel aft; With their dressin'-cases, aft, With their swell pyjamas, aft -- Yes! the idle and the careless, they have ease an' comfort, aft.
I feel so low an' wretched, as I mooch about the deck, That I'm ripe for jumpin' over -- an' I wish there was a wreck! We are driven to New Zealand to be shot out over there -- Scarce a shillin' in our pockets, nor a decent rag to wear, With the everlastin' worry lest we don't get into graft -- There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft; No anxiety abaft, They have stuff to land with, aft -- Oh, there's little left to land for if you cannot travel aft; But it's grand at sea this mornin', an' Creation almost speaks, Sailin' past the Bay of Islands with its pinnacles an' peaks, With the sunny haze all round us an' the white-caps on the blue, An' the orphan rocks an' breakers -- Oh, it's glorious sailin' through! To the south a distant steamer, to the west a coastin' craft, An' we see the beauty for'ard, better than if we were aft; Spite of op'ra-glasses, aft; But, ah well, they're brothers aft -- Nature seems to draw us closer -- bring us nearer fore-'n'-aft.
What's the use of bein' bitter? What's the use of gettin' mad? What's the use of bein' narrer just because yer luck is bad? What's the blessed use of frettin' like a child that wants the moon? There is broken hearts an' trouble in the gilded first saloon! We are used to bein' shabby -- we have got no overdraft -- We can laugh at troubles for'ard that they couldn't laugh at aft; Spite o' pride an' tone abaft (Keepin' up appearance, aft) There's anxiety an' worry in the breezy cabins aft.
But the curse o' class distinctions from our shoulders shall be hurled, An' the influence of woman revolutionize the world; There'll be higher education for the toilin' starvin' clown, An' the rich an' educated shall be educated down; An' we all will meet amidships on this stout old earthly craft, An' there won't be any friction 'twixt the classes fore-'n'-aft.
We'll be brothers, fore-'n'-aft! Yes, an' sisters, fore-'n'-aft! When the people work together, and there ain't no fore-'n'-aft.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

42. A Poet's Welcome to his Love-Begotten Daughter

 THOU’S 1 welcome, wean; mishanter fa’ me,
If thoughts o’ thee, or yet thy mamie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
 My bonie lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me
 Tyta or daddie.
Tho’ now they ca’ me fornicator, An’ tease my name in kintry clatter, The mair they talk, I’m kent the better, E’en let them clash; An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter, Tho’ ye come here a wee unsought for, And tho’ your comin’ I hae fought for, Baith kirk and queir; Yet, by my faith, ye’re no unwrought for, That I shall swear! Wee image o’ my bonie Betty, As fatherly I kiss and daut thee, As dear, and near my heart I set thee Wi’ as gude will As a’ the priests had seen me get thee That’s out o’ h—ll.
Sweet fruit o’ mony a merry dint, My funny toil is now a’ tint, Sin’ thou came to the warl’ asklent, Which fools may scoff at; In my last plack thy part’s be in’t The better ha’f o’t.
Tho’ I should be the waur bestead, Thou’s be as braw and bienly clad, And thy young years as nicely bred Wi’ education, As ony brat o’ wedlock’s bed, In a’ thy station.
Lord grant that thou may aye inherit Thy mither’s person, grace, an’ merit, An’ thy poor, worthless daddy’s spirit, Without his failins, ’Twill please me mair to see thee heir it, Than stockit mailens.
For if thou be what I wad hae thee, And tak the counsel I shall gie thee, I’ll never rue my trouble wi’ thee, The cost nor shame o’t, But be a loving father to thee, And brag the name o’t.
Note 1.
Burns never published this poem.
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Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

HUDDERSFIELD - THE SECOND POETRY CAPITAL OF ENGLAND

 It brings to mind Swift leaving a fortune to Dublin

‘For the founding of a lunatic asylum - no place needs it more’.
The breathing beauty of the moors and cheap accommodation Drew me but the total barbarity of the town stopped me from Writing a single line: from the hideous facade of its railway Station - Betjeman must have been drunk or mad to praise it - To that lump of stone on Castle Hill - her savage spirit broods.
I remember trying to teach there, at Bradley, where the head Was some kind of ex-P.
T.
teacher, who thought poetry something You did to children and his workaholic jackass deputy, obsessed With practical science and lesson preparation and team teaching And everything on, above and beneath the earth except ‘The Education Of the Poetic Spirit’ and without that and as an example of what Pound meant about how a country treats its poets "is a measure Of its civilisation".
I once had a holiday job in a mill and the Nightwatchman’s killer alsatian had more civilisation than Huddersfield’s Deputy Direction of Education.
For a while I was granted temporary asylum at Royds Hall - At least some of the staff there had socialism if not art - But soon it was spoilt for everyone when Jenks came to head English, sweating for his OU degree and making us all suffer, The kids hating his sarcasm and the staff his vaulting ambition And I was the only one not afraid of him.
His Achilles’ heel was Culture - he was a yob through and through - and the Head said to me "I’ve had enough of him throwing his weight around, if it comes To a showdown I’ll back you against him any day" but he got The degree and the job and the dollars - my old T.
C.
took him But that was typical, after Roy Rich went came a fat appointee Who had written nothing and knew nothing but knew everyone on The appointing committee.
Everyday I was in Huddersfield I thought I was in hell and Sartre was right and so was Jonson - "Hell’s a grammar school To this" - too (Peter Porter I salute you!) and always I dreamed Of Leeds and my beautiful gifted ten-year olds and Sheila, my Genius-child-poet and a head who left me alone to teach poetry And painting day in, day out and Dave Clark and Diane and I, In the staffroom discussing phenomenology and daseinanalysis Applied to Dewey’s theory of education and the essence of the Forms in Plato and Plotinus and plaiting a rose in Sheila’s Hair and Johns, the civilised HMI, asking for a copy of my poems And Horovitz putting me in ‘Children of Albion’ and ‘The Statesman’ giving me good reviews.
Decades later, in Byram Arcade, I am staring at the facade of ‘The Poetry Business’ and its proprietors sitting on the steps Outside, trying to look civilised and their letter, "Your poetry Is good but its not our kind" and I wondered what their kind was And besides they’re not my kind of editor and I’m back in Leeds With a letter from Seamus Heaney - thank you, Nobel Laureate, for Liking ‘My Perfect Rose’ and yes, you’re right about my wanting To get those New Generation Poets into my classroom at Wyther Park and show them a thing or two and a phone call from Horovitz who is my kind of editor still, after thirty years, His mellifluous voice with its blend of an Oxford accent and American High Camp, so warm and full of knowledge and above all PASSIONATE ABOUT POETRY and I remember someone saying, "If Oxford is the soul of England, Huddersfield is its arsehole".