Written by
William Butler Yeats |
I
I walk through the long schoolroom questioning;
A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
The children learn to cipher and to sing,
To study reading-books and histories,
To cut and sew, be neat in everything
In the best modern way - the children's eyes
In momentary wonder stare upon
A sixty-year-old smiling public man.
II
I dream of a Ledaean body, bent
Above a sinking fire. a tale that she
Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event
That changed some childish day to tragedy -
Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent
Into a sphere from youthful sympathy,
Or else, to alter Plato's parable,
Into the yolk and white of the one shell.
III
And thinking of that fit of grief or rage
I look upon one child or t'other there
And wonder if she stood so at that age -
For even daughters of the swan can share
Something of every paddler's heritage -
And had that colour upon cheek or hair,
And thereupon my heart is driven wild:
She stands before me as a living child.
IV
Her present image floats into the mind -
Did Quattrocento finger fashion it
Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind
And took a mess of shadows for its meat?
And I though never of Ledaean kind
Had pretty plumage once - enough of that,
Better to smile on all that smile, and show
There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.
V
What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap
Honey of generation had betrayed,
And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape
As recollection or the drug decide,
Would think her Son, did she but see that shape
With sixty or more winters on its head,
A compensation for the pang of his birth,
Or the uncertainty of his setting forth?
VI
Plato thought nature but a spume that plays
Upon a ghostly paradigm of things;
Solider Aristotle played the taws
Upon the bottom of a king of kings;
World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras
Fingered upon a fiddle-stick or strings
What a star sang and careless Muses heard:
Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.
VII
Both nuns and mothers worship images,
But thos the candles light are not as those
That animate a mother's reveries,
But keep a marble or a bronze repose.
And yet they too break hearts - O presences
That passion, piety or affection knows,
And that all heavenly glory symbolise -
O self-born mockers of man's enterprise;
VIII
Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
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Written by
Robert William Service |
He used to say: There ain't a doubt
Misfortune is a bitter pill,
But if you only pry it out
You'll find there's good in every ill.
There's comfort in the worst of woe,
There's consolation in defeat . . .
Oh what a solace-seeker! So
We called him Compensation Pete.
He lost his wealth - but was he pipped?
Why no - "That's fine," he used to say.
"I've got the government plumb gypped -
No more damn income tax to pay.
From cares of property set free,
And with no pesky social ties,
Why, even poverty may be
A benediction in disguise."
He lost his health: "Okay," he said;
"I'm getting on, may be the best.
I've always loved to lie abed,
And now I have the right to rest.
Such heaps o' things I want to do,
I'll have no time to fret or brood.
I'll read the dam ol' Bible through:
Guess it'll do me plenty good."
He has that line of sunny shine
That makes a blessing of a curse,
And he would say: "Don't let's repine,
Though things are bad they might be worse."
And so he cherished to the end
Philosophy so sane and sweet
That everybody was his friend . . .
With optimism hard to beat -
God bless old Compensation Pete.
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Written by
Ralph Waldo Emerson |
Why should I keep holiday,
When other men have none?
Why but because when these are gay,
I sit and mourn alone.
And why when mirth unseals all tongues
Should mine alone be dumb?
Ah! late I spoke to silent throngs,
And now their hour is come.
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Written by
John Betjeman |
The first-class brains of a senior civil servant
Shiver and shatter and fall
As the steering column of his comfortable Humber
Batters in the bony wall.
All those delicate re-adjustments
"On the one hand, if we proceed
With the ad hoc policy hitherto adapted
To individual need...
On the other hand, too rigid an arrangement
Might, of itself, perforce...
I would like to submit for the Minister's concurrence
The following alternative course,
Subject to revision and reconsideration
In the light of our experience gains..."
And this had to happen at the corner where the by-pass
Comes into Egham out of Staines.
That very near miss for an All Souls' Fellowship
The recent compensation of a 'K' -
The first-class brains of a senior civil servant
Are sweetbread on the road today.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
Oh I am neither rich nor poor,
No worker I dispoil;
Yet I am glad to be secure
From servitude and toil.
For with my lifelong savings I
Have bought annuity;
And so unto the day I die
I'll have my toast and tea.
When on the hob the kettle sings
I'll make an amber brew,
And crunch my toast and think of things
I do not have to do.
In dressing-gown and deep arm-chair
I'll give the fire a poke;
Then worlds away from cark and care
I'll smoke and smoke and smoke.
For I believe the very best
Of Being is the last;
And I will crown with silver zest
My patience in the past.
Since compensation is the law
Of life it's up to me
To round the century and draw
My Life Annuity.
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Written by
Phillis Wheatley |
Ere yet the morn its lovely blushes spread,
See Sewell number'd with the happy dead.
Hail, holy man, arriv'd th' immortal shore,
Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.
Come, let us all behold with wishful eyes
The saint ascending to his native skies;
From hence the prophet wing'd his rapt'rous way
To the blest mansions in eternal day.
Then begging for the Spirit of our God,
And panting eager for the same abode,
Come, let us all with the same vigour rise,
And take a prospect of the blissful skies;
While on our minds Christ's image is imprest,
And the dear Saviour glows in ev'ry breast.
Thrice happy faint! to find thy heav'n at last,
What compensation for the evils past!
Great God, incomprehensible, unknown
By sense, we bow at thine exalted throne.
O, while we beg thine excellence to feel,
Thy sacred Spirit to our hearts reveal,
And give us of that mercy to partake,
Which thou hast promis'd for the Saviour's sake!
"Sewell is dead." Swift-pinion'd Fame thus cry'd.
"Is Sewell dead," my trembling tongue reply'd,
O what a blessing in his flight deny'd!
How oft for us the holy prophet pray'd!
How oft to us the Word of Life convey'd!
By duty urg'd my mournful verse to close,
I for his tomb this epitaph compose.
"Lo, here a man, redeem'd by Jesus's blood,
"A sinner once, but now a saint with God;
"Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise,
"Not let his monument your heart surprise;
"Twill tell you what this holy man has done,
"Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun.
"Listen, ye happy, from your seats above.
"I speak sincerely, while I speak and love,
"He sought the paths of piety and truth,
"By these made happy from his early youth;
"In blooming years that grace divine he felt,
"Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt.
"Mourn him, ye indigent, whom he has fed,
"And henceforth seek, like him, for living bread;
"Ev'n Christ, the bread descending from above,
"And ask an int'rest in his saving love.
"Mourn him, ye youth, to whom he oft has told
"God's gracious wonders from the times of old.
"I too have cause this mighty loss to mourn,
"For he my monitor will not return.
"O when shall we to his blest state arrive?
"When the same graces in our bosoms thrive."
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Because I had loved so deeply,
Because I had loved so long,
God in His great compassion
Gave me the gift of song.
Because I have loved so vainly,
And sung with such faltering breath,
The Master in infinite mercy
Offers the boon of Death.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Cosmopolities without a plea
Alight in every Land
The compliments of Paradise
From those within my Hand
Their dappled Journey to themselves
A compensation fair
Knock and it shall be opened
Is their Theology
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Light is sufficient to itself --
If Others want to see
It can be had on Window Panes
Some Hours in the Day.
But not for Compensation --
It holds as large a Glow
To Squirrel in the Himmaleh
Precisely, as to you.
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Written by
D. H. Lawrence |
Somebody's knocking at the door
Mother, come down and see.
--I's think it's nobbut a beggar,
Say, I'm busy.
Its not a beggar, mother,--hark
How hard he knocks ...
--Eh, tha'rt a mard-'arsed kid,
'E'll gi'e thee socks!
Shout an' ax what 'e wants,
I canna come down.
--'E says "Is it Arthur Holliday's?"
Say "Yes," tha clown.
'E says, "Tell your mother as 'er mester's
Got hurt i' th' pit."
What--oh my sirs, 'e never says that,
That's niver it.
Come out o' the way an' let me see,
Eh, there's no peace!
An' stop thy scraightin', childt,
Do shut thy face.
"Your mester's 'ad an accident,
An' they're ta'ein 'im i' th' ambulance
To Nottingham,"--Eh dear o' me
If 'e's not a man for mischance!
Wheers he hurt this time, lad?
--I dunna know,
They on'y towd me it wor bad--
It would be so!
Eh, what a man!--an' that cobbly road,
They'll jolt him a'most to death,
I'm sure he's in for some trouble
Nigh every time he takes breath.
Out o' my way, childt--dear o' me, wheer
Have I put his clean stockings and shirt;
Goodness knows if they'll be able
To take off his pit dirt.
An' what a moan he'll make--there niver
Was such a man for a fuss
If anything ailed him--at any rate
_I_ shan't have him to nuss.
I do hope it's not very bad!
Eh, what a shame it seems
As some should ha'e hardly a smite o' trouble
An' others has reams.
It's a shame as 'e should be knocked about
Like this, I'm sure it is!
He's had twenty accidents, if he's had one;
Owt bad, an' it's his.
There's one thing, we'll have peace for a bit,
Thank Heaven for a peaceful house;
An' there's compensation, sin' it's accident,
An' club money--I nedn't grouse.
An' a fork an' a spoon he'll want, an' what else;
I s'll never catch that train--
What a trapse it is if a man gets hurt--
I s'd think he'll get right again.
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