Famous Gallic Poems by Famous Poets

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Duello

 A Frenchman and an Englishman
Resolved to fight a duel,
And hit upon a savage plan,
Because their hate was cruel.
They each would fire a single shot
In room of darkness pitchy,
And who was killed and who was not
Would hang on fingers twitchy.

The room was bare and dark as death,
And each ferocious fighter
Could hear his fierce opponent's breath
And clutched his pistol tighter.
The Gaston...Read more of this...

The Wood

 BUT two miles more, and then we rest ! 
Well, there is still an hour of day, 
And long the brightness of the West 
Will light us on our devious way; 
Sit then, awhile, here in this wood­ 
So total is the solitude, 
We safely may delay. 

These massive roots afford a seat, 
Which seems for weary travellers made....Read more of this...

Cairo Jag

 Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne
always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
she has all the photographs and his letters
tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
All this takes place in...Read more of this...

A Letter To My Aunt

 A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry

To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
In T.S.E. and...Read more of this...

Lydia, by all above (LYDIA, DIC PER OMNES)

         Lydia, by all above,
     Why bear so hard on Sybaris, to ruin him with love?
         What change has made him shun
     The playing-ground, who once so well could bear the dust and sun?
  ...Read more of this...

An Old Twenty-Third Man

 “Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine, 
Marching below, and we still gulping wine?” 
From the sad magic of his fragrant cup 
The red-faced old centurion started up, 
Cursed, battered on the table. “No,” he said,
“Not that! The Three-and-Twentieth Legion’s dead, 
Dead in the first year of this damned campaign— 
The Legion’s dead, dead, and won’t rise again. 
Pity? Rome...Read more of this...

The Wood

 But two miles more, and then we rest ! 
Well, there is still an hour of day, 
And long the brightness of the West 
Will light us on our devious way; 
Sit then, awhile, here in this wood­ 
So total is the solitude, 
We safely may delay. 

These massive roots afford a seat, 
Which seems for weary travellers made....Read more of this...

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