Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,Silence the pianos and with muffled drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come.Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;For nothing now can ever come to any good. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

When you get what you want in your struggle for selfAnd the world makes you king for a dayJust go to the mirror and look at yourselfAnd see what that man has to say.For it isn’t your father, or mother, or wifeWhose judgment upon you must passThe fellow whose verdict counts most in your lifeIs the one staring back from the glass.He’s the fellow to please – never mind all the restFor he’s with you, clear to the endAnd you’ve passed your most difficult, dangerous testIf the man in the glass is your friend.You may fool the whole world down the pathway of yearsAnd get pats on the back as you passBut your final reward will be heartache and tearsIf you’ve cheated the man in the glass. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England - now!And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops - at the bentspray's edge -That's the wise thrush; he sings each songtwice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

The tree that never had to fightFor sun and sky and air and light,But stood out in the open plainAnd always got its share of rain,Never became a forest kingBut lived and died a scrubby thing.The man who never had to toilTo gain and farm his patch of soil,Who never had to win his shareOf sun and sky and light and air,Never became a manly manBut lived and died as he began.Good timber does not grow with ease:The stronger wind, the stronger trees;The further sky, the greater length;The more the storm, the more the strength.By sun and cold, by rain and snow,In trees and men good timbers grow.Where thickest lies the forest growth,We find the patriarchs of both.And they hold counsel with the starsWhose broken branches show the scarsOf many winds and much of strife.This is the common law of life. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Gaily bedight,   A gallant knight,In sunshine and in shadow,   Had journeyed long,   Singing a song,In search of Eldorado.   But he grew old,   This knight so bold,And o'er his heart a shadow   Fell as he found   No spot of groundThat looked like Eldorado.   And, as his strength   Failed him at length,He met a pilgrim shadow;   "Shadow," said he,   "Where can it be,This land of Eldorado?"   "Over the mountains   Of the moon,Down the valley of the shadow,   Ride, boldly ride,"   The shade replied,--"If you seek for Eldorado!" This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Subtitled"Hal o' the Draft" -- Puck of Pook's Hill.If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street;Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the dark —Brandy for the Parson,Baccy for the Clerk;Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,And watch the wall, my darling,While the Gentlemen go by!Running round the woodlump if you chance to findLittle barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.Put the brishwood back again — and they'll be gone next day!If you see the stable-door setting open wide;If you see a tired horse lying down inside;If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;If the lining's wet and warm — don't you ask no more!If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.If they call you "pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!Knocks and footsteps round the house — whistles after dark —You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie —They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!If you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,You'll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood —A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good!Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the dark —Brandy for the Parson,'Baccy for the Clerk;Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie —Watch the wall, my darling,While the Gentlemen go by! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,With avarice painful vigils keep:Still unenjoy'd the present store,Still endless sighs are breathed for more.O! quit the shadow, catch the prize,Which not all India's treasure buys!To purchase with heaven has gold the power?Can gold remove the mortal hour?In life can love be bought with gold?Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?No! - all that's worth a wish - a thought,Fair virtue gives unbribed, unbought,Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind,Let noble views engage thy mind.With science tread the wondrous way,Or learn the Muses' moral lay;In social hours indulge thy soul,Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl;To virtuous love resign thy breast,And be, by blessing beauty, - bless'd.Thus taste the feast by Nature spread,Ere youth and all its joys are fled;Come taste with me the balm of life,Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife.I boast whate'er for man was meant,In health, and Stella, and content;And scorn! (oh! let that scorn be thine!)Mere things of clay, that dig the mine. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

‘Tis not that I am weary grownOf being yours, and yours alone,But with what face can I inclineTo damn you to be only mine?You, whom some kinder power did fashionBy merit and by inclinationThe joy at least of a whole nation.Let meaner spirits of your sexWith humble aims their thoughts perplex,And boast if by their arts they canContrive to make one happy man;While moved by an impartial senseFavours, like Nature, you dispenseWith universal influence.See the kind seed-receiving earthTo every grain affords a birth:On her no showers unwelcome fall,Her willing womb retains 'em all,And shall my Caelia be confined?No, live up to thy mighty mind,And be the mistress of Mankind! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did treadThe night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayedTo straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers runBehind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clearThe night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.Thanks for reading The Poem Reader! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea   In a beautiful pea-green boat:They took some honey, and plenty of money   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.The Owl looked up to the stars above,   And sang to a small guitar,"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,   What a beautiful Pussy you are,            You are,            You are!   What a beautiful Pussy you are!"Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,   How charmingly sweet you sing!Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried,   But what shall we do for a ring?"They sailed away, for a year and a day,To the land where the bong-tree grows;And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,   With a ring at the end of his nose,            His nose,            His nose,   With a ring at the end of his nose."Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling   Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."So they took it away, and were married next day   By the turkey who lives on the hill.They dined on mince and slices of quince,   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,   They danced by the light of the moon,            The moon,            The moon,   They danced by the light of the moon.. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

From childhood’s hour I have not beenAs others were—I have not seenAs others saw—I could not bringMy passions from a common spring—From the same source I have not takenMy sorrow—I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone—And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—Then—in my childhood—in the dawnOf a most stormy life—was drawnFrom ev’ry depth of good and illThe mystery which binds me still—From the torrent, or the fountain—From the red cliff of the mountain—From the sun that ’round me roll’dIn its autumn tint of gold—From the lightning in the skyAs it pass’d me flying by—From the thunder, and the storm—And the cloud that took the form(When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—Please like, subscribe and share with your friends (if they like poems). And please email me any requests. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

To Beatriz Bibiloni Webster de Bullrich I. The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night. Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable. Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you. The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for. The big wave brought you. Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words. The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city. Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are the illustrious toys you have left me. I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn. Your dark rich life… I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your mirror knows. II. What can I hold you with? I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs. I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon. I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghost that living men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses. I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness humour my life. I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal. I offer her that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow – the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities. I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born. I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself. I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat. Please subscribe, like and tell your friends (if they like poems). This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!One morning, very early, before the sun was up,I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.Please like and share - if you like … This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,Attempted to Believe Matilda:The effort very nearly killed her,And would have done so, had not SheDiscovered this Infirmity.For once, towards the Close of Day,Matilda, growing tired of play,And finding she was left alone,Went tiptoe to the TelephoneAnd summoned the Immediate AidOf London's Noble Fire-Brigade.Within an hour the Gallant BandWere pouring in on every hand,From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow.With Courage high and Hearts a-glow,They galloped, roaring through the Town,'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'Inspired by British Cheers and LoudProceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,They ran their ladders through a scoreOf windows on the Ball Room Floor;And took Peculiar Pains to SouseThe Pictures up and down the House,Until Matilda's Aunt succeededIn showing them they were not needed;And even then she had to payTo get the Men to go away,     It happened that a few Weeks laterHer Aunt was off to the TheatreTo see that Interesting PlayThe Second Mrs. Tanqueray.She had refused to take her NieceTo hear this Entertaining Piece:A Deprivation Just and WiseTo Punish her for Telling Lies.That Night a Fire did break out--You should have heard Matilda Shout!You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,And throw the window up and callTo People passing in the Street--(The rapidly increasing HeatEncouraging her to obtainTheir confidence) -- but all in vain!For every time she shouted 'Fire!'They only answered 'Little Liar!'And therefore when her Aunt returned,Matilda, and the House, were Burned.Thanks for reading The Poem Reader! Please subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw—For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard'sAnd when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repairAy, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—But it's useless to investigate—Macavity's not there!And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:It must have been Macavity!'—but he's a mile away.You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:At whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN'T THERE !And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the timeJust controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!Thanks for reading The Poem Reader! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers;How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!I have long dream'd of such a kind of man,So surfeit-swell'd, so old and so profane;But, being awaked, I do despise my dream.Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gapeFor thee thrice wider than for other men.Reply not to me with a fool-born jest:Presume not that I am the thing I was;For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,That I have turn'd away my former self;So will I those that kept me company.When thou dost hear I am as I have been,Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,The tutor and the feeder of my riots:Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death,As I have done the rest of my misleaders,Not to come near our person by ten mile.For competence of life I will allow you,That lack of means enforce you not to evil:And, as we hear you do reform yourselves,We will, according to your strengths and qualities,Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord,To see perform'd the tenor of our word. Set on. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,She lived in a house where help wasn’t hired:Her last words on earth were: ‘Dear friends, I am goingTo where there’s no cooking, or washing, or sewing,For everything there is exact to my wishes,For where they don’t eat there’s no washing of dishes.I’ll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,But having no voice I’ll be quit of the singing.Don’t mourn for me now, don’t mourn for me never,I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.’ This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

From east and south the holy clanOf Bishops gathered to a man;To Synod, called Pan-Anglican,In flocking crowds they came.Among them was a Bishop, whoHad lately been appointed toThe balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,And PETER was his name.His people - twenty-three in sum -They played the eloquent tum-tum,And lived on scalps served up, in rum -The only sauce they knew.When first good BISHOP PETER came(For PETER was that Bishop's name),To humour them, he did the sameAs they of Rum-ti-Foo.His flock, I've often heard him tell,(His name was PETER) loved him well,And, summoned by the sound of bell,In crowds together came."Oh, massa, why you go away?Oh, MASSA PETER, please to stay."(They called him PETER, people say,Because it was his name.)He told them all good boys to be,And sailed away across the sea,At London Bridge that Bishop heArrived one Tuesday night;And as that night he homeward strodeTo his Pan-Anglican abode,He passed along the Borough Road,And saw a gruesome sight.He saw a crowd assembled roundA person dancing on the ground,Who straight began to leap and boundWith all his might and main.To see that dancing man he stopped,Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped,Then down incontinently dropped,And then sprang up again.The Bishop chuckled at the sight."This style of dancing would delightA simple Rum-ti-Foozleite.I'll learn it if I can,To please the tribe when I get back."He begged the man to teach his knack."Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack!Replied that dancing man.The dancing man he worked away,And taught the Bishop every day -The dancer skipped like any fay -Good PETER did the same.The Bishop buckled to his task,With BATTEMENTS, and PAS DE BASQUE.(I'll tell you, if you care to ask,That PETER was his name.)"Come, walk like this," the dancer said,"Stick out your toes - stick in your head,Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread -Your fingers thus extend;The attitude's considered quaint."The weary Bishop, feeling faint,Replied, "I do not say it ain't,But 'Time!' my Christian friend!""We now proceed to something new -Dance as the PAYNES and LAURIS do,Like this - one, two - one, two - one, two."The Bishop, never proud,But in an overwhelming heat(His name was PETER, I repeat)Performed the PAYNE and LAURI feat,And puffed his thanks aloud.Another game the dancer planned -"Just take your ankle in your hand,And try, my lord, if you can stand -Your body stiff and stark.If, when revisiting your see,You learnt to hop on shore - like me -The novelty would striking be,And must attract remark.""No," said the worthy Bishop, "no;That is a length to which, I trow,Colonial Bishops cannot go.You may express surpriseAt finding Bishops deal in pride -But if that trick I ever tried,I should appear undignifiedIn Rum-ti-Foozle's eyes."The islanders of Rum-ti-FooAre well-conducted persons, whoApprove a joke as much as you,And laugh at it as such;But if they saw their Bishop land,His leg supported in his hand,The joke they wouldn't understand -'T would pain them very much!" This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

The sun was shining on the sea,Shining with all his might:He did his very best to makeThe billows smooth and bright--And this was odd, because it wasThe middle of the night.The moon was shining sulkily,Because she thought the sunHad got no business to be thereAfter the day was done--"It's very rude of him," she said,"To come and spoil the fun!"The sea was wet as wet could be,The sands were dry as dry.You could not see a cloud, becauseNo cloud was in the sky:No birds were flying overhead--There were no birds to fly.The Walrus and the CarpenterWere walking close at hand;They wept like anything to seeSuch quantities of sand:"If this were only cleared away,"They said, "it would be grand!""If seven maids with seven mopsSwept it for half a year.Do you suppose," the Walrus said,"That they could get it clear?""I doubt it," said the Carpenter,And shed a bitter tear."O Oysters, come and walk with us!"The Walrus did beseech."A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,Along the briny beach:We cannot do with more than four,To give a hand to each."The eldest Oyster looked at him,But never a word he said:The eldest Oyster winked his eye,And shook his heavy head--Meaning to say he did not chooseTo leave the oyster-bed.But four young Oysters hurried up,All eager for the treat:Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,Their shoes were clean and neat--And this was odd, because, you know,They hadn't any feet.Four other Oysters followed them,And yet another four;And thick and fast they came at last,And more, and more, and more--All hopping through the frothy waves,And scrambling to the shore.The Walrus and the CarpenterWalked on a mile or so,And then they rested on a rockConveniently low:And all the little Oysters stoodAnd waited in a row."The time has come," the Walrus said,"To talk of many things:Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--Of cabbages--and kings--And why the sea is boiling hot--And whether pigs have wings.""But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,"Before we have our chat;For some of us are out of breath,And all of us are fat!""No hurry!" said the Carpenter.They thanked him much for that."A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,"Is what we chiefly need:Pepper and vinegar besidesAre very good indeed--Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,We can begin to feed.""But not on us!" the Oysters cried,Turning a little blue."After such kindness, that would beA dismal thing to do!""The night is fine," the Walrus said."Do you admire the view?"It was so kind of you to come!And you are very nice!"The Carpenter said nothing but"Cut us another slice:I wish you were not quite so deaf--I've had to ask you twice!""It seems a shame," the Walrus said,"To play them such a trick,After we've brought them out so far,And made them trot so quick!"The Carpenter said nothing but"The butter's spread too thick!""I weep for you," the Walrus said:"I deeply sympathize."With sobs and tears he sorted outThose of the largest size,Holding his pocket-handkerchiefBefore his streaming eyes."O Oysters," said the Carpenter,"You've had a pleasant run!Shall we be trotting home again?'But answer came there none--And this was scarcely odd, becauseThey'd eaten every one. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

It freezes- all across a soundless skyThe birds go home. The governing dark's begun:The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun;The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die.Death, with his evil finger to his lip,Leers in at human windows, turning spyTo learn the country where his rule shall lieWhen he assumes perpetual generalship.The undefeated enemy, the chillThat shall benumb the voiceful earth at last,Is master of our moment, and has boundThe viewless wind it-self. There is no sound.It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast.It freezes; and the graven twigs are still. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

What can be said in New Year rhymes,That’s not been said a thousand times? The new years come, the old years go,We know we dream, we dream we know. We rise up laughing with the light,We lie down weeping with the night. We hug the world until it stings,We curse it then and sigh for wings. We live, we love, we woo, we wed,We wreathe our prides, we sheet our dead. We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,And that’s the burden of a year. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,   The flying cloud, the frosty light:   The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.Ring out the old, ring in the new,   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:   The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.Ring out the grief that saps the mind   For those that here we see no more;   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.Ring out a slowly dying cause,   And ancient forms of party strife;   Ring in the nobler modes of life,With sweeter manners, purer laws.Ring out the want, the care, the sin,   The faithless coldness of the times;   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymesBut ring the fuller minstrel in.Ring out false pride in place and blood,   The civic slander and the spite;   Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.Ring out old shapes of foul disease;   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;   Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.Ring in the valiant man and free,   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;   Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Good King Wences'las looked out,on the Feast of Stephen,When the snow lay round about,deep and crisp and even;Brightly shone the moon that night,tho' the frost was cruel,When a poor man came in sight,gath'ring winter fuel."Hither, page, and stand by me,if thou know'st it, telling,Yonder peasant, who is he?Where and what his dwelling?""Sire, he lives a good league hence,underneath the mountain;Right against the forest fence,by Saint Agnes' fountain.""Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,bring me pine logs hither:Thou and I shall see him dine,when we bear them thither."Page and monarch, forth they went,forth they went together;Through the rude wind's wild lamentand the bitter weather."Sire, the night is darker now,and the wind blows stronger;Fails my heart, I know not how;I can go no longer.""Mark my footsteps, good my page.Tread thou in them boldlyThou shalt find the winter's ragefreeze thy blood less coldly."In his master's steps he trod,where the snow lay dinted;Heat was in the very sodwhich the saint had printed.Therefore, Christian men, be sure,wealth or rank possessing,Ye who now will bless the poor,shall yourselves find blessing. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Hark! The herald angels sing,“Glory to the newborn King!Peace on earth and mercy mild,God and sinners reconciled.”Joyful, all ye nations rise,Join the triumph of the skies,With th’angelic host proclaim:“Christ is born in Bethlehem.”Hark! The herald angels sing,“Glory to the newborn King!”Christ by highest heav'n adored,Christ the everlasting Lord!Late in time behold Him come,Offspring of a Virgin's womb.Veiled in flesh the Godhead see,Hail the incarnate Deity,Pleased as man with man to dwell,Jesus, our Emmanuel.Hark! The herald angels sing,“Glory to the newborn King!”Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace!Hail the Son of Righteousness!Light and life to all He brings,Ris'n with healing in His wings.Mild He lays His glory by,Born that man no more may die,Born to raise the sons of earth,Born to give them second birth.Hark! The herald angels sing,“Glory to the newborn King!” This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.The children were nestled all snug in their beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snowGave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.With a little old driver, so lively and quick,I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.As I drew in my head, and was turning around,Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.He had a broad face and a little round belly,That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

In the bleak mid-winterFrosty wind made moanEarth stood hard as iron,Water like a stone;Snow had fallen, snow on snow,Snow on snow,In the bleak mid-winterLong ago.Our God, heaven cannot hold HimNor earth sustain,Heaven and earth shall flee awayWhen He comes to reign:In the bleak mid-winterA stable-place sufficedThe Lord God Almighty —Jesus Christ.Enough for Him, whom cherubimWorship night and day,A breastful of milkAnd a mangerful of hay;Enough for Him, whom AngelsFall down before,The ox and ass and camelWhich adore.Angels and ArchangelsMay have gathered there,Cherubim and seraphimThronged the air;But only His MotherIn her maiden blissWorshipped the BelovedWith a kiss.What can I give Him,Poor as I am? —If I were a ShepherdI would bring a lamb;If I were a Wise ManI would do my part, —Yet what I can I give Him, —Give my heart. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

How like a winter hath my absence beenFrom thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!What old December's bareness everywhere!And yet this time remov'd was summer's time,The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:Yet this abundant issue seem'd to meBut hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,And thou away, the very birds are mute;Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheerThat leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Go and open the door.Maybe outside there’sa tree, or a wood,a garden,or a magic city.Go and open the door.Maybe a dog’s rummaging.Maybe you’ll see a face,or an eye,or the pictureof a picture.Go and open the door.If there’s a fogit will clear.Go and open the door.Even if there’s onlythe darkness ticking,even if there’s onlythe hollow wind,even ifnothingis there,go and open the door.At leastthere’ll bea draught This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

My soul doth sing and my heart doth leap,When I catch sight of compost heap. Let me explain what there is to behold In this putrefying, festering mound of mould. Cut grass and leaves, bygone meals, Old tea bags, stale bread, potato peel, Bananas turned black and egg shells galore, All coated in powdery-blue fungal spore. All those things you don’t want, you just throw them here And nutritious soil will appear in a year Thanks to worms and ants, beetles and lice. It is a creepy crawly paradise. They tirelessly process the peel and the rind With nothing but their self-interest in mind. Nothing is wasted, nor centrally planned. It’s like Adam Smith’s Invisible Hand. This is an example it’s plain to see Of a functioning, free-market economy. Get for your weekly poem, read beautifully. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Because I could not stop for Death —He kindly stopped for me —The Carriage held but just Ourselves —And Immortality.We slowly drove — He knew no hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For His Civility —We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess — in the Ring —We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain —We passed the Setting Sun —Or rather — He passed Us —The Dews drew quivering and Chill —For only Gossamer, my Gown —My Tippet — only Tulle —We paused before a House that seemedA Swelling of the Ground —The Roof was scarcely visible —The Cornice — in the Ground —Since then — 'tis Centuries — and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses' HeadsWere toward Eternity — This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? — Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,— The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Remember, remember!    The fifth of November,    The Gunpowder treason and plot;    I know of no reason    Why the Gunpowder treason    Should ever be forgot!    Guy Fawkes and his companions    Did the scheme contrive,    To blow the King and Parliament    All up alive.    Threescore barrels, laid below,    To prove old England's overthrow.    But, by God's providence, him they catch,    With a dark lantern, lighting a match!    A stick and a stake    For King James's sake!    If you won't give me one,    I'll take two,    The better for me,    And the worse for you.    A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope,    A penn'orth of cheese to choke him,    A pint of beer to wash it down,    And a jolly good fire to burn him.    Holloa, boys! holloa, boys! make the bells ring!    Holloa, boys! holloa boys! God save the King!    Hip, hip, hooor-r-r-ray!Thank you for listening to The Poem Reader. Please tell the world. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced; but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;       To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,       For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,    Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook       Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep    Steady thy laden head across a brook;    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,       Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn    Among the river sallows, borne aloft       Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;       And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

The rustling of leaves under the feet in woods and under      hedges;The crumpling of cat-ice and snow down wood-rides,      narrow lanes and every street causeway;Rustling through a wood or rather rushing, while the wind      halloos in the oak-toop like thunder;The rustle of birds' wings startled from their nests or flying      unseen into the bushes;The whizzing of larger birds overhead in a wood, such as      crows, puddocks, buzzards;The trample of robins and woodlarks on the brown leaves.      and the patter of squirrels on the green moss;The fall of an acorn on the ground, the pattering of nuts on        the hazel branches as they fall from ripeness;The flirt of the groundlark's wing from the stubbles –       how sweet such pictures on dewy mornings, when thedew flashes from its brown feathers. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou seest the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou seest the glowing of such fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consum’d by that which it was nourished by.   This thou perceiv’st which makes thy love more strong,   To love that well which thou must leave ere long. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;Lengthen night and shorten day;Every leaf speaks bliss to meFluttering from the autumn tree.I shall smile when wreaths of snowBlossom where the rose should grow;I shall sing when night’s decayUshers in a drearier day. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Some say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I’ve tasted of desireI hold with those who favor fire.But if it had to perish twice,I think I know enough of hateTo say that for destruction iceIs also greatAnd would suffice.. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

When I was a kid I loved to dig holesThere's a part of me that must have been mole.Holes got bigger and deeper as I aged.My utensils went from spoon to spade.A small depression is the start of a hole,you dig on down with no particular goal.Come back tomorrow and dig some more,dig and dig till you can't dig no more.Sometimes a neighbor kid would join in the fun.The dirt would fly and imaginations would run.At the end of the day and all had gone home, it was still my holeI was all alone.I would cover it with wood, concealit with dirt.My secret sanctum, a womb in the earth.A candle in a notch gave me illumination.A garden path towards ruination.Transformation from boy to man.Nebulous holes he can't understand.Enigma and stigma pour out from the void.Memories of holes, the ones I've enjoyed.How one survives with so many holes,but I guess it's no different than freckles or moles.All the methods I've tried, to fill them all in. Which one do I pick and where to beginYou know all of these holes don't need filling in! Life's shot through with em. They don't grow over nor do they heal. They just are. So deal. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Between my finger and my thumb   The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.Under my window, a clean rasping sound   When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   My father, digging. I look downTill his straining rump among the flowerbeds   Bends low, comes up twenty years away   Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   Where he was digging.The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   Against the inside knee was levered firmly.He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deepTo scatter new potatoes that we picked,Loving their cool hardness in our hands.By God, the old man could handle a spade.   Just like his old man.My grandfather cut more turf in a dayThan any other man on Toner’s bog.Once I carried him milk in a bottleCorked sloppily with paper. He straightened upTo drink it, then fell to right awayNicking and slicing neatly, heaving sodsOver his shoulder, going down and downFor the good turf. Digging.The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slapOf soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edgeThrough living roots awaken in my head.But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.Between my finger and my thumbThe squat pen rests.I’ll dig with it. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks. "How now, spirit? Whither wander you?" Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander every where, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green: The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dew-drops here And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I'll be gone; Our queen and all her elves come here anon. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

When I was fair and young, then favor graced me.Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:Go, go, go, seek some other where; importune me no more.How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.Then spake fair Venus’ son, that proud victorious boy,Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breastThat neither night nor day I could take any rest.Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

In today’s correspondence a poetry book detailing the lives of British Queens— with a note enclosed and a question: what does it mean to be a Queen?   I could reply and say— this precious stone set in a silver sea: a symbol, like a banner, for mens’ love. But these are not my words.   I could reply and say— glorying in the glories of my people, sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest. But these are not my words.   I could declare— that each Queen is tissue paper thin, transluscent but combined, are my flesh. But I will not solidify my words,   instead I will command my secretary to write, with many kind thanks for the little book etc, but to say my thoughts on Queenship can only be ascertained by my actions.  This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the wayWith blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,The village master taught his little school;A man severe he was, and stern to view,I knew him well, and every truant knew;Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to traceThe days disasters in his morning face;Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee,At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:Full well the busy whisper, circling round,Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd:Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,The love he bore to learning was in fault.The village all declar'd how much he knew;'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too:Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,And e'en the story ran that he could gauge.In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill,For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still;While words of learned length and thund'ring soundAmazed the gazing rustics rang'd around;And still they gaz'd and still the wonder grew,That one small head could carry all he knew.But past is all his fame. The very spotWhere many a time he triumph'd is forgot. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

And did those feet in ancient timeWalk upon Englands mountains green:And was the holy Lamb of God,On Englands pleasant pastures seen!And did the Countenance Divine,Shine forth upon our clouded hills?And was Jerusalem builded here,Among these dark Satanic Mills?Bring me my Bow of burning gold:Bring me my arrows of desire:Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!Bring me my Chariot of fire!I will not cease from Mental Fight,Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:Till we have built Jerusalem,In Englands green & pleasant Land. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

I wander thro' each charter'd street,Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,And mark in every face I meetMarks of weakness, marks of woe.In every cry of every man,In every Infant's cry of fear,In every voice, in every ban,The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.How the Chimney-sweeper's cryEvery blackning Church appalls;And the hapless Soldier's sighRuns in blood down Palace walls.But most thro' midnight streets I hearHow the youthful Harlot's curseBlasts the new-born Infant's tear,And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Sometime when you’re feeling important;Sometime when your ego’s in bloomSometime when you take it for grantedYou’re the best qualified in the room,Sometime when you feel that your goingWould leave an unfillable hole,Just follow these simple instructionsAnd see how they humble your soul;Take a bucket and fill it with water,Put your hand in it up to the wrist,Pull it out and the hole that’s remainingIs a measure of how you’ll be missed.You can splash all you wish when you enter,You may stir up the water galore,But stop and you’ll find that in no timeIt looks quite the same as before.The moral of this quaint exampleIs do just the best that you can,Be proud of yourself but remember,There’s no indispensable man. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com

Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com