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Dead Poets Society
May 7, 2007
5:24 am
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Anam Cara
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September 30, 2010
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I thought among so much of life's battles shown within these threads it might be nice to also swap some poetry which has inspired us. There are days we all lack inspiration yet within a dead mans chest there still lives a beating heart of useful answers once lived - and still lives on!

Who will make a start???

May 7, 2007
8:38 am
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Anam Cara
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May the Twenty-third

There never was a finer day,
And never will be while May is May, -
The third, and not the last of it's kind;
But though fair and clear the two behind
Seemed pursued by tempest overpast;
And the morrow with fear that it could not last
Was spoiled. To-day ere the stones were warm
Five minuets of thunderstorm
dashed it with rain, as if to secure,
By one tear, its beauty the luck to endure.

AT mid-day then along the lane
Old jack Noman appeared again,
Jaunty and old, crooked and tall,
And stopped and grinned at me over the wall,
With cowslip bunch in his button-hole
And one on his cap. Who could say if his roll
Came from flints in the road, the weather, or ale?
He was welcome as the nightingale.
Not an hour of the sun had been wasted on Jack.
"I've got my Indian complexion back,"
Said he. He was tanned like a harvester,
Like his short clay pipe, like the leaf and bur
That clung to his coat from last nights bed,
Like the ploughland crumbling red.
Fairer flowers were none on earth
Than the cowslips wet with the drew of their birth,
Or fresher leaves than the cress in his basket.
"where did they come from, Jack?" " Don't ask it,
And you will be told no lies."
"very well;
Then I can't buy." " I don't want to sell.
Take them and these flowers, too, free.
Perhaps you have something to give me?
Wait till next time. The better the day, I say;

If he could, he never was done,'
So off went Jack with his roll-walk-run,
Leaving his cowslips from Wheatham hill.

'Twas the first day that the midges bit;
But though they bit me, I was glad of it:
Of the dust in my face, too, I was glad.
Spring could do nothing to make me sad.
The Elm seeds lay in the road like hops,
That fine day, May the twenty-third'
The day old Jack Noman disappeared.

BY Edward Thomas
Killed in the first world war by a shell at Arras. France.

May 7, 2007
11:47 am
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mj
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The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood,
and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

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