Page 341 - DENG405_BRITISH_POETRY
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British Poetry



                   Notes         Bear up beneath their unsuccess.

                                 Look at the end of work, contrast
                                 The petty done, the undone vast,
                                 This present of theirs with the hopeful past!
                                 I hoped she would love me; here we ride.


                                 VI

                                 What hand and brain went ever paired?
                                 What heart alike conceived and dared?
                                 What act proved all its thought had been?
                                 What will but felt the fleshly screen?
                                 We ride and I see her bosom heave.
                                 There’s many a crown for who can reach,
                                 Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each!
                                 The flag stuck on a heap of bones,
                                 A soldier’s doing! what atones?
                                 They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.
                                 My riding is better, by their leave.


                                 VII

                                 What does it all mean, poet? Well,
                                 Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell
                                 What we felt only; you expressed
                                 You hold things beautiful the best,
                                 And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.
                                 ’Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then,
                                 Have you yourself what’s best for men?
                                 Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—
                                 Nearer one whit your own sublime
                                 Than we who never have turned a rhyme?
                                 Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.

                                 VIII

                                 And you, great sculptor—so, you gave
                                 A score of years to Art, her slave,
                                 And that’s your Venus, whence we turn
                                 To yonder girl that fords the burn!
                                 You acquiesce, and shall I repine?





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