The Well Read Poem

In this ninth season, we are going to read six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "The Rhodora" by Ralph Waldo Emerson; poem begins at timestamp 5:07. The Rhodora by Ralph Waldo Emerson On being asked, whence is the flower. In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals fallen in the pool Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for Being; Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask; I never knew; But in my simple ignorance suppose The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats. Poem begins at timestamp 2:23. "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains          My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains          One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,          But being too happy in thine happiness,—                 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees                         In some melodious plot          Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,                 Singest of summer in full-throated ease.   O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been          Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green,          Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,          Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,                 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,                         And purple-stained mouth;          That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,                 And with thee fade away into the forest dim:   Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget          What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret          Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,          Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;                 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow                         And leaden-eyed despairs,          Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,                 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.   Away! away! for I will fly to thee,          Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,          Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night,          And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,                 Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;                         But here there is no light,          Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown                 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.   I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,          Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet          Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;          White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;                 Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;                         And mid-May's eldest child,          The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,                 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.   Darkling I listen; and, for many a time          I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,          To take into the air my quiet breath;                 Now more than ever seems it rich to die,          To cease upon the midnight with no pain,                 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad                         In such an ecstasy!          Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—                    To thy high requiem become a sod.   Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!          No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard          In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path          Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,                 She stood in tears amid the alien corn;                         The same that oft-times hath          Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam                 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.   Forlorn! the very word is like a bell          To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well          As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades          Past the near meadows, over the still stream,                 Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep                         In the next valley-glades:          Was it a vision, or a waking dream?                 Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Old Adam, the Carrion Crow" by Thomas Beddoes. Poem begins at timestamp 7:00.   "Old Adam, the Carrion Crow" by Thomas Beddoes Old Adam, the carrion crow,         The old crow of Cairo;     He sat in the shower, and let it flow         Under his tail and over his crest;           And through every feather           Leak'd the wet weather;         And the bough swung under his nest;         For his beak it was heavy with marrow.           Is that the wind dying? O no;           It's only two devils, that blow,           Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,           In the ghosts' moonshine.       Ho! Eve, my grey carrion wife,         When we have supped on king's marrow,     Where shall we drink and make merry our life?         Our nest it is queen Cleopatra's skull,           'Tis cloven and crack'd,           And batter'd and hack'd,         But with tears of blue eyes it is full:         Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo!           Is that the wind dying? O no;           It's only two devils, that blow           Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,           In the ghosts' moonshine.

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Le Corbeau et le Renard (The Crow and the Fox)" by Jean de la Fontaine, translated from the French by Norman Spector. Poem begins at timestamp 7:08. "Le Corbeau et le Renard (The Crow and the Fox)" by Jean de la Fontaine (trans. by Norman Spector) At the top of a tree perched Master Crow; In his beak he was holding a cheese. Drawn by the smell, Master Fox spoke, below. The words, more or less, were these: "Hey, now, Sir Crow! Good day, good day! How very handsome you do look, how grandly distingué! No lie, if those songs you sing Match the plumage of your wing, You're the phoenix of these woods, our choice." Hearing this, the Crow was all rapture and wonder. To show off his handsome voice, He opened beak wide and let go of his plunder. The Fox snapped it up and then said, "My Good Sir, Learn that each flatterer Lives at the cost of those who heed. This lesson is well worth the cheese, indeed." The Crow, ashamed and sick, Swore, a bit late, not to fall again for that trick.

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "The Oven Bird" by Robert Frost. Poem begins at timestamp 3:42. "The Oven Bird" by Robert Frost There is a singer everyone has heard, Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird, Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again. He says that leaves are old and that for flowers Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten. He says the early petal-fall is past When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers On sunny days a moment overcast; And comes that other fall we name the fall. He says the highway dust is over all. The bird would cease and be as other birds But that he knows in singing not to sing. The question that he frames in all but words Is what to make of a diminished thing.

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "The Eagle" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poem begins at timestamp  7:51. "The Eagle" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.   The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Les Hiboux (The Owls)" by Charles Baudelaire, translated from the original French by Roy Campbell. Poem begins at timestamp 8:38. "Les Hiboux (The Owls)" by Charles Baudelaire (trans. Roy Campbell)  Within the shelter of black yews The owls in ranks are ranged apart Like foreign gods, whose eyeballs dart Red fire. They meditate and muse. Without a stir they will remain Till, in its melancholy hour, Thrusting the level sun from power, The shade establishes its reign. Their attitude instructs the sage, Content with what is near at hand, To shun all motion, strife, and rage. Men, crazed with shadows that they chase, Bear, as a punishment, the brand Of having wished to change their place.  

In this seventh season, we are reading six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Love Poem" by John Frederick Nims. Poem begins at timestamp 5:52. Love Poem by John Frederick Nims My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases, At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring, Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen, And have no cunning with any soft thing Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people: The refugee uncertain at the door You make at home; deftly you steady The drunk clambering on his undulant floor. Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror, Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars— Misfit in any space. And never on time. A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only With words and people and love you move at ease; In traffic of wit expertly maneuver And keep us, all devotion, at your knees. Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel, Your lipstick grinning on our coat, So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float. Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses— I will study wry music for your sake. For should your hands drop white and empty All the toys of the world would break.

In this seventh season, we are reading six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "O Tell Me the Truth About Love" by W. H. Auden. Poem begins at timestamp 3:13. O Tell Me the Truth About Love by W. H. Auden Some say love's a little boy, And some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world go around, Some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next-door, Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do. Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Does its odour remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love. Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, It's quite a common topic on The Transatlantic boats; I've found the subject mentioned in Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on The backs of railway guides. Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, Or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? Does it only like Classical stuff? Will it stop when one wants to be quiet? O tell me the truth about love. I looked inside the summer-house; It wasn't over there; I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, And Brighton's bracing air. I don't know what the blackbird sang, Or what the tulip said; But it wasn't in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed. Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Does it spend all its time at the races, or fiddling with pieces of string? Has it views of its own about money? Does it think Patriotism enough? Are its stories vulgar but funny? O tell me the truth about love. When it comes, will it come without warning Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on my door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love.

In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Remember Me" by Christina Rossetti. Poem begins at timestamp 6:04. Remember Me by Christina Rossetti   Remember me when I am gone away,          Gone far away into the silent land;          When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day          You tell me of our future that you plann'd:          Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while          And afterwards remember, do not grieve:          For if the darkness and corruption leave          A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile          Than that you should remember and be sad.

In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Mother, I cannot Mind my Wheel" by Walter Savage Landor. Poem begins at timestamp  . Mother, I cannot Mind my Wheel BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR   Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: Oh! if you felt the pain I feel! But Oh, who ever felt as I!   No longer could I doubt him true; All other men may use deceit: He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.

In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun" by William Shakespeare. Poem begins at timestamp 5:13. Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun by William Shakespeare My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.    And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare    As any she belied with false compare.

In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "A Farewell to Arms" by George Peele. Poem begins at timestamp 5:28. A Farewell to Arms by George Peele HIS golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd;     O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,     But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;     And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,     And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart. And when he saddest sits in homely cell,     He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,— ‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,     Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.' Goddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today's poem is "A Sonnet (Two Voices Are There)" by James Kenneth Stephenson. Poem begins at timestamp 3:51. A Sonnet (Two Voices Are There) by James Kenneth Stephenson Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep: And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst: At other times -- good Lord! I'd rather be Quite unacquainted with the A.B.C. Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today's poem is  a selection from “A Satire Against Mankind” by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. Poem begins at timestamp 3:50. Selection from “A Satire Against Mankind”  by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester Were I - who to my cost already am One of those strange, prodigious creatures, man -  A spirit free to choose for my own share What sort of flesh and blood I pleased to wear,  I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, Or anything but that vain animal, Who is so proud of being rational. His senses are too gross; and he'll contrive  A sixth, to contradict the other five; And before certain instinct will prefer  Reason, which fifty times for one does err.  Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind, Which leaving light of nature, sense, behind, Pathless and dangerous wand'ring ways it takes,  Through Error's fenny bogs and thorny brakes; Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain  Mountains of whimsey's, heaped in his own brain;  Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down,  Into Doubt's boundless sea where, like to drown, Books bear him up awhile, and make him try  To swim with bladders of Philosophy; In hopes still to o'ertake the escaping light;  The vapour dances, in his dancing sight, Till spent, it leaves him to eternal night.  Then old age and experience, hand in hand,  Lead him to death, make him to understand,  After a search so painful, and so long, That all his life he has been in the wrong: Huddled In dirt the reasoning engine lies, Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.

In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today's poem is “To a Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitator of His and Mine” by William Butler Yeats. Poem begins at timestamp 7:01. To a Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitator of His and Mine by William Butler Yeats YOU say, as I have often given tongue In praise of what another's said or sung, 'Twere politic to do the like by these; But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today's selection is from a longer piece called Absalom and Achitophel, by John Dryden. This passage titled Zimri is a satirical character sketch of the Duke of Buckingham. Poem begins at timestamp 5:19. "Zimri" from "Absalom and Achitophel" by John Dryden A numerous host of dreaming saints succeed; Of the true old enthusiastic breed: 'Gainst form and order they their pow'r employ; Nothing to build, and all things to destroy. But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much. These, out of mere instinct, they knew not why, Ador'd their father's God, and property: And by the same blind benefit of fate, The Devil and the Jebusite did hate: Born to be saved even in their own despite; Because they could not help believing right. Such were the tools; but a whole Hydra more Remains, of sprouting heads too long, to score. Some of their chiefs were princes of the land: In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all Mankind's Epitome. Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was everything by starts, and nothing long: But in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon: Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking; Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ, With something new to wish, or to enjoy! Railing and praising were his usual themes; And both (to show his judgment) in extremes: So over violent, or over civil, That every man, with him, was god or devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art: Nothing went unrewarded, but desert. Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late: He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laugh'd himself from court; then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief: For, spite of him, the weight of business fell On Absalom and wise Achitophel: Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left.

In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today's poem is a portrait piece by the preeminent neoclassical poet, Alexander Pope. Poem begins at timestamp 13:38. Atticus by Alexander Pope Peace to all such! but were there one whose fire True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent, and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause: While wits and Templars every sentence raise. And wonder with a foolish face of praise-- Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?

Welcome to Season 6 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this season we will explore a series of satirical poems. Satire has been defined as literary ridicule or literary correction. This week's selection is by the rather prolific author Hilaire Belloc who was once a politician who himself became a critic of politics. Poem begins at timestamp 7:30. On a General Election by Hilaire Belloc The accursed power which stands on Privilege (And goes with Women, and Champagne and Bridge) Broke — and Democracy resumed her reign: (Which goes with Bridge, and Women and Champagne).

Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a great Gothic writer and was very interested in the atmosphere of the uncanny. Poem begins at timestamp 2:50. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Summer Evening By Walter de la Mare The sandy cat by the Farmer's chair Mews at his knee for dainty fare; Old Rover in his moss-greened house Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse; In the dewy fields the cattle lie Chewing the cud 'neath a fading sky; Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.

Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a great Gothic writer and was very interested in the atmosphere of the uncanny. Poem begins at timestamp 2:33. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Alexander By Walter de la Mare It was the Great Alexander, Capped with a golden helm, Sate in the ages, in his floating ship, In a dead calm. Voices of sea-maids singing Wandered across the deep: The sailors labouring on their oars Rowed as in sleep. All the high pomp of Asia, Charmed by that siren lay, Out of their weary and dreaming minds Faded away. Like a bold boy sate their Captain, His glamour withered and gone, In the souls of his brooding mariners, While the song pined on. Time like a falling dew, Life like the scene of a dream Laid between slumber and slumber Only did seem. . . . O Alexander, then, In all us mortals too, Wax not so overbold On the wave dark-blue! Come the calm starry night, Who then will hear Aught save the singing Of the sea-maids clear?

Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a great Gothic writer and was very interested in the atmosphere of the uncanny. Poem begins at timestamp 7:04. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Polonius By Walter de la Mare There haunts in Time's bare house an active ghost, Enamoured of his name, Polonius. He moves small fingers much, and all his speech Is like a sampler of precisest words, Set in the pattern of a simpleton. His mirth floats eerily down chill corridors; His sigh — it is a sound that loves a keyhole; His tenderness a faint court-tarnished thing; His wisdom prates as from a wicker cage; His very belly is a pompous nought; His eye a page that hath forgot his errand. Yet in his bran — his spiritual bran — Lies hid a child's demure, small, silver whistle Which, to his horror, God blows, unawares, And sets men staring. It is sad to think, Might he but don indeed thin flesh and blood, And pace important to Law's inmost room, He would see, much marvelling, one immensely wise, Named Bacon, who, at sound of his youth's step, Would turn and call him Cousin — for the likeness.

Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a great Gothic writer and was very interested in the atmosphere of the uncanny. Poem begins at timestamp 6:25. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Breughel's Winter By Walter de la Mare Jagg'd mountain peaks and skies ice-green Wall in the wild, cold scene below. Churches, farms, bare copse, the sea In freezing quiet of winter show; Where ink-black shapes on fields in flood Curling, skating, and sliding go. To left, a gabled tavern; a blaze; Peasants; a watching child; and lo, Muffled, mute--beneath naked trees In sharp perspective set a-row-- Trudge huntsmen, sinister spears aslant, Dogs snuffling behind them in the snow; And arrowlike, lean, athwart the air Swoops into space a crow. But flame, nor ice, nor piercing rock, Nor silence, as of a frozen sea, Nor that slant inward infinite line Of signboard, bird, and hill, and tree, Give more than subtle hint of him Who squandered here life's mystery.

Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a great Gothic writer and was very interested in the atmosphere of the uncanny. Poem begins at timestamp  . Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Ghost By Walter de la Mare 'Who knocks? ' 'I, who was beautiful Beyond all dreams to restore, I from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, And knock on the door.' 'Who speaks? ' 'I -- once was my speech Sweet as the bird's on the air, When echo lurks by the waters to heed; 'Tis I speak thee fair.' 'Dark is the hour!' 'Aye, and cold.' 'Lone is my house.' 'Ah, but mine? ' 'Sight, touch, lips, eyes gleamed in vain.' 'Long dead these to thine.' Silence. Still faint on the porch Brake the flames of the stars. In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand Over keys, bolts, and bars. A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast sorrow was there -- The sweet cheat gone.

Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a poet's poet and wrote across a variety of genres but is not as well known today as he deserves to be. Poem begins at timestamp 5:57. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! All That's Past By Walter de la Mare VERY old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the briar's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose. Very old are the brooks; And the rills that rise Where snow sleeps cold beneath The azure skies Sing such a history Of come and gone, Their every drop is as wise As Solomon. Very old are we men; Our dreams are tales Told in dim Eden By Eve's nightingales; We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.

Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This week's poem is “The Blinded Bird” by Thomas Hardy. A late Victorian author, Hardy was known for his rather pessimistic writing as well as his defense of the beautiful, innocent and weak creatures of the world. Poem begins at timestamp 7:59. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! The Blinded Bird By Thomas Hardy So zestfully canst thou sing? And all this indignity, With God's consent, on thee! Blinded ere yet a-wing By the red-hot needle thou, I stand and wonder how So zestfully thou canst sing! Resenting not such wrong, Thy grievous pain forgot, Eternal dark thy lot, Groping thy whole life long; After that stab of fire; Enjailed in pitiless wire; Resenting not such wrong! Who hath charity? This bird. Who suffereth long and is kind, Is not provoked, though blind And alive ensepulchred? Who hopeth, endureth all things? Who thinketh no evil, but sings? Who is divine? This bird.

Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This week's poem is “A Runnable Stag” by John Davidson. Poem begins at timestamp 3:29. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! A Runnable Stag by John Davidson When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom, And apples began to be golden-skinn'd, We harbour'd a stag in the Priory coomb, And we feather'd his trail up-wind, up-wind, We feather'd his trail up-wind- A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag, a kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, A stag, a runnable stag. Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap yap, And 'Forwards' we heard the harbourer shout; But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap In the beechen underwood, driven out, From the underwood antler'd out By warrant and might of the stag, the stag, The runnable stag, whose lordly mind Was bent on sleep though beam'd and tined He stood, a runnable stag So we tufted the covert till afternoon With Tinkerman's Pup and Bell- of-the-North; And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune Before we tufted the right stag forth, Before we tufted him forth, The stag of warrant, the wily stag, The runnable stag with his kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, The royal and runnable stag. It was Bell-of-the-North and Tinkerman's Pup That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn. 'Tally ho! tally ho!' and the hunt was up, The tufters whipp'd and the pack laid on, The resolute pack laid on, And the stag of warrant away at last, The runnable stag, the same, the same, His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame, A stag, a runnable stag. 'Let your gelding be: if you check or chide He stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, On hunters accustom'd to bear the brunt, Accustom'd to bear the brunt, Are after the runnable stag, the stag, The runnable stag with his kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, The right, the runnable stag. By perilous paths in coomb and dell, The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed, The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well, And a runnable stag goes right ahead, The quarry went right ahead-- Ahead, ahead, and fast and far; His antler'd crest, his cloven hoof, Brow, bay and tray and three aloof, The stag, the runnable stag. For a matter of twenty miles and more, By the densest hedge and the highest wall, Through herds of bullocks lie baffled the lore Of harbourer, huntsman, hounds and all, Of harbourer, hounds and all The stag of warrant, the wily stag, For twenty miles, and five and five, He ran, and he never was caught alive, This stag, this runnable stag. When he turn'd at bay in the leafy gloom, In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep He heard in the distance the rollers boom, And he saw In a vision of peaceful sleep In a wonderful vision of sleep, A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag in a jewell'd bed, Under the sheltering ocean dead, A stag, a runnable stag. So a fateful hope lit up his eye, And he open'd his nostrils wide again, And he toss'd his branching antlers high As he headed the hunt down the Charlock glen, As he raced down the echoing glen For five miles more, the stag, the stag, For twenty miles, and five and five, Not to be caught now, dead or alive, The stag, the runnable stag. Three hundred gentleman, able to ride, Three hundred horses as gallant and free, Beheld him escape on the evening tide, Far out till he sank in the Severn Sea, Till he sank in the depths of the sea The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag That slept at last in a jewell'd bed Under the sheltering ocean spread, The stag, the runnable stag.

Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This week's poem is “Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which I Gave to His Highness” by Alexander Pope. Pope is known for his satirical poems and his rather dark sense of humor. Poem begins at timestamp 6:47. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which I Gave to His Highness By Alexander Pope I am his Highness' dog at Kew: Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?

Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This week's poem is “The Kraken” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Tennyson was perhaps the last poet to achieve popular celebrity in his day, and his inspiration for this poem comes from the Book of Job and Norse folklore. Poem begins at timestamp 6:58. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! The Kraken by Alfred, Lord Tennyson Below the thunders of the upper deep; Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee About his shadowy sides: above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumbered and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. There hath he lain for ages and will lie Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This week's poem is “Infant Innocence” by A. E. Houseman. This poem rather pokes fun at the more romantic treatment of animal characters by poets like William Blake. Poem begins at timestamp 5:09. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Infant Innocence By A. E. Houseman The Grizzly Bear is huge and wild; He has devoured the infant child. The infant child is not aware It has been eaten by the bear.

Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This first week's poem is by William Blake, the somewhat mystic and apocalyptic painter and poet. Thomas reads a selection from Auguries of Innocence due to its length. Poem begins at timestamp 7:12. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Auguries of Innocence By William Blake To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower  Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand  And Eternity in an hour A Robin Red breast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage  A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons Shudders Hell thr' all its regions  A dog starvd at his Masters Gate Predicts the ruin of the State  A Horse misusd upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood  Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fibre from the Brain does tear  A Skylark wounded in the wing  A Cherubim does cease to sing  The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight Does the Rising Sun affright  Every Wolfs & Lions howl Raises from Hell a Human Soul  The wild deer, wandring here & there  Keeps the Human Soul from Care  The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife And yet forgives the Butchers knife  The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that wont Believe The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbelievers fright He who shall hurt the little Wren Shall never be belovd by Men  He who the Ox to wrath has movd Shall never be by Woman lovd The wanton Boy that kills the Fly Shall feel the Spiders enmity  He who torments the Chafers Sprite Weaves a Bower in endless Night  The Catterpiller on the Leaf Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief  Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly  For the Last Judgment draweth nigh…

Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden's poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns.  Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man's fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 3:31. Anthem for St. Cecilia's Day, Part 1 By W. H. Auden In a garden shady this holy lady With reverent cadence and subtle psalm, Like a black swan as death came on Poured forth her song in perfect calm: And by ocean's margin this innocent virgin Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer, And notes tremendous from her great engine Thundered out on the Roman air.   Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited, Moved to delight by the melody, White as an orchid she rode quite naked In an oyster shell on top of the sea; At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing Came out of their trance into time again, And around the wicked in Hell's abysses The huge flame flickered and eased their pain.   Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden's poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns. Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man's fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 7:58. Epitaph on a Tyrant by W. H. Auden Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after, And the poetry he invented was easy to understand; He knew human folly like the back of his hand, And was greatly interested in armies and fleets; When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden’s poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns. Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man’s fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 8:10. Luther by W. H. Auden With conscience cocked to listen for the thunder, He saw the Devil busy in the wind, Over the chiming steeples and then under The doors of nuns and doctors who had sinned. What apparatus could stave off disaster Or cut the brambles of man's error down? Flesh was a silent dog that bites its master, World a still pond in which its children drown. The fuse of Judgement spluttered in his head: "Lord, smoke these honeyed insects from their hives. All Works, Great Men, Societies are bad. The Just shall live by Faith..." he cried in dread. And men and women of the world were glad, Who'd never cared or trembled in their lives.

Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden’s poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns.  Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man’s fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 8:51. Roman Wall Blues by W. H. Auden   Over the heather the wet wind blows,  I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.    The rain comes pattering out of the sky,  I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.    The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,  My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.    Aulus goes hanging around her place,  I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.    Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;  There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.    She gave me a ring but I diced it away;  I want my girl and I want my pay.    When I'm a veteran with only one eye  I shall do nothing but look at the sky.

Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden’s poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns.  Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man’s fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 3:15. The Shield of Achilles by W. H. Auden        She looked over his shoulder        For vines and olive trees,      Marble well-governed cities        And ships upon untamed seas,      But there on the shining metal        His hands had put instead      An artificial wilderness        And a sky like lead.   A plain without a feature, bare and brown,    No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood, Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down,     Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood    An unintelligible multitude, A million eyes, a million boots in line,  Without expression, waiting for a sign.   Out of the air a voice without a face    Proved by statistics that some cause was just In tones as dry and level as the place:    No one was cheered and nothing was discussed;    Column by column in a cloud of dust They marched away enduring a belief Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief.        She looked over his shoulder        For ritual pieties,      White flower-garlanded heifers,        Libation and sacrifice,      But there on the shining metal        Where the altar should have been,      She saw by his flickering forge-light        Quite another scene.   Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot    Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke) And sentries sweated for the day was hot:    A crowd of ordinary decent folk    Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke As three pale figures were led forth and bound To three posts driven upright in the ground.   The mass and majesty of this world, all    That carries weight and always weighs the same Lay in the hands of others; they were small    And could not hope for help and no help came:    What their foes like to do was done, their shame Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride And died as men before their bodies died.        She looked over his shoulder        For athletes at their games,      Men and women in a dance        Moving their sweet limbs      Quick, quick, to music,        But there on the shining shield      His hands had set no dancing-floor        But a weed-choked field.   A ragged urchin, aimless and alone,     Loitered about that vacancy; a bird Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone:    That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third,    Were axioms to him, who'd never heard Of any world where promises were kept, Or one could weep because another wept.        The thin-lipped armorer,        Hephaestos, hobbled away,      Thetis of the shining breasts        Cried out in dismay      At what the god had wrought        To please her son, the strong      Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles        Who would not live long. From The Shield of Achilles by W. H. Auden, published by Random House. Copyright © 1955 W. H. Auden, renewed by The Estate of W. H. Auden. Reproduced for educational purposes only.

Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden’s poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns.  Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man’s fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 4:00. August 1968 by W. H. Auden The Ogre does what ogres can,  Deeds quite impossible for Man,  But one prize is beyond his reach,  The Ogre cannot master Speech:  About a subjugated plain,  Among its desperate and slain,  The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,  While drivel gushes from his lips.

Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is “To Virgil” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poem begins at timestamp 6:06. To Virgil by Alfred, Lord Tennyson   Roman Virgil, thou that singest  Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,  Ilion falling, Rome arising,  wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;    Landscape-lover, lord of language  more than he that sang the "Works and Days,"  All the chosen coin of fancy  flashing out from many a golden phrase;    Thou that singest wheat and woodland,  tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd;  All the charm of all the Muses  often flowering in a lonely word;    Poet of the happy Tityrus  piping underneath his beechen bowers;  Poet of the poet-satyr  whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers;    Chanter of the Pollio, glorying  in the blissful years again to be,  Summers of the snakeless meadow,  unlaborious earth and oarless sea;    Thou that seëst Universal  Nature moved by Universal Mind;  Thou majestic in thy sadness  at the doubtful doom of human kind;    Light among the vanish'd ages;  star that gildest yet this phantom shore;  Golden branch amid the shadows,  kings and realms that pass to rise no more;    Now thy Forum roars no longer,  fallen every purple Cæsar's dome—  Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm  sound forever of Imperial Rome—    Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd,  and the Rome of freemen holds her place,  I, from out the Northern Island  sunder'd once from all the human race,    I salute thee, Mantovano,  I that loved thee since my day began,  Wielder of the stateliest measure  ever moulded by the lips of man. 

Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is “Stanzas Written in Passing the Ambracian Gulf” by Lord Byron. Poem begins at timestamp 6:28. Stanzas Written in Passing the Ambracian Gulf by Lord Byron Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, Full beams the moon on Actium's coast: And on these waves for Egypt's queen, The ancient world was won and lost. And now upon the scene I look, The azure grave of many a Roman; Where stem Ambition once forsook His wavering crown to follow woman. Florence! whom I will love as well As ever yet was said or sung (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell), Whilst thou art fair and I am young; Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times; When worlds were staked for ladies' Had bards as many realms as rhymes; Thy charms might raise new Antonies. Though Fate forbids such things to be Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd! I cannot lose a world for thee, But would not lose thee for a world.

Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is “To Toussaint L’Ouverture” by William Wordsworth. Poem begins at timestamp 7:30. To Toussaint L’Ouverture by William Wordsworth Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men! Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; - O miserable Chieftain! where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow: Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies; There's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and Man's unconquerable mind.

Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is "Harp Song of the Dane Women" by Rudyard Kipling. Poem begins at timestamp 5:34. Harp Song of the Dane Women By Rudyard Kipling   What is a woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker?   She has no house to lay a guest in— But one chill bed for all to rest in, That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.   She has no strong white arms to fold you, But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you— Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.   Yet, when the signs of summer thicken, And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken, Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken—   Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters. You steal away to the lapping waters, And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.   You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables, The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables— To pitch her sides and go over her cables.   Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow, And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow, Is all we have left through the months to follow.   Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker ?

Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is "The Wife of Flanders" by G. K. Chesterton. Poem begins at timestamp 3:58. The Wife of Flanders by G. K. Chesterton Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, Where I had seven sons until to-day, A little hill of hay your spur has scattered. . . . This is not Paris. You have lost your way. You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, Surprised at the surprise that was your plan, Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little, Find never more the death-door of Sedan — Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, Paying you a penny for each son you slay? Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment For what you have lost. And how shall I repay? What is the price of that red spark that caught me From a kind farm that never had a name? What is the price of that dead man they brought me? For other dead men do not look the same. How should I pay for one poor graven steeple Whereon you shattered what you shall not know? How should I pay you, miserable people? How should I pay you everything you owe? Unhappy, can I give you back your honour? Though I forgave, would any man forget? While all the great green land has trampled on her The treason and terror of the night we met. Not any more in vengeance or in pardon An old wife bargains for a bean that’s hers. You have no word to break: no heart to harden. Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.

Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is "Constantinople" by J. C. Squire. Poem begins at timestamp 4:29. Constantinople by Sir John Collings Squire JUSTINIAN. Does the church stand I raised Against the unchristened East? Still do my ancient altars bear The sacrificial feast? My jewels are they bright, My marbles and my paint, Wherewith I glorified the Lord And many a martyred Saint? And does my dome still float Above the Golden Horn? And do my priests on Christmas Day Still sing that Christ was born? EUROPE. Though dust your house, Justinian, Still stands your lordliest shrine, But the dark men who walk therein, Know not of bread nor wine. They fell long since upon your stones, And made your colours dim, Their priests who pray on Christmas Day They sing no Christmas hymn. But a voice at evening goes From every climbing tower, Crying a word you never heard, A name of desert power. CONSTANTINE PALAEOLOGUS. For seven hundred years We gripped a weakening blade, Keeping the gateway of the West With none to give us aid. Till at the last they broke What Constantine had built, And by the shattered wall the blood Of Constantine was spilt. Do men remember still The manner of my death, How after all those failing years I at the last kept faith? They know it for a bygone thing True but indifferent, For many a fight has come to pass Since to the wall you went. Westward and northward, Emperor, Poured on that bloody brood, Till those must turn to save themselves Who had known not gratitude. One fought them on the Middle Sea, One at Vienna's gate, And then the kings of Christendom Watched the red tide abate. Till in the end Byzantium Heard a returning war; But still a Mehmet holds your tomb ... Keep silence ... ask no more.

Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. Poem begins at 3:28. The World is Too Much with Us by William Wordsworth The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. Poem begins at 3:26. Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man    Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.   But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!    The shadow of the dome of pleasure    Floated midway on the waves;    Where was heard the mingled measure    From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!      A damsel with a dulcimer    In a vision once I saw:    It was an Abyssinian maid    And on her dulcimer she played,    Singing of Mount Abora.    Could I revive within me    Her symphony and song,    To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. Poem begins at 4:07. Babylon  by Robert Graves The child alone a poet is: Spring and Fairyland are his. Truth and Reason show but dim, And all’s poetry with him.   Rhyme and music flow in plenty For the lad of one-and-twenty,   But Spring for him is no more now   Than daisies to a munching cow;   Just a cheery pleasant season,   Daisy buds to live at ease on. He’s forgotten how he smiled   And shrieked at snowdrops when a child, Or wept one evening secretly   For April’s glorious misery.   Wisdom made him old and wary Banishing the Lords of Faery.   Wisdom made a breach and battered   Babylon to bits: she scattered   To the hedges and ditches   All our nursery gnomes and witches. Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves,   Drag their treasures from the shelves.   Jack the Giant-killer’s gone,   Mother Goose and Oberon,   Bluebeard and King Solomon. Robin, and Red Riding Hood   Take together to the wood,   And Sir Galahad lies hid   In a cave with Captain Kidd.   None of all the magic hosts, None remain but a few ghosts   Of timorous heart, to linger on   Weeping for lost Babylon.

Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. Poem begins at 2:46. If We Shadows Have Offended by William Shakespeare   If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.

Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. Poem begins at 3:28. To the Old Gods by Edwin Muir Old gods and goddesses who have lived so long Through time and never found eternity, Fettered by wasting wood and hollowing hill, You should have fled our ever-dying song, The mound, the well, and the green trysting tree. They have forgotten, yet you linger still, Goddess of caverned breast and channeled brow, And cheeks slow hollowed by millennial tears, Forests of autumns fading in your eyes, Eternity marvels at your counted years And kingdoms lost in time, and wonders how There could be thoughts so bountiful and wise As yours beneath the ever-breaking bough, And vast compassion curving like the skies.

Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. The Listeners by Walter de la Mare ‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champ’d the grasses     Of the forest’s ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret,     Above the Traveller’s head: And he smote upon the door again a second time;     ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said. But no one descended to the Traveller;     No head from the leaf-fringed sill Lean’d over and look’d into his grey eyes,     Where he stood perplex’d and still. But only a host of phantom listeners     That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight     To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,     That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirr’d and shaken     By the lonely Traveller’s call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness,     Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,     ’Neath the starr’d and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even     Louder, and lifted his head:— ’Tell them I came, and no one answer’d,     ’That I kept my word,’ he said. Never the least stir made the listeners,     Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house     From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,     And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward,     When the plunging hoofs were gone.