{ Thursday, March 10, 2005 }
Sometimes I want to read a poem, but I dont know what poem, and so I do a search with the first word I think of, and then the word "poem". Then I read the first poem I find. You can discover some really bad poetry that way.
I did that today, and the first word I thought of was "trouble", and this was the first search result on Google for trouble + poem".
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood;
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare;
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
Today the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Uricon.
-- A. E. Housman
LINK | 12:29 AM | TB