Thursday, November 16, 2017

A New Art Blog
begins on
and then will be updated every day

Tuesday, November 7, 2017


This poem concludes the series.
All my blogs have now come to end.



He sees the world as a boisterous place
Where all things bear a laughing face,
And humorous scenes go hourly on,
Does John.

They find the world a pleasant place
Where all is ecstasy and grace,
Where a light has risen that cannot wane,
Do John and Jane.

They see as a palace their cottage-place,
Containing a pearl of the human race,
A hero, maybe, hereafter styled,
Do John and Jane with a baby-child.

They rate the world as a gruesome place,
Where fair looks fade to a skull's grimace, -
As a pilgrimage they would fain get done -
Do John and Jane with their worthless son.
John and Jane


Thursday, November 2, 2017


I do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat
When eve's brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree, and mead -
All eloquent of love divine -
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.

The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!


Tuesday, October 31, 2017


I enter a daisy-and-buttercup land,
   And thence thread a jungle of grass:
Hurdles and stiles scarce visible stand
   Above the lush stems as I pass.

Hedges peer over, and try to be seen,
   And seem to reveal a dim sense
That amid such ambitious and elbow-high green
   They make a mean show as a fence.

Elsewhere the mead is possessed of the neats,
   That range not greatly above
The rich rank thicket which brushes their teats,
   And HER gown, as she waits for her Love.

Thursday, October 26, 2017


O do not praise my beauty more,
In such word-wild degree,
And say I am one all eyes adore;
For these things harass me!

But do for ever softly say:
"From now unto the end
Come weal, come wanzing, come what may,
Dear, I will be your friend."

I hate my beauty in the glass:
My beauty is not I:
I wear it: none cares whether, alas,
Its wearer live or die!

The inner I O care for, then,
Yea, me and what I am,
And shall be at the gray hour when
My cheek begins to clam.


Tuesday, October 24, 2017


I - The Tragedy 

She sits in the tawny vapour 
   That the City lanes have uprolled, 
   Behind whose webby fold on fold 
Like a waning taper 
   The street-lamp glimmers cold. 

A messenger's knock cracks smartly, 
   Flashed news is in her hand 
   Of meaning it dazes to understand 
Though shaped so shortly: 
   He - has fallen - in the far South Land . . . 

II - The Irony 

'Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker, 
   The postman nears and goes: 
   A letter is brought whose lines disclose 
By the firelight flicker 
   His hand, whom the worm now knows: 

Fresh - firm - penned in highest feather - 
   Page-full of his hoped return, 
   And of home-planned jaunts by brake and burn 
In the summer weather, 
   And of new love that they would learn.


Thursday, October 19, 2017


When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay, 
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves
like wings, 
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the
neighbours say, 
"He was a man who used to notice such things"?

If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's
soundless blink, 
The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades
to alight 
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer
may think, 
"To him this must have been a familiar sight." 

If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm, 
When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn, 
One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm, 
But he could do little for them; and now he is gone." 

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door, 
Watching the full-starred heavens that
winter sees, 
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"? 

And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom, 
And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings, 
Till they rise again, as they were a new
bell's boom, 
"He hears it not now, but used to notice
such things"?

A new series which will be known by the full title of the blog
begins on Saturday 21st October and will include extra features.