Poetry of the LandRevision

As the Team's Head-BrassEdward Thomas

As the team's head-brass flashed out on the turnThe lovers disappeared into the wood.

I sat among the boughs of the fallen elmThat strewed the angle of the fallow, and

Watched the plough narrowing a yellow squareOf charlock. Every time the horses turned

Instead of treading me down, the ploughman leanedUpon the handles to say or ask a word,About the weather, next about the war.

Scraping the share he faced towards the wood,And screwed along the furrow till the brass flashed

Once more.

The blizzard felled the elm whose crestI sat in, by a woodpecker's round hole,

The ploughman said. 'When will they take it away?''When the war's over.' So the talk began -

One minute and an interval of ten,A minute more and the same interval.

'Have you been out?' 'No.' 'And don't want to, perhaps?''If I could only come back again, I should.

I could spare an arm, I shouldn't want to loseA leg. If I should lose my head, why, so,

I should want nothing more...Have many goneFrom here?' 'Yes.' 'Many lost?' 'Yes, a good few.

Only two teams work on the farm this year.One of my mates is dead. The second day

In France they killed him. It was back in March,The very night of the blizzard, too. Now if

He had stayed here we should have moved the tree.''And I should not have sat here. Everything

Would have been different. For it would have beenAnother world.' 'Ay, and a better, though

If we could see all all might seem good.' ThenThe lovers came out of the wood again:The horses started and for the last time

I watched the clods crumble and topple overAfter the ploughshare and the stumbling team.

Crossing the WaterSylvia Plath

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.Where do the black trees go that drink here?

Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:

They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar. The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.

A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies. Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?

This is the silence of astounded souls.

Desert PlacesRobert Frost

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fastIn a field I looked into going past,

And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it--it is theirs.All animals are smothered in their lairs.

I am too absent-spirited to count;The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is that lonelinessWill be more lonely ere it will be less--A blanker whiteness of benighted snowWith no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spacesBetween stars--on stars where no human race is.

I have it in me so much nearer homeTo scare myself with my own desert places.

BirchesRobert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows— Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be.

It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig's having lashed across it open.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:

I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

The BightElizabeth Bishop

At low tide like this how sheer the water is.White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare

and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,

the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,the colour of the gas flame turned as low as possible.One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaireone could probably hear it turning to marimba music.

The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dockalready plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.

The birds are outsize. Pelicans crashinto this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,

it seems to me, like pickaxes,rarely coming up with anything to show for it,

and going off with humorous elbowings.Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar

on impalpable draftsand open their tails like scissors on the curvesor tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.

The frowsy sponge boats keep coming inwith the obliging air of retrievers,

bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooksand decorated with bobbles of sponges.

There is a fence of chicken wire along the dockwhere, glinting like little plowshares,

the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dryfor the Chinese-restaurant trade.

Some of the little white boats are still piled upagainst each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,

and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,like torn-open, unanswered letters.

The bight is littered with old correspondences.Click. Click. Goes the dredge,

and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.All the untidy activity continues,

awful but cheerful.

Binsey PoplarsGerard Manley Hopkins

My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,

All felled, felled, are all felled;Of a fresh and following folded rank

Not spared, not oneThat dandled a sandalled

Shadow that swam or sankOn meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank.

O if we but knew what we doWhen we delve or hew—

Hack and rack the growing green!Since country is so tender

To touch, her being só slender,That, like this sleek and seeing ballBut a prick will make no eye at all,Where we, even where we mean

To mend her we end her,When we hew or delve:

After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve

Strokes of havoc únselveThe sweet especial scene,Rural scene, a rural scene,Sweet especial rural scene.

Beeny CliffThomas Hardy

IO the opal and the sapphire of that wandering western sea,

And the woman riding high above with bright hair flapping free-The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved me.

IIThe pale mews plained below us, and the waves seemed far awayIn a nether sky, engrossed in saying their ceaseless babbling say,

As we laughed light-heartedly aloft on that clear-sunned March day.

IIIA little cloud then cloaked us, and there flew an irised rain,

And the Atlantic dyed its levels with a dull misfeatured stain, And then the sun burst out again, and purples prinked the main.

IV-Still in all its chasmal beauty bulks old Beeny to the sky,

And shall she and I not go there once again now March is nigh, And the sweet things said in that March say anew there by and by?

VWhat if still in chasmal beauty looms that wild weird western shore,

The woman now is-elsewhere-whom the ambling pony bore, And nor knows nor cares for Beeny, and will laugh there nevermore.

BermudasAndrew Marvell

Where the remote Bermudas ride, In the ocean's bosom unespied,

From a small boat, that rowed along, The listening winds received this song : "What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze,

Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own ?

Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs.

He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage.

He gave us this eternal spring, Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care,

On daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange bright,

Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows.

He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet. But apples plants of such a price,

No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by His hand,

From Lebanon, He stores the land, And makes the hollow seas, that roar,

Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name. Oh ! let our voice His praise exalt,

Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may

Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."Thus sung they, in the English boat,

An holy and a cheerful note; And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

NuttingWilliam Wordsworth

It seems a day,(I speak of one from many singled out)

One of those heavenly days which cannot die,When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung,A nutting crook in hand, I turn'd my steps

Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint,Trick'd out in proud disguise of Beggar's weeds

Put on for the occasion, by adviceAnd exhortation of my frugal Dame.

Motley accoutrement ! of power to smileAt thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth,

More ragged than need was. Among the woods,And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way

Until, at length, I came to one dear nookUnvisited, where not a broken bough

Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious signOf devastation, but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung.A virgin scene ! – A little while I stood,

Breathing with such suppression of the heartAs joy delights in; and with wise restraint

Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyedThe banquet, or beneath the trees I sate

Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd;A temper known to those, who, after long

And weary expectation, have been blessedWith sudden happiness beyond all hope. –

- Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leavesThe violets of five seasons re-appearAnd fade, unseen by any human eye,

Where fairy water-breaks do murmur onFor ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,

And with my cheek on one of those green stonesThat, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees,

Lay round me scatter'd like a flock of sheep,I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay

Tribute to ease, and, of its joy secure,The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,

And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash

And merciless ravage; and the shady nookOf hazels, and the green and mossy bower

Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave upTheir quiet being: and unless I now

Confound my present feelings with the past,Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away

Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kingsI felt a sense of pain when I beheld

The silent trees and the intruding sky. –

Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shadesIn gentleness of heart; with gentle handTouch, - for there is a spirit in the woods.

Scotland Small?Hugh MacDiarmid

Scotland small? Our multiform, our infinite Scotland small?Only as a patch of hillside may be a cliché corner

To a fool who cries ‘Nothing but heather!’ where in September anotherSitting there and resting and gazing aroundSees not only the heather but blueberries

With bright green leaves and leaves already turned scarlet,Hiding ripe blue berries; and amongst the sage-green leavesOf the bog-myrtle the golden flowers of the tormentil shining;And on the small bare places, where the little Blackface sheep

Found grazing, milkworts blue as summer skies;And down in neglected peat-hags, not worked

Within living memory, sphagnum moss in pastel shadesOf yellow, green, and pink; sundew and butterwort

Waiting with wide-open sticky leaves for their tiny winged prey;And nodding harebells vying in their colour

With the blue butterflies that poise themselves delicately upon them;And stunted rowans with harsh dry leaves of glorious colour.

‘Nothing but heather!’ ̶ How marvellously descriptive! And incomplete!

LandscapesT.S. Eliot

I. New HampshireChildren's voices in the orchard

Between the blossom- and the fruit-time:Golden head, crimson head,

Between the green tip and the root.Black wing, brown wing, hover over;Twenty years and the spring is over;

To-day grieves and to-morrow grieves,Cover me over, light-in-leaves;

Golden head, black wing,Cling, swing,Spring, sing,

Swing up into the apple-tree.

II. VirginiaRed river, red river,

Slow flow heat is silenceNo will is still as a river

Still. Will heat moveOnly through the mocking-bird

Heard once? Still hillsWait. Gates wait. Purple trees,

White trees, wait, wait,Delay, decay. Living, living,Never moving. Ever movingIron thoughts came with me

And go with me:Red river, river, river.

III. UskDo not suddenly break the branch, or

Hope to findThe white hart over the white well.

Glance aside, not for lance, do not spellOld enchantments. Let them sleep.

'Gently dip, but not too deep',Lift your eyes

Where the roads dip and where the roads riseSeek only there

Where the grey light meets the green airThe Hermit's chapel, the pilgrim's prayer.

IV. Rannoh, near GlenckowHere the crow starves, here the patient stagBreeds for the rifle. Between the soft moor

and the soft sky, scarcely roomTo leap or to soar. Substance crumbles, in the thin air

Moon cold or moon hot. The road winds inListlessness of ancient war,

Languor of broken steel,Clamour of confused wrong, apt

In silence. Memory is strongBeyond the bone. Pride snapped,

Shadow of pride is long, in the long passNo concurrence of bone.

V. Cape AnnO quick quick quick, quick hear the song sparrow,

Swamp sparrow, fox-sparrow, vesper-sparrowAt dawn and dusk. Follow the dance

Of goldfinch at noon. Leave to chanceThe Blackburnian warbler, the shy one. Hail

With shrill whistle the note of the quail, the bob-whiteDodging the bay-bush. Follow the feet

Of the walker, the water-thrush. Follow the flightOf the dancing arrow, the purple martin. Greet

In silence the bullbat. All are delectable. Sweet sweet sweetBut resign this land at the end, resign it

To its true owner, the tough one, the sea gull.The palaver is finished.

MushroomsSylvia Plath

Overnight, veryWhitely, discreetly,

Very quietly

Our toes, our nosesTake hold on the loam,

Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,Stops us, betrays us;

The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist onHeaving the needles,

The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.Our hammers, our rams,

Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,Widen the crannies,

Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,On crumbs of shadow,

Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.So many of us!So many of us!

We are shelves, we areTables, we are meek,

We are edible,

Nudgers and shoversIn spite of ourselves.Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morningInherit the earth.

Our foot's in the door.

Interruption to a JourneyNorman MacCaig

The hare we had run overBounced about the roadOn the springing curve

Of its spine.

Cornfields breathed in the darkness,We were going through the darkness and

The breathing cornfields from oneImportant place to another.

We broke the hare’s neckAnd made that place, for a moment,The most important place there was,

Where a bowstring was cutAnd a bow broken forever

That had shot itself through so manyDarknesses and cornfields

It was left in that landscape,It left us in another.

The FloodJohn Clare

On Lolham Brigs in wild and lonely mood I've seen the winter floods their gambols play

Through each old arch that trembled while I stood Bent o'er its wall to watch the dashing spray As their old stations would be washed away

Crash came the ice against the jambs and then A shudder jarred the arches - yet once more

It breasted raving waves and stood agen To wait the shock as stubborn as before

- White foam brown crested with the russet soil As washed from new plough lands would dart beneath

Then round and round a thousand eddies boil On tother side - then pause as if for breath

One minute - and engulphed - like life in death

Whose wrecky stains dart on the floods away More swift than shadows in a stormy day

Straws trail and turn and steady - all in vain The engulfing arches shoot them quickly through

The feather dances flutters and again Darts through the deepest dangers still afloat Seeming as faireys whisked it from the view

And danced it o'er the waves as pleasures boat Light hearted as a thought in May -

Trays - uptorn bushes - fence demolished rails Loaded with weeds in sluggish motions stray

Like water monsters lost each winds and trails Till near the arches - then as in affright

It plunges - reels - and shudders out of sight

Waves trough - rebound - and fury boil again Like plunging monsters rising underneath

Who at the top curl up a shaggy main A moment catching at a surer breath

Then plunging headlong down and down - and on Each following boil the shadow of the last

And other monsters rise when those are gone Crest their fringed waves - plunge onward and are past

- The chill air comes around me ocean blea From bank to bank the waterstrife is spread

Strange birds like snow spots o'er the huzzing sea Hang where the wild duck hurried past and fled

On roars the flood - all restless to be free Like trouble wandering to eternity.

How the old Mountains drip with SunsetEmily Dickenson

How the old Mountains drip with Sunset How the Hemlocks burn—

How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder By the Wizard Sun—

How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet Till the Ball is full—

Have I the lip of the FlamingoThat I dare to tell?

Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows—Touching all the Grass

With a departing—Sapphire—feature— As a Duchess passed—

How a small Dusk crawls on the VillageTill the Houses blot

And the odd Flambeau, no men carry Glimmer on the Street—

How it is Night—in Nest and Kennel— And where was the Wood—

Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing Into Solitude—

These are the Visions flitted Guido—Titian—never told—

Domenichino dropped his pencil—Paralyzed, with Gold—

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

A SurveyWilliam Stafford

Down in the Frantic Mountainsthey say a canyon winds

crammed with hysterical watershushed by placid sands.

They tried to map that country,sent out a field boot crew,

but the river surged at nightand ripped the map in two.

So they sent out wildcats, printed with intricate lines of fur,

to put their paws with such finesse,the ground was unaware.

Now only the wildcats know it, patting a tentative paw,

soothing the hackles of ridges,pouring past rocks and away.

The sun rakes that land each morning;the mountains buck and scream.

By night the wildcats pad bygazing it quiet again.