SEXUAL SOUVENIRS

Without desire comes inertia,
emptiness routine,
Omar Khayyam found this in Persia.
Everyone is keen
on moving fingers knowing how
to write on lovers’ skin
before they push the pleasure plow
and punctuate within
the places that, when they’re explored,
inertia disappears,
returning to the bed and board
for sexual souvenirs
whenever they are threatened by
inertia’s deadly hand;
time passes fast, we fear to die
unloved, unknown, unmanned.

Gershon Hepner

Here is another poem by Gershon Hepner, which I think many of you may like.

Consider it metaphorically - as an invitation to share a private place.

ISLAND

I’d like to take you to the isle
where I belong,
the region where I like to while
my time in song,
There prose is never spoken but
the sound of waves
that pound the chambers of my heart,
once shut like graves,
revives the wildness I once had,
my pulse that races.
I think that I would be more glad
in all the places,
the shores where only I have been,
if you would share
them with me, for I think I’ve seen
you walking there.

Gershon Hepner

Having paid my respects to the Royals, I must now move on and over the next few days I shall be posting some of the work of Gershon Hepner, who is a contemporary poet and doctor living in Los Angeles.

I hop you will like today's offering.

AFTERNOONS

Leaning into afternoons I cast
my nets into your eyes, because I wish
the feelings that I hold for you to last
far longer than the flavor of a fish.
The signals which I send to you are crossed
so often when we make love in the night,
that almost every morning I feel lost
and try to put your demon fear to flight.
I look into your eyes and see that you
believe I’m always asking you too soon
for love to be requited, and renew
my efforts with my nets each afternoon.
Don’t tell me that you think I’m building castles
in Spain or in the air in my mind,
or make me wait again for night’s blue tassels––
now in broad daylight let us be entwined.

Gershon Hepner

(Inspired by a poem by Pablo Neruda)

Today is the last posting of poems for my presentation of "Kings and Queens".

Perhaps some of you will add a comment to let me know whether you have enjoyed reading them - or not!

I conclude with three more extracts from "The Song Of Solomon".

I hope that it has not been too much for you.

THE BRIDE'S REVERIE

By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth:
I sought him, but I found him not.
I will rise now, and go about the city
in the streets, and in the broad ways
I will seek him whom my soul loveth:
I sought him, but I found him not.

The watchmen that go about the city found me:
to whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth?
It was but a little that I passed from them,
but I found him whom my soul loveth:
I held him, and would not let him go,
until I had brought him into my mother's house,
and into the chamber of her that conceived me.

I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem,
by the roes, and by the hinds of the field,
that ye stir not up, nor awake my love,
till he please.

THE DISTRESS OF SEPARATION

I sleep, but my heart waketh:
it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying,
Open to me, my sister, my love,
my dove, my undefiled:
for my head is filled with dew,
and my locks with the drops of the night.

I have put off my coat;
how shall I put it on?
I have washed my feet;
how shall I defile them?

I opened to my beloved;
but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone:
my soul failed when he spake:
I sought him, but I could not find him;
I called him, but he gave me no answer.

The watchmen that went about the city found me,
they smote me, they wounded me;
the keepers of the walls took away my veil from me.
I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem,
if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him,
that I am sick of love.

I AM AT MY BELOVED'S

I am my beloved's,
and his desire is toward me.
Come, my beloved,
let us go forth into the field;
let us lodge in the villages.
Let us get up early to the vineyards;
let us see if the vine flourish,
whether the tender grape appear,
and the pomegranates bud forth:
there will I give thee my loves.
The mandrakes give a smell,
and at our gates are all manner of pleasant fruits, new and old,
which I have laid up for thee, O my beloved.

Footnote: Opinions differ as to whether these verses were written BY King Solomon, or just about him. It is thought that the woman addressed in the song is his wife, Pharaoh's daughter.

I always begin and end my annual poetry presentation with passages from the Bible and this year will be no exception.

I have already said that I will commence with an excerpt from the preface to the King James version and I have decided to conclude with verses from "The Song Of Solomon" - some of the most beautiful, and sometimes erotic, poetry in the English language.

Today I am posting my first selection and the remainder will be here tomorrow.

THE SONG OF SONGS,WHICH IS SOLOMON'S

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth:
for thy love is better than wine.
Because of the savour of thy good ointments
thy name is as ointment poured forth,
therefore do the virgins love thee.

Draw me, we will run after thee:
the King hath brought me into his chambers:
we will be glad and rejoice in thee,
we will remember thy love more than wine:
the upright love thee.

THE ROSE OF SHARON

I am the rose of Sharon,
and the lily of the valleys.
As the lily among thorns,
so is my love among the daughters.
As the apple tree among the trees of the wood,
so is my beloved among the sons.
I sat down under his shadow with great delight,
and his fruit was sweet to my taste.

He brought me to the banqueting house,
and his banner over me was love.
Stay me with flagons,
comfort me with apples:
for I am sick of love.
His left hand is under my head,
and his right hand doth embrace me.

I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem,
by the roes, and by the hinds of the field,
that ye stir not up, nor awake my love,
till he please.

The voice of my beloved!
Behold, he cometh
leaping upon the mountains,
skipping upon the hills.
My beloved is like a roe or a young hart:
behold, he standeth behind our wall,
he looketh forth at the windows,
showing himself through the lattice.

My beloved spake, and said unto me,
Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For, lo, the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone;
the flowers appear on the earth;
the time of the singing of birds is come,
and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;
the fig tree putteth forth her green figs,
and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.
Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

Here is the last of the poems wriiten (allegedly) by Queen Elizabeth I

"Thank goodness!" many of you may say.

But this one is in lighter mood than the previous ones.

WHEN I WAS FAIR AND YOUNG

When I was fair and young then favour graced me;
Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.
But I did scorn them all, and answered them therefore,
Go, go, go, seek some otherwhere,
Importune me no more.

How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe;
How many sighing hearts I have no skill to show;
Yet I the prouder grew, and answered them therefore,
Go, go, go, seek some otherwhere,
Importune me no more.

Then spake fair Venus' son, that proud victorious boy,
And said, you dainty dame, since that you be so coy,
I will so pluck your plumes that you shall say no more
Go, go, go, seek some otherwhere,
Importune me no more.

When he had spake these words such change grew in my breast,
That neither night nor day I could take any rest.
Then, lo ! I did repent, that I had said before
Go, go, go, seek some otherwhere,
Importune me no more.

Elizabeth

(Questionable Authorship)

A rest today from Queen Elizabeth I - I shall post the last of her poems tomorrow.

I am coming towards the end of my "Poems For By And About Kings And Queens" and, at the last minute, I have decided to include this about the death of King George V.

This poem was written by the young John Betjeman in 1936 - long before he became Poet Laureate.

It begins with a remembrance of the deceased old king - respectable but rather dull, who loved nothing better than to go shooting on his estate at Sandringham.

In the last verse, however, the contrast is made with the arrival by air of his successor, the young Edward Prince of Wales, full of promise - but doomed to reign (as Edward VIII) for less than a year before abdicating.

Edward VIII was the first Commonwealth monarch to fly in an aeroplane, when he flew from Sandringham to London for his Accession Council.

'A young man lands hatless from the air"

DEATH OF KING GEORGE V
('New King arrives in his capital by air' Daily Newspaper)

Spirit of well-shot woodcock, partridge,snipe
Flutter and bear him up the Norfolk sky:
In that red house in a red mahogany book-case
The stamp collection waits with mounts long dry.

The big blue eyes are shut which saw wrong clothing
And favourite fields and coverts from a horse;
Old men in country houses hear clocks ticking
Over thick carpets with a deadened force;

Old men who never cheated, never doubted,
Communicated monthly, sit and stare
At the new suburb stretched beyond the runway
Where a young man lands hatless from the air.

John Betjeman

Princess Elizabeth at Woodstock

At the beginning of this presentation of poems on the theme of "Kings And Queens" I included "On Monsieur's Departure', by Queen Elizabeth I.

She appears to have been quite a prolific poet, although very little of her verse has survived.

However, here are three very short pieces, written when she was still a princess.

The first two were written when she was imprisoned for a year, by command of her sister Mary, in Woodstock Manor, Oxfordshire.

I am not sure about the third poem, but all three tell us something about her state of mind at that time.

WRITTEN ON A WALL AT WOODSTOCK

Oh, Fortune, how thy restless wavering state
Hath fraught with cares my troubled witt,
Wittness this present prysoner, whither Fate
Could bear me, and the joys I quitt;

Thou causest the guiltie to he loosed
From bonds wherein an innocent's inclosed,
Causing the guiltless to be straite reserved,
And freeing those that death have well deserved;
But by her malice can be nothing wroughte,
So God send to my foes all they have thought.

A.D. 1555
-ELIZABETH -PRISONER.

WRITTEN WITH A DIAMOND ON HER WINDOW AT WOODSTOCK

Much suspected by me,
Nothing proved can be,
Quoth Elizabeth prisoner.

WRITTEN IN HER FRENCH PSALTER

No crooked leg, no bleared eye,
No part deformed out of kind,
Nor yet so ugly half can be
As is the inward suspicious mind.

John Byrom

Following yesterday's Robbie Burns, I am continuing the support of the Jacobite cause with this short epigram, which refers to King James II of England (James VII of Scotland).

God bless the King! (I mean our faith's defender!)
God bless! (No harm in blessing) the Pretender.
But who Pretender is, and who is King,
God bless us all! That's quite another thing!

The writer, John Byrom, was born in Manchester in 1692 and it was once thought that he was a closet Jacobite. When the Young Pretender briefly occupied Manchester in 1745, he certainly kept a low profile.

An interesting fact: He perfected his own method of shorthand, which he patented as "New Universal Shorthand".

This shorthand was taught officially at both Oxford and Cambridge Universities. It was also used by the clerk in the House of Lords.

And another: Byrom had several children, but his favourite was his daughter Dorothy, known as Dolly.

In December 1745, after a romp with Dolly, he promised to write her something for Christmas; it was to be written especially for her, and no one else.

The delighted Dolly reminded her father of his promise each day as Christmas grew nearer.

On Christmas morning, when she ran down to breakfast, she found several presents awaiting her and amongst them was an envelope addressed to her in her father’s handwriting.

It was the first thing she opened, and to her great delight, it proved to be "Christians awake! Salute the happy morn." - a Christmas carol that is still popular today.

The original manuscript is headed “Christmas Day for Dolly,” and it was first published in the Manchester Mercury in 1746.

Today a poem by Scotland's national poet - Robert Burns.

I am practising my Scottish dialect for the poetry presentation of "Kings and Queens" on April 5th!

First published anonymously - this poem is supposed to be spoken by a Jacobite in support of James II of England (James VII of Scotland).

IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFUL KING

It was a' for our rightful king
That we left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightful king
We e'er saw Irish land,
My dear,
We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,
And a' is done in vain!
My love, and native land, fareweel!
For I maun cross the main,
My dear,
For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about,
Upon the Irish shore,
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
With, Adieu for evermore,
My dear!
And adieu for evermore!

The soldier frae the war returns,
And the merchant frae the main.
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again,
My dear,
Never to meet again.

When day is gone and night is come,
And a' folk bound to sleep,
I think on him that's far awa
The lee-lang night, and weep,
My dear,
The lee-lang night, and weep.

Robert Burns

Here is the rap poem, the "A side" of Mr Motion's tribute:

ON THE RECORD

Better stand back
Here's an age attack,
But the second in line
Is dealing with it fine.

It's a threshold, a gateway,
A landmark birthday;
It's a turning of the page,
A coming of age.

It's a day to celebrate,
A destiny, a fate;
It's a taking to the wing,
A future thing.

Better stand back
Here's an age attack,
But the second in line
Is dealing with it fine.

It's a sign of what's to come,
A start, and then some;
It's a difference growing,
A younger sort of knowing.

It's a childhood gone,
A step towards the crown;
It's a trigger of change,
A stretching of the range.

Better stand back
Here's an age attack,
But the second in line
Is dealing with it fine.

In contrast, here is the "B-side", in more traditional form:

Is twenty-one the threshold any more?
Why not eighteen? Whatever. Most of us
Can choose which line we draw between the past
And future; we can call our lives our own.

But you're not 'most of us'. You cannot tear
Yourself from your inheritance, or pass
Unnoticed to find out what suits you best.
You stand apart but never stand alone.

That's what our 'happy birthday' means today:
A wish that you'll be free to claim your life
While destiny connects with who you are -
A Prince and yet familiar common clay;
Your father's heir but true to your own faith;
A mother's son and silvered by her star.

Andrew Motion

Another wedding - another poem

The furore surrounding the wedding of Camilla Parker Bowles to Prince Charles is dealt with by poet laureate Andrew Motion in his poem for the occasion.

Spring Wedding describes the marriage as a "piece of news", while he talks of the "scandal-flywheel whirring round".

The troubled history of the pair's relationship is also dealt with.

Mr Motion said he had tried to acknowledge the range of feelings people felt about the marriage - the relationship "was now running its proper course" and he had used the image of a stream to convey the difficulties the couple had faced.

Prince Charles had sent him a letter, and the couple "seemed to like it very much", he added.

SPRING WEDDING

I took your news outdoors, and strolled a while
In silence on my square of garden-ground
Where I could dim the roar of arguments,
Ignore the scandal-flywheel whirring round,

And hear instead the green fuse in the flower
Ignite, the breeze stretch out a shadow-hand
To ruffle blossom on its sticking points,
The blackbirds sing, and singing take their stand.

I took your news outdoors, and found the Spring
Had honoured all its promises to start
Disclosing how the principles of earth
Can make a common purpose with the heart.

The heart which slips and sidles like a stream
Weighed down by winter-wreckage near its source –
But given time, and come the clearing rain,
Breaks loose to revel in its proper course.

© Andrew Motion

This was Andrew Motion's first Laureate poem, written for the marriage of Prince Edward and Sophie Rhys-Jones on 19 June 1999.

EPITHALAMIUM
St. George's Chapel, Windsor

One day, the tissue-light through stained glass falls
on vacant stone, on gaping pews, on air
made up of nothing more than atom storms
which whiten silently, then disappear.

The next, all this is charged with brimming life.
A people-river floods those empty pews
and music-torrents break - but then stop dead
to let two human voices make their vows:

to work - so what is true today remains the truth:
to hope - for privacy and what its secrets show;
to trust - that all the world can offer it will give;
to love - and what it has to understand to grow.

Andrew Motion

THE FOLLOWING STATEMENT IS ISSUED BY THE PRESS SECRETARY TO THE QUEEN

"Professor Andrew Motion, Poet Laureate, has written a special poem to mark the life of HRH Princess Margaret. The poem, released on the day of Princess Margaret's funeral, celebrates the life of the Princess in sonnet form."

(Buckingham Palace press release 15 February 2002)

THE YOUNGER SISTER

The luxuries, of course, and privilege -
The money, houses, holidays, the lot:
All these were real, and all these drove a wedge
Between your life and ours. And yet the thought
Of how no privilege on earth can keep
A life from suffering in love and loss -
This means we turn to you and see how deep
The current runs between yourself and us.
And now death spells it out again, and more,
As it becomes your final human act:
A daughter gone before her mother goes;
A younger sister heading on before;
A woman in possession of the fact
That love and duty speak two languages.

Andrew Motion

Andrew Motion is the current Poet Laureate.

But today I begin with Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother.

PICTURE THIS

(A Celebration On The One Hundredth Birthday Of HM Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother)

My dream of your birthday
is more like a wedding -
the August sky
confused with confetti,
no, not with confetti,
with photograph falls
where the steady gaze
of the century's eyes
captures your ages
unguarded or posed.

1905
Nobody heard the blackbird chink-chinking
on the level lawn but it was always there
declaiming its birthright; and nobody saw
how lichen blistering the drive had mixed
green and gold in stubborn coats-of-arms
but they clung on. The frame of everything
was Glamis with its battlements and towers,
and you side-saddle on your boxy grey
inside the moment as it froze and held:
your life your own and all the world unknown.

1914
The shutter opens and the world expands:
It's Hawtrey at the Colley for your birthday
but he can't be heard, or not heard
as he wants - outside, along St Martin's Lane,
a people-torrent runs and will not wait
to get the enemy. The show goes on.
And then goes on elsewhere, in wards
where nursing changes strangers into brothers
while your real brothers pack their bags
and leave as strangers, or else go for good.

1923
Jazz, New Look, new plunging necklaces
and snap! You're cornered in a studio
where beauty holds its own but loses edge
and makes a soft advertisement for love.
For love which finds its focus as a bride
and keeps its nerve, and sees its way,
then rides the shimmer of its own delight,
returning to the world the gift it gives
in private - tongue-tied tongue set loose,
the head confirming what the heart believes.

1937
In public; chairs into thrones, people
to subjects, and the shudder of transition
rippling through the camera's eye - his sombre face
an effigy as inescapably the crown
is lowered; your face tender with the load
it brings to bear, and what it means to hear
beyond the shooshing satins and the stone
Guernica crumbling, fire in Palestine,
and Germany again - earth groaning
as it shifts its weight and stalls in misery.

1940
THE PALACE BOMBED: then comes the blast
and choking lift that lands you where
you look East Enders in the face - not earth
exactly now but roof-spars, mud-in-shreds,
a gluey crater which was once indoors,
and you like one of us - or like enough
to make a crowd of wind-frayed kids
and peering mums, the husbands jostling
with the press-men in their burly coats,
all think you are. And thank their lucky stars.

1952
Basalt blackness at his funeral
and basalt stillness: through your veil
the fossil-face of grief, the stricken gaze
which bounces back the flash-lights to their source
but masks a working brain that sees the years
and years ahead the way an acrobat
might see a tightrope and the audience
below: the dizzy space, the camera-pops,
the swaying line between thin air and ground
and every single step borne up by company.

1960
The years wind on, the world and family
develop into colour and due season: winter
poppies, Spring in May, the grassy Ascot drive
half-summer greeting, half acknowledgement.
And everything a system made of signs: the marches
past, foundation stones, the plaques and special trees
which prove your life in ours yet make it seem
a secret too - the way a salmon swells in secret
through the currents of a pool you stand beside,
and glances at your fly, and keeps its course.

1997
No changes, on the face of it: the balconies,
the open smile and wave, the garden parties,
and the hats, the hats, the hats, all pictures
in our albums or our heads along with these:
the photos no-one took of you...
the grandmother-confessor-friend, the mourner
at divorces and the rest, the worldly watcher
of the world who shows the world no changes
on the face of it: the balconies, the open wave
and smile, the hats, the hats, the hats.

My dream of your birthday
is more like a wedding,
the August sky
confused with confetti,
and lit with the flash
of our camera-gaze -
the century's eyes
of homage and duty
which understand best
the persistence of love.

Andrew Motion

I am staying with the poet laureate, Alfred Tennyson, with this tribute to Queen Victoria's husband - Prince Albert.

It is taken from from his Dedication to "The Idylls of the King".

ALBERT THE GOOD

We know him now: all narrow jealousies
Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
With what sublime repression of himself,
And in what limits, and how tenderly;
Not swaying to this faction or to that;
Not making his high place the lawless perch
Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground
For pleasure; but through all this tract of years
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,
Before a thousand peering littlenesses,
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
And blackens every blot.

Albert was the husband and consort of Queen Victoria and a significant influence on his wife.

She commissioned a number of monuments in his honour, including the Royal Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens completed in 1876.

For the next few days I shall be turning to the works of the Poets Laureate, beginning with this poem, written by Alfred Tennyson to commemorate the 50th anniversary of Queen Victoria's accession to the throne.

I am afraid that it is a little OTT and it does go on ... and on . . . and on.

But that was the style of the time and Poets Laureate were expected to give value for money!

Here is a description of Victoria's Big Day:

Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee was celebrated on 20 and 21 June 1887.

ON THE JUBILEE OF QUEEN VICTORIA

I.
FIFTY TIMES the rose has flower’d and faded,
Fifty times the golden harvest fallen,
Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

II.
She beloved for a kindliness
Rare in fable or history,
Queen, and Empress of India,
Crown’d so long with a diadem
Never worn by a worthier,
Now with prosperous auguries
Comes at last to the bounteous
Crowning year of her Jubilee.

III.
Nothing of the lawless, of the despot,
Nothing of the vulgar, or vainglorious,
All is gracious, gentle, great and queenly.

IV.
You then joyfully, all of you,
Set the mountain aflame to-night,
Shoot your stars to the firmament,
Deck your houses, illuminate
All your towns for a festival,
And in each let a multitude
Loyal, each, to the heart of it,
One full voice of allegiance,
Hail the fair Ceremonial
Of this year of her Jubilee.

V.
Queen, as true to womanhood as Queenhood,
Glorying in the glories of her people,
Sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest!

VI.
You, that wanton in affluence,
Spare not now to be bountiful,
Call your poor to regale with you,
All the lowly, the destitute,
Make their neighborhood healthfuller,
Give your gold to the hospital,
Let the weary be comforted,
Let the needy be banqueted,
Let the maim’d in his heart rejoice
At this glad Ceremonial,
And this year of her Jubilee.

VII.
Henry’s fifty years are all in shadow,
Gray with distance Edward’s fifty summers,
Even her Grandsire’s fifty half forgotten.

VIII.
You, the Patriot Architect,
You that shape for eternity,
Raise a stately memorial,
Make it regally gorgeous,
Some Imperial Institute,
Rich in symbol, in ornament,
Which may speak to the centuries,
All the centuries after us,
Of this great Ceremonial,
And this year of her Jubilee.

IX.
Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce!
Fifty years of ever-brightening Science!
Fifty years of ever-widening Empire!

X.
You, the Mighty, the Fortunate,
You, the Lord-territorial,
You, the Lord-manufacturer,
You, the hardy, laborious,
Patient children of Albion,
You, Canadian, Indian,
Australasian, African,
All your hearts be in harmony,
All your voices in unison.
Singing, ‘Hail to the glorious
Golden year of her Jubilee!’

XI.
Are there thunders moaning in the distance?
Are there spectres moving in the darkness?
Trust the Hand of Light will lead her people,
Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish,
And the Light is Victor, and the darkness
Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.

Alfred Tennyson

Today I am leaving Nursery Rhymes and returning to longer, more serious poems - although still on the subject of Royalty.

The picture below is of the 'boy king' of France, Francis II (1544-1560).

His marriage to Mary Stuart (Mary Queen of Scots) was arranged by his father in 1548 when Francis was four years old.

Once the marriage agreement had been formally ratified the six-year-old Mary was sent to France, to be raised in the royal court until the marriage.

Despite the fact that Mary was tall for her age and fluent in speech while Francis was abnormally short and stuttered, Henry II said that "from the very first day they met, my son and she got on as well together as if they had known each other for a long time".

On April 24, 1558, the fourteen-year-old Dauphin was married to Mary in a union that would give the future King of France the throne of Scotland and a claim to the throne of England.

However, it was not to last - Francis II, who had always been a sickly child, died on 5 December 1560, at the age of sixteen, when an ear infection worsened and caused an abscess in his brain.

His distraught Queen, aged 18, wrote this poem:

In my sad, quiet song,
A melancholy air,
I shall look deep and long
At loss beyond compare,
And with bitter tears,
I'll pass my best years.
Have the harsh fates ere now
Let such a grief be felt,
Has a more cruel blow
Been by Dame Fortune dealt
Than, O my heart and my eyes
I see where his bier lies?
In my springtime's gladness
And flower of my young heart,
I feel the deepest sadness
Of the most grievous hurt.
And nothing now my heart can fire
But regret and desire.
He who was my dearest
Already is my plight.
The day that shone the clearest
For me is darkest night.
There is nothing now so fine
That I need make it mine.
Deep in my eyes and heart
A portrait has its place
Which shows the world my hurt
In the pallor of my face,
Pale as when violets fade,
True love’s becoming a shade
In my unwonted pain
I can no more be still,
Rising time and again
To drive away my ill.
All things good and bad
Have lost the taste they had.
And thus I always stay
Whether in wood or meadow,
Whether at dawn of day
Or at the evening shadow.
My heart feels ceaselessly
Grief for his loss to me.
Sometimes in such a place
His image comes to me.
The sweet smile on his face
Up in a cloud I see.
Then sudden in the mere
I see his funeral bier.
When I lie quietly
Sleeping upon my couch,
I hear him speak to me
And I can feel his touch.
In my duties each day
He is near me always
Nothing seems fine to me
Unless he is therein.
My heart will not agree
Unless he is within
I lack all perfection
In my cruel dejection.
I shall cease my song now,
My sad lament shall end
Whose burden aye shall show
True love can not pretend
And though we are apart,
Grows no less in my heart.

(Translated from the original French)

(Francis and Mary)

JACK SPRAT

Jack Sprat could eat no fat
His wife could eat no lean
And so betwixt the two of them
They licked the platter clean.

The Jack Sprat alluded to in this English poem is reputed to be King Charles I (1625-1649) and Henrietta Maria, his Queen (1609-1669).

There is sometimes a second verse:

Jack ate all the lean,
Joan ate all the fat.
The bone they picked it clean,
Then gave it to the cat!

(See him/her at the bottom of the picture)

Baa Baa Black Sheep,
Have you any wool ?
Yes, Sir, Yes Sir,
Three bags full,
One for my master
One for my dame,
And one for the little boy,
Who lives down the lane.

This was a sad lament on the inequity of the tax system in the Middle Ages, when the poor hard working peasant farmer was left with only one third of his earnings after taxes.

JACK AND JILL WENT UP THE HILL

Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.

Up Jack got and down he trot
As fast as he could caper;
And went to bed and covered his head
In vinegar and brown paper.

There is a rarer third verse, as follows:

When Jill came in how she did grin
To see Jack's paper plaster;
Mother vexed, did whip her next,
For causing Jack's disaster.

And a fourth:

Now Jack did laugh and Jill did cry
But her tears did soon abate;
Then Jill did say that they should play
At see-saw across the gate.

The roots of the story in this rhyme are in France.

RIDE A COCK HORSE

Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross,
To see a white lady upon a white horse,
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
And she shall have music wherever she goes.

There are several suggestions about the origin of this rhyme, but the most widely accepted is that it relates to Queen Elizabeth I (the fine lady) who travelled to Banbury to see a huge stone cross which had just been erected.

There is an alternative theory that the rhyme referred to Lady Godiva, who rode naked through the streets of Coventry.