April 29, 2012

Along The Fields As We Came By

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--Description: 20th C, Houseman A.E., Love-- 

Along the field as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone.
‘Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
But she shall lie with earth above,
And he beside another love.’

And sure enough beneath the tree
There walks another love with me,
And overhead the aspen heaves
Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
And I spell nothing in their stir,
But now perhaps they speak to her,
And plain for her to understand
They talk about a time at hand
When I shall sleep with clover clad,
And she beside another lad.

Alfred Edward Houseman

--Did You Know: (26 March 1859 – 30 April 1936) Houseman usually known as A. E. Housman, was an English classical scholar and poet, best known for his cycle of poems A Shropshire Lad. Lyrical and almost epigrammatic in form, the poems were mostly written before 1900. Their wistful evocation of doomed youth in the English countryside, in spare language and distinctive imagery, appealed strongly to late Victorian and Edwardian taste, and to many early twentieth century English composers (beginning with Arthur Somervell) both before and after the First World War. Through its song-setting the poetry became closely associated with that era, and with Shropshire itself. Housman was counted one of the foremost classicists of his age, and has been ranked as one of the greatest scholars of all time.[1] He established his reputation publishing as a private scholar and, on the strength and quality of his work, was appointed Professor of Latin at University College London and later, at Cambridge. Read more at: A.E. Houseman

--Word of the Day: rataplan \rat-uh-PLAN\, verb:
1. To produce the sound as of the beating of a drum.
1. A sound of or as of the beating of a drum.
2. A tattoo, as of a drum, the hooves of a galloping horse, or machine-gun fire.
When his breath returned, he called aloud to space: "My drum ain't busted, but I can't reach t'other stick !" and then rat-tatted as best he could, sitting, hot in his own blood, there in what might have seemed the measured centre of the surely coming charge. As his one stick beat, rataplanning as best it might alone, his ghastly face, turned backward, saw the first man, rifle in hand who topped the low ridge, racing forward on two strong legs, furiously cursing the swinging, helpless left arm that dripped as he ran.
-Clara Morris, The life of a star

--Quote of the Day: Some say that true love is a mirage; seek it anyway, for all else is surely desert.
~Robert Brault

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Posted by V. Mahfood
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Small Footprints on April 29, 2012 at 9:31 PM said...

This is just lovely ... rather bittersweet! Thank you for sharing it with us! :-)

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