Saturday, June 14, 2014

Poetry night!

And since the wind has been shaking the trees tonight, and I'm a fan of W. B. Yeats, a little poem of his making (in the public domain, yet! So take that, Disney and others of that kidney! THPBHPHT.)

Running to Paradise (1916)

AS I came over Windy Gap
They threw a halfpenny into my cap,
For I am running to Paradise;
And all that I need do is to wish
And somebody puts his hand in the dish
To throw me a bit of salted fish:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

My brother Mourteen is worn out
With skelping his big brawling lout,
And I am running to Paradise;
A poor life do what he can,
And though he keep a dog and a gun,
A serving maid and a serving man:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

Poor men have grown to be rich men,
And rich men grown to be poor again,
And I am running to Paradise;
And many a darling wit’s grown dull
That tossed a bare heel when at school,
Now it has filled an old sock full:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

The wind is old and still at play
While I must hurry upon my way,
For I am running to Paradise;
Yet never have I lit on a friend
To take my fancy like the wind
That nobody can buy or bind:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

1 comment:

Chrysanne Houghton said...

Sticks are sticky,
Blu cheese isn't so blue,
Insanity rules,
a cray-cray-ness does too!