Casey's Revenge

Casey's Revenge by Grantland Rice This wonderful poem by Grantland Rice skillfully depicts the action on the field between the legendary Casey and "the pitcher who started all the trouble" just one season before.

"But fame is fleeting as the wind and glory fades away; There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day." - Grantland Rice in Casey's Revenge (1907)

Casey's Revenge by Grantland Rice © Published: The Speaker (06-1907) There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more; There were muttered oaths and curses- every fan in town was sore. "Just think," said one, "how soft it looked with Casey at the bat, And then to think he'd go and spring a bush league trick like that!" All his past fame was forgotten- he was now a hopeless "shine." They called him "Strike-Out Casey," from the mayor down the line; And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh, While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey's eye. He pondered in the days gone by that he had been their king, That when he strolled up to the plate they made the welkin ring; But now his nerve had vanished, for when he heard them hoot He "fanned" or "popped out" daily, like some minor league recruit. He soon began to sulk and loaf, his batting eye went lame; No home runs on the score card now were chalked against his name; The fans without exception gave the manager no peace, For one and all kept clamoring for Casey's quick release. The Mudville squad began to slump, the team was in the air; Their playing went from bad to worse - nobody seemed to care. "Back to the woods with Casey!" was the cry from Rooters' Row. "Get some one who can hit the ball, and let that big dub go!" The lane is long, some one has said, that never turns again, And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men; And Casey smiled; his rugged face no longer wore a frown- The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town. All Mudville had assembled - ten thousand fans had come To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum; And when he stepped into the box, the multitude went wild; He doffed his cap in proud disdain, but Casey only smiled. "Play ball!" the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began. But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan Who thought that Mudville had a chance, and with the setting sun Their hopes sank low- the rival team was leading "four to one." The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score; But when the first man up hit safe, the crowd began to roar; The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard When the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third. Three men on base - nobody out - three runs to tie the game! A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville's hall of fame; But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night, When the fourth one "fouled to catcher" and the fifth "flew out to right." A dismal groan in chorus came; a scowl was on each face When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place; His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed, his teeth were clenched in hate; He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate. But fame is fleeting as the wind and glory fades away; There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day; They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored: "Strike him out!" But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout. The pitcher smiled and cut one loose - across the plate it sped; Another hiss, another groan. "Strike one!" the umpire said. Zip! Like a shot the second curve broke just below the knee. "Strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea. No roasting for the umpire now - his was an easy lot; But here the pitcher whirled again- was that a rifle shot? A whack, a crack, and out through the space the leather pellet flew, A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue. Above the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight The sphere sailed on - the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight. Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit, But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit. O, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun, And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun! And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall, But Mudville hearts are happy now, for Casey hit the ball. Casey's Revenge by Grantland Rice ©

Casey's Table d'Hôte
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

Oh, them days on Red Hoss Mountain, when the skies wuz fair 'nd blue,
When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true!
When the nights wuz crisp 'nd balmy, 'nd the camp wuz all astir,
With the joints all throwed wide open 'nd no sheriff to demur!
Oh, them times on Red Hoss Mountain in the Rockies fur away,---
There 's no such place nor times like them as I kin find to-day!
What though the camp hez busted? I seem to see it still
A-lyin', like it loved it, on that big 'nd warty hill;
And I feel a sort of yearnin' 'nd a chokin' in my throat
When I think of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote!

Wal, yes, it's true I struck it rich, but that don't cut a show
When one is old 'nd feeble 'nd it 's nigh his time to go;
The money that he 's got in bonds or carries to invest
Don't figger with a codger who has lived a life out West;
Us old chaps like to set around, away from folks 'nd noise,
'Nd think about the sights we seen and things we done when boys;
The which is why I love to set 'nd think of them old days
When all us Western fellers got the Colorado craze,---
And that is why I love to set around all day 'nd gloat
On thought of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote.
This Casey wuz an Irishman,---you 'd know it by his name
And by the facial features appertainin' to the same.
He 'd lived in many places 'nd had done a thousand things,
From the noble art of actin' to the work of dealin' kings,
But, somehow, had n't caught on; so, driftin' with the rest,
He drifted for a fortune to the undeveloped West,
And he came to Red Hoss Mountain when the little camp wuz new,
When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true;
And, havin' been a stewart on a Mississippi boat,
He opened up a caffy 'nd he run a tabble dote.
The bar wuz long 'nd rangy, with a mirrer on the shelf,
'Nd a pistol, so that Casey, when required, could help himself;
Down underneath there wuz a row of bottled beer 'nd wine,
'Nd a kag of Burbun whiskey of the run of '59;
Upon the walls wuz pictures of hosses 'nd of girls,---
Not much on dress, perhaps, but strong on records 'nd on curls!
The which had been identified with Casey in the past,---
The hosses 'nd the girls, I mean,---and both wuz mighty fast!
But all these fine attractions wuz of precious little note
By the side of what wuz offered at Casey's tabble dote.
There wuz half-a-dozen tables altogether in the place,
And the tax you had to pay upon your vittles was a case;
The boardin'-houses in the camp protested 't wuz a shame
To patronize a robber, which this Casey wuz the same!
They said a case was robbery to tax for ary meal;
But Casey tended strictly to his biz, 'nd let 'em squeal;
And presently the boardin'-hourses all began to bust,
While Casey kept on sawin' wood 'nd layin' in the dust;
And oncet a trav'lin' editor from Denver City wrote
A piece back to his paper, puffin' Casey's tabble dote.
A tabble dote is different from orderin' aller cart:
In one case you git all there is, in t' other, only part!
And Casey's tabble dote began in French,---as all begin,---
And Casey's ended with the same, which is to say, with "vin";
But in between wuz every kind of reptile, bird, 'nd beast,
The same like you can git in high-toned restauraws down East;
'Nd windin' up wuz cake or pie, with coffee demy tass,
Or, sometimes, floatin' Ireland in a soothin' kind of sass
That left a sort of pleasant ticklin' in a feller's throat,
'Nd made him hanker after more of Casey's tabble dote.
The very recollection of them puddin's 'nd them pies
Brings a yearnin' to my buzzum 'nd the water to my eyes;
'Nd seems like cookin' nowadays ain't what it used to be
In camp on Red Hoss Mountain in that year of '63;
But, maybe, it is better, 'nd, maybe, I'm to blame---
I'd like to be a-livin' in the mountains jest the same---
I'd like to live that life again when skies wuz fair 'nd blue,
When things wuz run wide open 'nd men wuz brave 'nd true;
When brawny arms the flinty ribs of Red Hoss Mountain smote
For wherewithal to pay the price of Casey's tabble dote.

And you, O cherished brother, a-sleepin' 'way out West,
With Red Hoss Mountain huggin' you close to its lovin' breast,---
Oh, do you dream in your last sleep of how we used to do,
Of how we worked our little claims together, me 'nd you?
Why, when I saw you last a smile wuz restin' on your face,
Like you wuz glad to sleep forever in that lonely place;
And so you wuz, 'nd I'd be, too, if I wuz sleepin' so.
But, bein' how a brother's love ain't for the world to know,
Whenever I 've this heartache 'nd this chokin' in my throat,
I lay it all to thinkin' of Casey's tabble dote

CASEY AT THE BAT

Casey at the Bat

by Ernest Thayer

(1863-1940


ONE MAN DOES NOT MAKE A TEAM
http://al-alex-alexander-girvan.blogspot.com/2010/10/vancouver-canucks-ttrendy-choice-to-win.html

A last pitch from the mound. A final swing at bat. An old favourite from happier, simpler times: it's Casey at the bat.

It looked extremely rocky

For the Mudville nine that day;

The  score score stood two to four,

With but an inning left to play; 

So, when Cooney died at second,

And Burrrows did the same,

A pallor wreathed the features

Of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go.

Leaving there the rest,

With that hope which springs eternal

Within the human breast,

For they thought: "if only Casey

Could get a whack at that,"

They'd put up even money now,

With Casey at the Bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey,

And likewise so did Bake,

And the former was a puddin',

And the latter was a fake;

 So on that stricken multitude

A deathlike silence sat,

 For there seemed but little chance

Of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a "single,"

To the wonderment of all, 

And the much-despised Blakey

"Tore the cover of the ball,"

And when the dust had lifted

And they saw what had occurred,

There was Blakey safe at second,

And Flynn a-huggin' third.

Then, from the gladdened multitude

Went up a joyous yell,

It rumbled in the mountain tops,

It rattled in the dell;

It struck upon the hillside

And rebounded on the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey,

Was

advancing

to the

bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner

As he stepped into his place,

There was pride in Casey's bearing

And a smile on Casey's face;

And when, responding to the cheers,

He lightly doffed his hat, 

No stranger in the crowd could doubt

'Twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him

As he rubbed his hands with dirt,

Five thousand tongues applauded

When he wiped them on his shirt;

Then when the writhing pitcher

Ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye,

A sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere

Came hurtling through the air,

An' Casey stood a-watchin' it

In mighty grandeur there;

Close by the the sturdy batsman

The ball, unheeded, sped;

"That ain't my style!" said Casey;

"Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, 

There went a muffled roar

Like the beating of storm waves

On stern and distant shore;

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!"

Shouted someone on the stand;

And it's likely they'd have killed him

Had not Casey raised his hand.

With the smile of Christian Charity

Great Casey's visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult,

He made the game go on;

He signalled to the pitcher,

 And once more the spheroid flew,

But Casey still ignored it,

And the umpire said, "strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands,

And the echo answered "Fraud!"

But one scornful look from Casey

And the audience was awed;

They saw his face grow stern and cold,

They saw his muscles strain, 

And they knew that Casey

Wouldn't let the ball bgo by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lips,

His teeth are clenched in hate;

 He pounds with cruel vengeance

His bat upon the plate;

And now the pitcher holds the ball,

And now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered

By the force of Casey's blow

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land

The sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere

And somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere man are laughing

And somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville;

Mighty Casey has struck out.

All the World's a Stage--William Shakespere

All the world's a stage

And all the men and women merely players;

 They have their exits and their enterances;

and one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewing and puking in the nurse's arms;

Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like a snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

 Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

seeking the bubbble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lin'd

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well sav'd a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

--William Shakespere

The Pike-Edmund Blunden 1896-1974

IN CANADA

From shadows of rich oaks outpeer

The moss-green bastions of the weir,

Where the quick dipper forages

In elver-peopled crevices.

And a small runlet trickling down the sluice

Gossamer music tires not to unloose.

Else round the broad pool's hush

Nothing stirs.

Unless sometime a straggling heifer crush

Through the thronged spinney where the pheasant

whirs;

Or martins in a flash

Come with wild mirth to dip their magical wings; 

While in the shallow some doomed bulrush swings

At whose hid root the diver vole's teeth gnash.

And nigh this toppling reed,still as the dead

The great pike lies, the muderous patriarch

Watching the waterpit shelving and dark,

Where through the plash his lithe bright vassals thread.

The rose-finned roach and bluish bream

And staring ruffe steal up the stream

Hard by their glutted tyrant now

Still as a sunken bough.

He on the sandbank lies,

Sunning himself long hours

With stony gorgon eyes: 

Westward the hot sun lowers.

Sudden the gray pike charges, and quivering 

poises for slaughter;

Intense terror wakens around him, the shoals scud

away, but there chances

A chub unsuspecting; the prowling fins quicken,

in fury he lances;

And the miller that opens the hatch stands amazed at 

the whirl in the water.

--Edmund Blunden

The Squirrel With a Rose-Sir Osbert Sitwell (1892-1962)

"Why do you climb the tree with a rose in your mouth,
When you might be down here with me, eating the grass?
How can you dream of the scented, the lilly-long lazy south,
When you might be collecting and numbering nuts in the north
For a winter that has no end?" asked the ass.

Said the squirrel, "My nuts are the stars:
Towards them I climb. You are clamped to the earth.
In a moment I'll pelt you with planets, with Mars
And with Venus,, till even you see
Why I wear a rose in my mouth!

Only a symbol, the rose in my mouth,"
Mocked the squirrel,
"My heart is a rose. I've a rose in my blood as well,
And the top of my tree, my ivory tower discloses
The whole of the world as valleys and mountains of roses."

"No! The world is a map made soley for ant and for ass.
For I roll, and thus from the feel of my fur, I can tell,"
Brayed the donkey. "We offer no flowers, only grass,
With blood, sweat, and tears; then a shroud,
And the cheers of the crowd."

"My heart is a rose," repeated the leaping squirrel,
"I've a rose in my blood as well!"
But the rose in his mouth was the blood
As he fell.
--Sir Osbert Sitwell

Sea-Gulls- E. J. Pratt (1883-1964)

For one carved instant as they flew,
The language had no simile--
Silver, crystal, ivory
Were tarnished. Etched upon the horizon blue,
The frieze must go unchallenged, for the lift
And carriage of the wings would stain the drift
Of stars against a tropic indigo
Or dull the parable of snow.
Now setting one by one
Within gree hollows or where curled
Crests caught the ppectrum from the sun,
A thousand wings furled.
No clay-born lilies of the world
Could blow as free As those wild orchids of the sea.
--E. J. Pratt

Praire-Carl Sandberg (1878-1967)

O Praire mother, I am one of your boys.
I have loved the prarie as a manwith a heart shot
full of pain over love.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as
one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire dobled
to a river moon of water.

I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yeasterday is a wind gone down,
a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
only an ocean of to-morrows,
a sky of to-morrows.

I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say
at sundown:
To-0morrow is a day.
--Carl Sandburg

Reluctance-Robert Frost (1875-1963)

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
 And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
to ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and tither;
The last lone star is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is  still aching to seek,
But the feet question "Wither?"

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,l
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
--Robert Frost

The way Home-Lawrence Binyon (1869-1943)

Many dreams I have dreamed

That are all now gone.

The world, mirrored in a dark pool,

How unearthly it shone!

But now I have comfort

From the things that are,

Nor shrink too ashamed from the self

That to self is bare.

More than soft clouds of leaf

I like the stark form

Of the tree standing up without mask

In stillness and storm,

Poverty in the grain,

Warp, gnarl, exposed,

Nothing of nature's fault or the years'

Slowly injury glozed.

From the thing that is

My comfot is come.

Wind washes the plain road:

This is the way home.

--Laurence Binyon.

Waiting Both-Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

A star looks down at me,
And says: "Here I and you
Stand, each in our degree;
What do you mean to do--
Mean to do?


I say: "For all I know,
Wait, and let Time go by,
Till my change come."--"Just so,"
The star says: "So mean I--
So mean I."
--Thomas Hardy

On His Seventy-Fith Birthday-Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)

I strove with none,--for none was worth my strife;

Nature I loved and next to Nature, Art.

I warmed both hands before the fire of life;

It sinks, and I am ready to depart

--Walter Savage Landor

The Peacock, the Turkey, and the Goose-John Gay (1685-1732) (1685-1732)

In beauty faults conspicuous grow,
The smallest speck is seen on snow.
As near a barn, by hunger led,
A Peacock with the poultry fed,
All viewed him with an envious eye,
And mocked his gaudy pageantry.
He, consdious of superior merit,
Contemns their base revioing spirit;
His state and dignity assumes,
And to the sun displays his plumes,
Which, like the Heavens'o'er-arching skies,
Are spangled with a thousand eyes.
The dirdling rays, and varied light,
At once confound their dazzled sight;
An every tongue detraction burns,
And malace prompts their spleen by turns

"Mark with what insolence and pride
The creature takes his haughty stride,"
The turkey cries. "Can spleen contain?
Sure never bird was half so vain!
But, were intrinsic merit seen,
We turkeys have the whiter skin."
From tongue to tongue they caught abuse;
And next was heard the hissing Goose:

"What hideous legs! What filthy claws!
I scorn to censure little flaws.
Then what a horrid squalling throat!
Ev'n owls are frightened at the note,"
"True. Those are faults, the Peacock cries;
"My scream, my shanks, you may despise;p
But such blind critics rail in vain.
What! Overlook my radiant train!Know, did my legs (your scorn and sport)
The Turkey or the Goose support,
And did ye scream a harsher sound,
Those faults in you had ne'er been found,.
To all apparent beauties blind,
Each blemish strikes an envious mind."
Thus in assemblies have I seen
A nymph of brightest charm and mien
Wake envy in each ugly face,
And buzzing scandal fills the place
--John Gay

My Mind to Me a Kingdom is-Sir Edward Dyer (1550-1607)

My mind to me a kingdom is,
Such present joys therin I find,
That it excells all other bliss
That earth affords or grows by kind:
Though much I want which most would have:
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely pomp, no wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,
No shape to feed a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall,
For why? my mind doth serve  for all.

I see how plenty suffers oft,
And hasty climbers soon to fall'
I see that those which are aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all;
I get with toil, they keep with fear:
Such cares my mind could never bear.

Content  I live, this is my stay;
I  seek no more than may suffice;
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look, what I lack my mind supplies;
Lo! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.

Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more:
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store;
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss;
I grudge not at another's gain;
No wordly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain:
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will;
Their treasure is their only trust.
A cloaked craft their store of skill:
But all the pleasure that I find
Is to maintain a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease;
My conscience clear my choice defence;
I neither seek by bribes to please,
Nor by deceit to breed offence:
Thus do I live; thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I!
--Sir Edward Dyer - 1550?-1607 

The Barn-Edmund Blunden (1896-1974)

Rain-sunken roof, grown green and thin
For  sparrows' nests and starlings' nests;
Dishevelled eaves; unwieldy doors,
Cracked rusty pump, and oaken floors,
And idly-pencilled names and jests
Upon the posts within.

The light pales at the spider's lust,
The wind tangs through the shattered pane:
An empty hop-poke spreads across
The gaping frame to mend the loss
And keeps out sun as well as rain,
Mildewed with clammy dust.

The smell of apples stored in hay
And homely cattle-cake is there.
Use and disuse have come to terms,
The walls are hollowed out by worms,
But men's feet keep the mid-floor bare
And free from worse decay.

All mery noise of hens astir
Or sparrows squabbling on the roof
Comes to the baarn's broad open door;
You hear upon the barn's broad open door;
You hear upon the staable floor
Old hungry Dapple strike his hoof,
And the blue fan-tails whir.

The baarn is old, and very old,
But not a place of spectral fear.
Cobwebs and dust and speckling sun
Come to old buildings every one.
Long since they made their dwelling here,
And here you may behold

Nothing but simple wane and change;
Your tread will wake no ghost, your voice
Will fall in silence undeterred.
No phantom wailing will be heard,
 Only the faarm's blithe cheerful noise;
The barn is old, not strange.
--Edmund Blunden

The Burning of the Leaves-Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)

Now is the time for the burning of the leaves.
They go to the fire; the nostril pricks with smoke
Wandering slowly into the weeping mist.
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves!
A flame seizes the smoldering ruin and bites
On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist.

The last hollyhock's fallen tower is dust:
All the spices of June are a bitter reek,
All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! the reddest rose is a ghost.
Sparks whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild
Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.

Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare,
Time for burning of days ended and done,
Idle solace of things that have gone before.
Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there:
Let them go to the fire with never a look behind.
The world that was ours is a world that is ours
 no more.

They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise.
From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour,
And magical scents to a wondering memory bring;
The same glory, to shine upon different eyes.
Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.
 Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.
--Laurence Binyon

The Native-Sir Charles G. D. Roberts (1860-1943)

Rocks, I am one with you
Sea, I am yours.
Your rages come and go,
Your strength endures.

Passion may burn and fade;
Pain surge and cease.
My still soul rests unchanged
Through storm and peace.

Fir-tree beaten by wind,
Sombre, austere,
Your sap is in my veins
O kinsmen dear,

Your fibres rude and true
My sinews feed--
Sprung of the same bleak earth,
The same rough seed.

The tempest harries us.
I raves and dies'
And wild limbs rest again
Under wide skies.

Grass, that the salt hath scourged,
Dauntless and grey,
Through the harsh season chide
your scant array,

Year by year you return
To conquer fate,
the clean life nourishing you
Makes me, too, great.

O rocks, O fir-tree brave,
O grass and sea!
Your strength is mine, and you
Endure with me

Loveliest of Trees-A.E.Housman (1859-1936)

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more,

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
--A. E. Housman

To My Grandmother-Fredrick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895)

This poem may well have been written about my own Maternal Grandmother

This relative of mine
Was ninety and nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen
As a bride.

Beneath a summer tree
As she sits, her reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste,--
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!

In bridal coronet,
Lace, ribbons, and coquette
Falbala;
Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!

Her lips are sweet as love,--
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?--
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, Come."

What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Sweet deity in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?

That good-for nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.

Her locks (as white as Snow)
Once shamed the swarthy crow;
By and by
That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cloven foot for spite
In her eye.

Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:--
Well I wot,
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit--
Would she not?

Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropped away
One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was "Thy
Will be done."

I travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,--
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
Are at rest.

I'm fain to meet you there,--
If as witching as you were,
Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
Thatthe better it must please
Grandpapa.

Young and Old-Charles Kingsley (1819-1875)

When all the world is young , lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan lad,
And every lass a queen;
Ten hey for loot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have it's course, lad,
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale , lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when all was young.
--Charles Kingsley