Poems for Ken

I posted these poems to Ken on Monday morning, following a discussion we had during the hols.

The Pity of it by Thomas Hardy

I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar 

From rail-track and from highway, and I heard 

In field and farmstead many an ancient word 

Of local lineage like 'Thu bist,' 'Er war,' 

'Ich woll', 'Er sholl', and by-talk similar, 

Nigh as they speak who in this month's moon gird 

At England's very loins, thereunto spurred 

By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are. 

Then seemed a Heart crying: 'Whosoever they be 

At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame 

Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we, 

'Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame; 

May their familiars grow to shun their name, 

And their brood perish everlastingly.'

      DRUMMER HODGE

        Thomas Hardy

They throw in Drummer Hodge to rest

Uncoffined -- just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around:
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.

Young Hodge the drummer never knew --
Fresh from his Wessex home --
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.

Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally. 

Embarkation (Southampton Docks: October, 1899)

By Thomas Hardy

6/2/1840-1/11/1928

---

Here, where Vespasian's legions struck the sands, 
And Cerdic with his Saxons entered in, 
And Henry's army leapt afloat to win 
Convincing triumphs over neighbour lands, 

Vaster battalions press for further strands, 
To argue in the self-same bloody mode 
Which this late age of thought, and pact, and code, 
Still fails to mend.--Now deckward tramp the bands, 
Yellow as autumn leaves, alive as spring; 
And as each host draws out upon the sea 
Beyond which lies the tragical To-be, 
None dubious of the cause, none murmuring, 

Wives, sisters, parents, wave white hands and smile, 
As if they knew not that they weep the while. 

Thomas Hardy did not believe in God, but he seemed to perceive clearly the destructive hand of the one the Bible calls "the god of this system of things" - Satan the devil - at work.   When Jehovah wakes the poet from the dreamless sleep of death, as I hope He will, Thomas Hardy will open his eyes in such a different earth - an earth truly at peace. 

Monday was a bit of a Post Office day.  I posted the mail collected from my climb on Paperwork Mountain: 1 Butterfly Membership; 1 "Waiting for Gordo" to my Aussie fb friend David; a thank you card to Julia (for her lovely pressies); and 2 magazines and letters to two of my route calls who I have not seen for months.  I also bought and wrote out a card to the Chinese Branch of the family who have just relocated and become the Belgian Branch.  That one awaits my next trip to the Post Office.

Tuesday Jean and I did first call work - and had some good calls, including a return visit to a lady I met while we were walking past her garden.  She says we may call again.    Wednesday, Jean and I visited Maggie, and got such a warm welcome though she has so few words left now.  And Thursday I did return visits with another sister.  We didn't find many at home, but at least we tried.

Today, Friday, is a shopping and cooking day, as tomorrow will be busy - new arrangement at the Kingdom Hall - and Jackie is coming for supper.