There was a young lady named Bell
Who lived in a deep old well.
When people asked “is it wet?”
She replied “you bet
But I like it very well!”.
—
There was a young man named Barry
Who did 2 ladies marry.
He wed them at the same time
But as their names failed to rhyme
He was jailed by a judge named Larry!
There was a young man named Zeff
Who picked a quarrel with death.
He refused to die
(I can’t think why),
Which led to a row with death!
Were I to walk barefoot
In these leaves
On this cold
Sunny day,
People would say
“He is mad”.
Yet I should be glad
To be free
As the windblown tree
If a cat desires cream
And to attain her dream
Puts her paw
In the candle’s flame,
Who is to blame?
If, desiring more
(But not the flame)
She does the same
Over and over again
Who then is to blame?
The mouse offers cream
To attain his dream
Of a sleek black queen.
Is he then to blame
When she puts her paw
In the Candle’s flame?
In this rhyme bleak
You may your own answer seek
There was a young lady named Rose
Who went walking without any clothes.
A policeman named Michael
Said “it is vital
That you cover your fingers and toes!”.
There was a young kitten named Mitten
Who was by a mouse smitten.
Said Mitten to the mouse
“Come and live in my house”.
Replied the mouse
“No, I am by no means smitten!”.
Shall I make
Something profound
Of an orange on the ground
And a girl who did take
The time to assist
Me when my rucksack spilled?
I shall resist
The temptation to embroider the fact
Of a kind act.
After all, it was nothing profound.
Just an orange on the ground
And a wiff of scent
That did with me stay
When a girl and her man
Went their way.
The sigh that heaves the grasses
Whence thou wilt never rise
Is of the air that passes
And knows not if it sighs.
The diamond tears adorning
Thy low mound on the lea,
Those are the tears of morning,
That weeps, but not for thee.
—
I like the unsentimental nature of this poem. As with much of Housman’s verse, there is no sentimentality here. Some poets attribute human qualaties to the natural world. Not so Housman. In “The Sigh That Heaves The Grasses”, the forces of nature: (the air and the dew), have no awareness of themselves, nor of the dead who sleeps in the “low mound on the lea” The morning dew resembles human tears shed for the dead, but it is not (and can not) be so, for the dew is not human.
Tomorrow I shall be forty-nine.
There will be wine
No doubt
And I shall go about
With a smile, for I am not fifty yet.
But you can safely bet
That when I reach that half-century stage
I shall conveniently forget
(For memory fails with age),
And on 6 January twenty-nineteen say
“I am 49 today!”.
There was a young lady named Spink
Who composed a letter using invisible ink.
Her correspondent (who was named Black)
Wrote “I regret that I lack
The means to know what you think!”.
K Morris - Poet 