Saturday, April 28, 2007

Poem 28

The Poplar Field

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no more and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew,
And now in the grass below they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat
Where the hazles afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charmed me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no mroe.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they
With a turf on my breat, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To must on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.

~William Cowper

Try reading this one aloud and listen for the flow of the words and the sound.

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