Favourite forever: D.H. Lawrence, Thomas Hood, Lord Byron


Piano
—–
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back , till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood rememberance, I weep like a child for the past.

D.H.Lawrence

I remember, I remember
——————–
I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away
I remember, I remember
The roses red and white;
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built;
And where my brother set
The laburnam on his birthday-
The tree is living yet!

I remember I remember,
Where I was used to swing;

And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wings;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heav’n
Then when I was a boy.

Thomas Hood

When we two parted
—————–
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever the years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder, thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk, chill on my brow,
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me…
Lord Byron (1788 – 1824)
thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well..
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

Lord Byron (1788 – 1824)