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54. On the death of that most excellent lady © 1 December 2017 |
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(The form chosen for this week is the cento. The lines "stolen" (and sometimes with a word or punctuation changed) are the poets: W.B. Yeats, Robbie Burns, Thomas Hardy, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, T.S. Eliot, William Shakespeare, and William Blake.) |
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Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That’s all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die. Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in my breastie! She loves not me, And love alone can lend her loyalty; My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird. I do not think that she will sing to me. Come, come thou bleak December wind, And blow the dry leaves from the tree! When I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. And in the morning glad I see My love outstretched beneath the tree. |