S18E6: "A Prayer for My Daughter" by William Butler Yeats

Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "A Prayer for My Daughter" by William Butler Yeats. Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:25. To learn more about this podcast and host Thomas Banks, visit https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/. A Prayer for My Daughter by William Butler Yeats Once more the storm is howling, and half hid    Under this cradle-hood and coverlid    My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle    But Gregory's Wood and one bare hill    Whereby the haystack and roof-levelling wind,    Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;    And for an hour I have walked and prayed    Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.   I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour, And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower, And under the arches of the bridge, and scream In the elms above the flooded stream; Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come    Dancing to a frenzied drum    Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.   May she be granted beauty, and yet not    Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,    Or hers before a looking-glass; for such,    Being made beautiful overmuch,    Consider beauty a sufficient end,    Lose natural kindness, and maybe    The heart-revealing intimacy    That chooses right, and never find a friend.   Helen, being chosen, found life flat and dull,    And later had much trouble from a fool;    While that great Queen that rose out of the spray,    Being fatherless, could have her way,    Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man.    It's certain that fine women eat    A crazy salad with their meat    Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.   In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;    Hearts are not had as a gift, but hearts are earned    By those that are not entirely beautiful.    Yet many, that have played the fool For beauty's very self, has charm made wise;    And many a poor man that has roved,    Loved and thought himself beloved,    From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.   May she become a flourishing hidden tree,    That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,    And have no business but dispensing round    Their magnanimities of sound;    Nor but in merriment begin a chase,    Nor but in merriment a quarrel.    Oh, may she live like some green laurel    Rooted in one dear perpetual place.   My mind, because the minds that I have loved,    The sort of beauty that I have approved,    Prosper but little, has dried up of late,    Yet knows that to be choked with hate    May well be of all evil chances chief.    If there's no hatred in a mind    Assault and battery of the wind    Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.   An intellectual hatred is the worst,    So let her think opinions are accursed.    Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn,    Because of her opinionated mind    Barter that horn and every good    By quiet natures understood    For an old bellows full of angry wind?   Considering that, all hatred driven hence,    The soul recovers radical innocence    And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,    And that its own sweet will is heaven's will,    She can, though every face should scowl    And every windy quarter howl    Or every bellows burst, be happy still.   And may her bridegroom bring her to a house    Where all's accustomed, ceremonious;    For arrogance and hatred are the wares    Peddled in the thoroughfares.    How but in custom and in ceremony    Are innocence and beauty born?    Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,    And custom for the spreading laurel tree.

Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "To My Brothers" by John Keats. Poem reading begins at timestamp 7:36. To My Brothers by John Keats Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,     And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep     Like whispers of the household gods that keep A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,     Your eyes are fix d, as in poetic sleep,     Upon the lore so voluble and deep, That aye at fall of night our care condoles. This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice     That thus it passes smoothly, quietly. Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise     May we together pass, and calmly try What are this world s true joys, ere the great voice,     From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.

Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "Satire 6, Book 1" by Horace translated by John Conington. Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:13. Satire 6, from Book 1  Non quia, Mæcenas. by Horace, trans. John Conington THAT if, Mæcenas, none, though ne'er so blue His Tusco-Lydian blood, surpasses you? What if your grandfathers, on either hand, Father's and mother's, were in high command? Not therefore do you curl the lip of scorn At nobodies, like me, of freedman born: Far other rule is yours, of rank or birth To raise no question, so there be but worth, Convinced, and truly too, that wights unknown, Ere Servius' rise set freedmen on the throne, Despite their ancestors, not seldom came To high employment, honours, and fair fame, While great Lævinus, scion of the race That pulled down Tarquin from his pride of place, Has ne'er been valued at a poor half-crown E'en in the eyes of that wise judge, the town, That muddy source of dignity, which sees No virtue but in busts and lineal trees. Well, but for us; what thoughts should ours be, say, Removed from vulgar judgments miles away? Grant that Lævinus yet would be preferred To low-born Decius by the common herd, That censor Appius, just because I came From freedman's loins, would obelize my name— And serve me right; for 'twas my restless pride Kept me from sleeping in my own poor hide. But Glory, like a conqueror, drags behind Her glittering car the souls of all mankind; Nor less the lowly than the noble feels The onward roll of those victorious wheels. Come, tell me, Tillius, have you cause to thank The stars that gave you power, restored you rank? Ill-will, scarce audible in low estate, Gives tongue, and opens loudly, now you're great. Poor fools! they take the stripe, draw on the shoe, And hear folks asking, "Who's that fellow? who?" Just as a man with Barrus's disease, His one sole care a lady's eye to please, Whene'er he walks abroad, sets on the fair To con him over, leg, face, teeth, and hair; So he that undertakes to hold in charge Town, country, temples, all the realm at large, Gives all the world a title to enquire The antecedents of his dam or sire. "What? you to twist men's necks or scourge them, you, The son of Syrus, Dama, none knows who?" "Aye, but I sit before my colleague; he Ranks with my worthy father, not with me." And think you, on the strength of this, to rise A Paullus or Messala in our eyes? Talk of your colleague! he's a man of parts: Suppose three funerals jostle with ten carts All in the forum, still you'll hear his voice Through horn and clarion: that commends our choice. Now on myself, the freedman's son, I touch, The freedman's son, by all contemned as such, Once, when a legion followed my command, Now, when Maecenas takes me by the hand. But this and that are different: some stern judge My military rank with cause might grudge, But not your friendship, studious as you've been To choose good men, not pushing, base, or mean. In truth, to luck I care not to pretend, For 'twas not luck that mark'd me for your friend: Virgil at first, that faithful heart and true, And Varius after, named my name to you. Brought to your presence, stammeringly I told (For modesty forbade me to be bold) No vaunting tale of ancestry of pride, Of good broad acres and sleek nags to ride, But simple truth: a few brief words you say, As is your wont, and wish me a good day. Then, nine months after, graciously you send, Desire my company, and hail me friend. O, 'tis no common fortune, when one earns A friend's regard, who man from man discerns, Not by mere accident of lofty birth But by unsullied life, and inborn worth! Yet, if my nature, otherwise correct, But with some few and trifling faults is flecked, Just as a spot or mole might be to blame Upon some body else of comely frame, If none can call me miserly and mean Or tax my life with practices unclean, If I have lived unstained and unreproved (Forgive self-praise), if loving and beloved, I owe it to my father, who, though poor, Passed by the village school at his own door, The school where great tall urchins in a row, Sons of great tall centurions, used to go, With slate and satchel on their backs, to pay Their monthly quota punctual to the day, And took his boy to Rome, to learn the arts Which knight or senator to HIS imparts. Whoe'er had seen me, neat and more than neat, With slaves behind me, in the crowded street, Had surely thought a fortune fair and large, Two generations old, sustained the charge. Himself the true tried guardian of his son, Whene'er I went to class, he still made one. Why lengthen out the tale? he kept me chaste, Which is the crown of virtue, undisgraced In deed and name: he feared not lest one day The world should talk of money thrown away, If after all I plied some trade for hire, Like him, a tax-collector, or a crier: Nor had I murmured: as it is, the score Of gratitude and praise is all the more. No: while my head's unturned, I ne'er shall need To blush for that dear father, or to plead As men oft plead, 'tis Nature's fault, not mine, I came not of a better, worthier line. Not thus I speak, not thus I feel: the plea Might serve another, but 'twere base in me. Should Fate this moment bid me to go back O'er all my length of years, my life retrack To its first hour, and pick out such descent As man might wish for e'en to pride's content, I should rest satisfied with mine, nor choose New parents, decked with senatorial shoes, Mad, most would think me, sane, as you'll allow, To waive a load ne'er thrust on me till now. More gear 'twould make me get without delay, More bows there'd be to make, more calls to pay, A friend or two must still be at my side, That all alone I might not drive or ride, More nags would want their corn, more grooms their meat, And waggons must be bought, to save their feet. Now on my bobtailed mule I jog at ease, As far as e'en Tarentum, if I please, A wallet for my things behind me tied, Which galls his crupper, as I gall his side, And no one rates my meanness, as they rate Yours, noble Tillius, when you ride in state On the Tiburtine road, five slaves en suite, Wineholder and et-ceteras all complete. 'Tis thus my life is happier, man of pride, Than yours and that of half the world beside. When the whim leads, I saunter forth alone, Ask how are herbs, and what is flour a stone, Lounge through the Circus with its crowd of liars, Or in the Forum, when the sun retires, Talk to a soothsayer, then go home to seek My frugal meal of fritter, vetch, and leek: Three youngsters serve the food: a slab of white Contains two cups, one ladle, clean and bright: Next, a cheap basin ranges on the shelf, With jug and saucer of Campanian delf: Then off to bed, where I can close my eyes Not thinking how with morning I must rise And face grim Marsyas, who is known to swear Young Novius' looks are what he cannot bear. I lie a-bed till ten: then stroll a bit, Or read or write, if in a silent fit, And rub myself with oil, not taken whence Natta takes his, at some poor lamp's expense. So to the field and ball; but when the sun Bids me go bathe, the field and ball I shun: Then eat a temperate luncheon, just to stay A sinking stomach till the close of day, Kill time in-doors, and so forth. Here you see A careless life, from stir and striving free, Happier (O be that flattering unction mine!) Than if three quæstors figured in my line.

Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "To My Mother" by Robert Louis Stevenson. Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:17. To My Mother by Robert Louis Stevenson You too, my mother, read my rhymes For love of unforgotten times, And you may chance to hear once more The little feet along the floor.

Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "Forefathers" by Edmund Blunden. Poem reading begins at timestamp . Forefathers by Edmund Blunden Here they went with smock and crook, Toiled in the sun, lolled in the shade, Here they mudded out the brook And here their hatchet cleared the glade: Harvest-supper woke their wit, Huntsmen's moon their wooings lit. From this church they led their brides, From this church themselves were led Shoulder-high; on these waysides Sat to take their beer and bread. Names are gone - what men they were These their cottages declare. Names are vanished, save the few In the old brown Bible scrawled; These were men of pith and thew, Whom the city never called; Scarce could read or hold a quill, Built the barn, the forge, the mill. On the green they watched their sons Playing till too dark to see, As their fathers watched them once, As my father once watched me; While the bat and beetle flew On the warm air webbed with dew. Unrecorded, unrenowned, Men from whom my ways begin, Here I know you by your ground But I know you not within - There is silence, there survives Not a moment of your lives. Like the bee that now is blown Honey-heavy on my hand, From his toppling tansy-throne In the green tempestuous land - I'm in clover now, nor know Who made honey long ago.

During this season, we thought it appropriate to offer our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "My Sister's Sleep" by Dante Rosetti. Poem reading begins at timestamp 4:13. My Sister's Sleep by Dante Rosetti She fell asleep on Christmas Eve: At length the long-ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweigh'd The pain nought else might yet relieve.   Our mother, who had lean'd all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then rais'd herself for the first time, And as she sat her down, did pray.   Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed.   Without, there was a cold moon up, Of winter radiance sheer and thin; The hollow halo it was in Was like an icy crystal cup.   Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And redden'd. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round.   I had been sitting up some nights, And my tired mind felt weak and blank; Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights.   Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years Heard in each hour, crept off; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs.   Our mother rose from where she sat: Her needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled: no other noise than that.   "Glory unto the Newly Born!" So, as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas Day, Though it would still be long till morn.   Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some who had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose.   With anxious softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead—should they Have broken her long watch'd-for rest!   She stoop'd an instant, calm, and turn'd; But suddenly turn'd back again; And all her features seem'd in pain With woe, and her eyes gaz'd and yearn'd.   For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word: There was none spoken; but I heard The silence for a little space.   Our mother bow'd herself and wept: And both my arms fell, and I said, "God knows I knew that she was dead." And there, all white, my sister slept.   Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock We said, ere the first quarter struck, "Christ's blessing on the newly born!"

Welcome the final poem in Season 17 of the Well Read Poem! This season's theme is "When Homer Nods: Bad Poetry by Good Poets." Until this season, our readings on The Well Read Poem have nearly all been drawn from the well of the great, or at least the good, waters of poetry, which would of course take a lifetime and more to exhaust. And so it has been deemed appropriate at summer's close, as we return to school and the daily round, that we should partake slightly of a few select vintages of bad poetry by otherwise accomplished poets for the sake of variety and the amusement of all. Today's selection is "The Dissolution of the Monasteries" by William Wordsworth. Poem readings begin at timestamps 4:40 and 8:32.  To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit https://houseofhumaneletters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to https://www.theliterary.life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our poetry page at https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/.

Welcome back to Season 17 of the Well Read Poem! This season's theme is "When Homer Nods: Bad Poetry by Good Poets." Until this season, our readings on The Well Read Poem have nearly all been drawn from the well of the great, or at least the good, waters of poetry, which would of course take a lifetime and more to exhaust. And so it has been deemed appropriate at summer's close, as we return to school and the daily round, that we should partake slightly of a few select vintages of bad poetry by otherwise accomplished poets for the sake of variety and the amusement of all. Today's selection is "Poem of a Proposition of Nakedness" by Walt Whitman. Poem reading begins at timestamp 2:51.  To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit https://houseofhumaneletters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to https://www.theliterary.life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our poetry page at https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/.

Welcome back to Season 17 of the Well Read Poem! This season's theme is "When Homer Nods: Bad Poetry by Good Poets." Until this season, our readings on The Well Read Poem have nearly all been drawn from the well of the great, or at least the good, waters of poetry, which would of course take a lifetime and more to exhaust. And so it has been deemed appropriate at summer's close, as we return to school and the daily round, that we should partake slightly of a few select vintages of bad poetry by otherwise accomplished poets for the sake of variety and the amusement of all. Today's selection is "To a Republican Friend" by Matthew Arnold. Poem readings begin at timestamps 5:27 and 9:52.  To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit https://houseofhumaneletters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to https://www.theliterary.life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our poetry page at https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/.

Welcome back to Season 17 of the Well Read Poem! This season's theme is "When Homer Nods: Bad Poetry by Good Poets." Until this season, our readings on The Well Read Poem have nearly all been drawn from the well of the great, or at least the good, waters of poetry, which would of course take a lifetime and more to exhaust. And so it has been deemed appropriate at summer's close, as we return to school and the daily round, that we should partake slightly of a few select vintages of bad poetry by otherwise accomplished poets for the sake of variety and the amusement of all. Today's selection is "Sonnet 11: On the Desecration Which Followed My Writing Certain Treatises" by John Milton. Poem readings begin at timestamps .  To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit https://houseofhumaneletters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to https://www.theliterary.life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our poetry page at https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/.