The Well Read Poem

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The Chimney Sweeper" by William Blake; poem begins at timestamp 5:53. The Chimney Sweeper: A Little Black Thing Among the Snow by William Blake A little black thing among the snow, Crying "weep! 'weep!" in notes of woe! "Where are thy father and mother? say?" "They are both gone up to the church to pray. Because I was happy upon the heath, And smil'd among the winter's snow, They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe. And because I am happy and dance and sing, They think they have done me no injury, And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King, Who make up a heaven of our misery."

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "Surgeons must be very careful" by Emily Dickinson; poem begins at timestamp 6:28. Surgeons must be very careful by Emily Dickinson Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit - Life!

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The Song of the Shirt" by Thomas Hood; poem begins at timestamp 4:25. The Song of the Shirt by Thomas Hood With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with the voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" "Work! Work! Work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work—work—work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's O! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save If this is Christian work! "Work—work—work Till the brain begins to swim, Work—work—work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! "O, Men with Sisters dear! O, Men! with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch—stitch—stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. "But why do I talk of Death! That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own— It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! "Work—work—work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread—and rags. That shatter'd roof,—and this naked floor— A table—a broken chair— And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! "Work—work—work! From weary chime to chime, Work—work—work— As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. "Work—work—work, In the dull December light, And work—work—work, When the weather is warm and bright— While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. "O, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet!— With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal! "O, but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread! "Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Work, work, work, Like the Engine that works by Steam! A mere machine of iron and wood That toils for Mammon's sake— Without a brain to ponder and craze Or a heart to feel—and break!" —With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,— Would that its tone could reach the Rich!— She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are going to read six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "Men Who March Away" by Thomas Hardy; poem begins at timestamp 3:07. Men Who March Away by Thomas Hardy What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away? Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye, Who watch us stepping by With doubt and dolorous sigh? Can much pondering so hoodwink you! Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye? Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see— Dalliers as they be— England's need are we; Her distress would leave us rueing: Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see! In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just, And that braggarts must Surely bite the dust, Press we to the field ungrieving, In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just. Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away.

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are going to read six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "Fanfare for the Makers" by Louis MacNeice; poem begins at timestamp 5:02. Fanfare for the Makers by Louis MacNeice A cloud of witnesses. To whom? To what? To the small fire that never leaves the sky. To the great fire that boils the daily pot. To all the things we are not remembered by, Which we remember and bless. To all the things That will not notice when we die, Yet lend the passing moment words and wings. So fanfare for the Makers: who compose A book of words or deeds who runs may write As many who do run, as a family grows At times like sunflowers turning towards the light. As sometimes in the blackout and the raids One joke composed an island in the night. As sometimes one man's kindness pervades A room or house or village, as sometimes Merely to tighten screws or sharpen blades Can catch a meaning, as to hear the chimes At midnight means to share them, as one man In old age plants an avenue of limes And before they bloom can smell them, before they span The road can walk beneath the perfected arch, The merest green print when the lives began Of those who walk there with him, as in default Of coffee men grind acorns, as in despite Of all assaults conscripts counter assault, As mothers sit up late night after night Moulding a life, as miners day by day Descend blind shafts, as a boy may flaunt his kite In an empty nonchalant sky, as anglers play Their fish, as workers work and can take pride In spending sweat before they draw their pay. As horsemen fashion horses while they ride, As climbers climb a peak because it is there, As life can be confirmed even in suicide: To make is such. Let us make. And set the weather fair.

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Loveliest of Trees" by A. E. Houseman; poem begins at timestamp 6:10. Loveliest of Trees by A. E. Houseman Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost; poem begins at timestamp 7:34. Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "To Autumn" by John Keats; poem begins at timestamp 2:34. To Autumn by John Keats Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is Robert Louis Stevenson's "Bed in Summer"; poem begins at timestamp 5:55. Bed in Summer by Robert Louis Stevenson In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me in the street. And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Sumer is i-cumin in" by an anonymous Englishman of the Middle Ages; poem begins at timestamp 1:34. Sumer is i-cumin in by Anonymous Sumer is i-cumin in— Lhude sing, cuccu! Groweth sed and bloweth med And springth the wude nu. Sing, cuccu! Awe bleteth after lomb, Lhouth after calve cu, Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth— Murie sing, cuccu! Cuccu, cuccu, Wel singes thu, cuccu. Ne swik thu naver nu! Sing, cuccu, nu. Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu, nu.