She tells her love while half asleep [ ... ]
Half Way to Sleep
Song Cycle by Peter Charles Arthur Wishart (1921 - 1984)
?. She tells her love  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Text Authorship:
- by Robert Graves (1895 - 1985), "She tells her love while half asleep", appears in The Golden Fleece, first published 1944, copyright ©
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This text may be copyright, so we will not display it until we obtain permission to do so or discover it is public-domain.?. New legends
Language: English
Content in you
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Text Authorship:
- by Robert Graves (1895 - 1985), "New legends", from Collected Poems, first published 1938, copyright ©
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This text may be copyright, so we will not display it until we obtain permission to do so or discover it is public-domain.?. Henry and Mary
Language: English
Henry was a young king
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?. The bedpost  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Sleepy Betsy from her pillow Sees the post and ball Of her sister's wooden bedstead Shadowed on the wall. Now this grave young warrior standing With uncovered head Tells her stories of old battle As she lies in bed: How the Emperor and the Farmer Fighting knee to knee, Broke their swords but whirled their scabbards Till they gained the sea. How the ruler of that shore Foully broke his oath, Gave them beds in his sea cave, Then stabbed them both. How the daughters of the Emperor, Diving boldly through, Caught and killed their father's murderer, Old Cro-bar-cru. How the Farmer's sturdy sons Fought the Giant Gog, Threw him into Stony Cataract In the land of Og. Will and Abel were their names, Though they went by others: He could tell ten thousand stories Of these lusty brothers. How the Emperor's elder daughter Fell in love with Will And went with him to the Court of Venus Over Hoo Hill; How Gog's wife encountered Abel Whom she hated most, Stole away his arms and helmet, Turned him to a post. As a post he shall stay rooted For yet many years, Until a maiden shall release him With pitying tears. But Betsy likes the bloodier stories, Clang and clash of fight, And Abel wanes with the spent candle -- "Sweetheart, good-night!"
Text Authorship:
- by Robert Graves (1895 - 1985), "The bedpost"
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First published in London Mercury, September 1921Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
?. In procession  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
This piece was written a few weeks after the remainder of the book: I had no cold-blooded intention of summarizing the paradox of poetic Arrogance contained in the last section, but so it happened, and I print it here. Donne (for example's sake) Keats, Marlowe, Spenser, Blake, Shelley and Milton, Shakespeare and Chaucer, Skelton I love them as I know them, But who could dare outgo them At their several arts At their particular parts Of wisdom, power and knowledge? In the Poet's College Are no degrees nor stations, Comparisons, rivals, Stern examinations, Class declarations, Senior survivals; No creeds, religions, nations Combatant together With mutual damnations. Or tell me whether Shelley's hand could take The laurel wreath from Blake? Could Shakespeare make the less Chaucer's goodliness? The poets of old Each with his pen of gold Gloriously writing Found no need for fighting, In common being so rich; None need take the ditch, Unless this Chaucer beats That Chaucer, or this Keats With other Keats is flyting: See Donne deny Donne's feats, Shelley take Shelley down, Blake snatch at his own crown. Without comparison aiming high, Watching with no jealous eye, A neighbour's renown, Each in his time contended But with a mood late ended, Some manner now put by, Or force expended, Sinking a new well when the old ran dry. So, like my masters, I Voice my ambition loud, In prospect proud, Treading the poet's road, In retrospect most humble For I stumble and tumble, I spill my load. But often half-way to sleep, On a mountain shagged and steep, The sudden moment on me comes With terrible roll of dream drums, Reverberations, cymbals, horns replying, When with standards flying, A cloud of horsemen behind, The coloured pomps unwind The Carnival wagons With their saints and their dragons On the screen of my teeming mind, The Creation and Flood With our Saviour's Blood And fat Silenus' flagons, With every rare beast From the South and East, Both greatest and least, On and on, In endless variable procession. I stand on the top rungs Of a ladder reared in the air And I speak with strange tongues So the crowds murmur and stare, Then volleys again the blare Of horns, and Summer flowers Fly scattering in showers, Ami Ae Sun rolls in the sky, While the drums thumping by Proclaim me, . . . Oh then, when I wake Could I recovering take And propose on this page The words of my rage And my blandishing speech Steadfast and sage, Could I stretch and reach The flowers and the ripe fruit Laid out at the ladder's foot, Could I rip a silken shred From the banner tossed ahead, Could I call a double flam From the drums, could the Goat Horned with gold, could the Ram With a flank like a barn-door The dwarf and blackamoor, Could Jonah and the Whale And the Holy Grail With the "Sacking of Rome" And "Lot at his home" The Ape with his platter, Going clitter-clatter, The Nymphs and the Satyr, And every other such matter Come before me here Standing and speaking clear With a "how do ye do?" And "who are ye, who?" Could I show them to you That you saw them with me, Oh then, then I could be The Prince of all Poetry With never a peer, Seeing my way so clear To unveil mystery. Telling you of land and sea Of Heaven blithe and free, How I know there to be Such and such Castles built in Spain, Telling also of Cockaigne Of that glorious kingdom, Cand Of the Delectable Land, The Land of Crooked Stiles, The Fortunate Isles, Of the more than three score miles That to Babylon lead, A pretty city indeed Built on a foursquare plan, Of the land of the Gold Man Whose eager horses whinney In their cribs of gold, Of the lands of Whipperginny Of the land where none grow old. Especially I could tell Of the Town of Hell, A huddle of dirty woes And houses in endless rows Straggling across all space; Hell has no market place, Nor point where four ways meet, Nor principal street, Nor barracks, nor Town Hall, Nor shops at all, Nor rest for weary feet ? Nor theatre, square or park, Nor lights after dark Nor churches nor inns, Nor convenience for sins, Hell nowhere begins, Hell nowhere ends, But over the world extends Rambling, dreamy, limitless, hated well: The suburbs of itself, I say, is Hell But back to the sweets Of Spenser and Keats And the calm joy that greets The chosen of Apollo! Here let me mope, quirk, holloa With a gesture that meets The needs that I follow In my own fierce way, Let me be grave-gay Or merry-sad, Who rhyming here have had Marvellous hope of achievement And deeds of ample scope, Then deceiving and bereavement Of this same hope.
Text Authorship:
- by Robert Graves (1895 - 1985), "In procession", from On English Poetry, first published 1922
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]Total word count: 1025