Puslapio vaizdai




I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
It 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 robins built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum 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 wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then

That is so heavy now,

The summer pool could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high,
I used to think their slender spires
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from Heaven

Than when I was a boy.

-Thomas Hood.



you love it. Because every human being, at some

WHY read poetry? Because

time, in some form, under some conditions, feels and rejoices in the poetic impulse.

Why? Ask some mighty oracle, some omniscient authority. We are dealing with effects, not causes, with undying and worldwide facts.

Proof? of the simplest. The lyric love, the lyric voice, was born with humanity. It has persisted and proclaimed in all ages. Never a tribe, a race, a nation but has had its own special, individual poets and songs.

To pass to concrete examples, the child who cared nothing for Mother Goose rhymes would-should-be accorded immediate medical attention; the little girl who crooned not to her dolls, the little boy who never gave vent to more or less melodious notes and cries and calls would be unthinkable.


college youth, the man of affairs, punctuates his enthusiasms by rhythmic, frequently rhyming "yells" and "slogans," the old folk comfort lonely or stimulate dreamy age by recalling half-forgotten songs and ballads and chanteys. For yourself, good sir or madam

Which do you remember best and most easily, the prose proverb or the poetic admonition, the uncadenced "ad." or the cadenced appeal of the "Spotless Town" jingles and kindred? For specific illustration:

American cities, some years ago, were flooded by advertisements of a rubberized article whose virtues were acclaimed somewhat after this manner:

Washable, dryable,
Durable, pliable;

Pardon the English, but
Isn't it tryable?

Few now, perhaps, could give, offhand, the name or nature of the advertised commodity. All memory of the article advertised, all faintest recollection of its maker and character may have been swept from the casual mind

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