If, p.10
iF, page 10
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot;
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross’d themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, ‘She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.’
The Hat
CAROL ANN DUFFY
1955–
Duffy composed this poem using some of the most famous lines in English-language poetry, written by some of our most famous poets. We love this unusual, non-rhyming poem and how the hat journeys through time, passing from the old poets to the new. The way the lines cleverly run on from one to the next is called enjambment, which we explain on page 268.
I was on Chaucer’s head when he said He was a verray,
parfit gentil knyght, and tossed me into the air. I landed
on Thomas Wyatt’s hair as he thought They fle from me
that sometyme did me seek, then left me behind in an Inn.
Sir Philip Sidney strolled in, picked me up, saying
My true love hath my hart and I have his, then hoopla’d me
straight onto William Shakespeare’s head as he said
Tell me where is fancie bred, and passed me along
to John Donne, who was wearing me as he sang Go
and catch a falling star, but handed me on to one leaving
the bar, name of Herbert, George, who wore me up top
like a halo, murmured Love bade me welcome, yet my soul
drew back, then lay me dreamily down at the end of a pew
in a church. I was there for a while, dwelling on heaven
and hell, till Andrew Marvell arrived, said Had we
but World enough and Time, and filled me up to the brim
with blooms to give to a girl. She kept the flowers,
but handed me on to warm the crown of a balding chap,
named Milton, John, who sported me the day he happened
to say They also serve who only stand and wait,
then threw me over a gate. I fell in the path of Robert Herrick,
who scooped me up with a shout of Gather ye rosebuds
while ye may! and later gave me away to Dryden, John,
who tried me on for size, saying None but the brave
deserves the fair, then let me drop. I was soon picked up
by a bloke, Alexander Pope, who admitted the gen’ral rule
that every poet’s a fool with cheerful grace, then tilted me
over the face of Christopher Smart, who loved his cat, said
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they
are clean, and let the kitty kip in myself, The Hat. I was saved
from that by William Blake, who liked the extra inch or two
I gave to his height as he bawled out Tyger, Tyger, burning
bright in the forests of the night, then bartered me
for the price of a mutton pie to Robbie Burns, who stared
in the mirror, grunted O, wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
to see oursels as others see us! and threw me out
of the window. S. T. Coleridge passed, muttering Water,
water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink, and bore me
off to the Lakes to give as a gift to Wordsworth. Will
wore me to keep out the cold on a stroll when, all at once,
he said that he saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils,
and lobbed me high with delight! It was late at night
when Byron came, mad, bad, bit of a lad, insisting So,
we’ll go no more a roving, as he kicked me into a tree.
A breeze blew me gently down from my branch to flop
onto Shelley’s head as he said O, Wind, if Winter comes,
can Spring be far behind? But Keats sneaked up,
snatched me away wore me the night he claimed
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, and left me
snagged on a bush in the gathering dark of a park.
John Clare came along, shouted I am, yet what I am
none cares or knows, and jammed me down
on his puzzled brow as he made for the open road.
Then Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, thundered past on a horse
and yanked me off, yelled Into the Valley of Death
rode the six hundred! I flew from his head as he galloped
away, and settled on Browning’s crown as he said This
to you – my moon of poets, and got down on one knee
to present Little Me to Elizabeth Barrett. I liked it up there
snug on her shiny hair, as she cooed How do I love thee,
let me count the ways, but she handed me down
for Emily Brontë to wear on the moors as she wailed
Fifteen wild Decembers from those brown hills have melted
into Spring, then a blast of wind blew me to the edge of the sea
where Matthew Arnold wore me to keep off the spray
when he said Listen! You hear the grating roar of pebbles
which the waves draw back, and lobbed me over the foam
like a boy with a stone. I bobbed away like a boat,
till fished from the drink on t’other side of the pond
by Whitman Walt who wrung me dry and flung me high
as he bawled Behold, I do not give lectures or a little
charity, when I give I give myself, and sent me on with a kiss
to Emily Dickinson She popped me into a hat-box, along
with a note that read This is my letter to the world,
that never wrote to me, then posted me over land and sea
to Christina Rossetti, who used me to keep the blazing sun
from her face as she asked Does the road wind up-hill
all the way? The reply being yes, she considered it best
to hand me to Hopkins, Gerard Manley, whose head
I adorned as he warmly intoned Glory be to God
for dappled things, but I fell to the ground as he stared
at the sky. Thomas Hardy came sauntering by, spied me
and tried me, said I am the family face; flesh perishes,
I live on, and tossed me to one who stood on his own
by a tree – Housman, A. E. He sported me, saying Lads
in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair, but lost me,
while arm-wrestling there in a bar, to Kipling, Rudyard,
who fiddled with me the day he pronounced If you can meet
with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors
just the same, then carelessly left me behind in the back
of a cab. Next in was an Irish chap, W B. Yeats, who gave
the driver a tip, carried me off to wear at a tilt on his head
as he said Tread softly because you tread on my dreams,
so Charlotte Mew bore me away, murmured no year
has been like this that has just gone by, and started to cry.
A train sighed by. Edward Thomas leaned out, said
Yes, I remember Adlestrop, and lifted me up, but a cold wind
blew me Wilfred Owen’s way; he turned me sadly round
and around in his hands and asked What passing-bells
for these who die as cattle? then hurled me back
at the wind. I was seized as I flew by Ezra Pound,
who wore me out and about, saying Winter is
icummen in, Lhude sing Goddamn! then posted me
into the safety deposit box of the bank where T. S. Eliot
worked. April, he said, is the cruellest month, and used me
to keep off the rain, leaving me lying behind on a bench
when the sun came out. I was found by MacDiarmid, Hugh,
and was warming the egg of his head when he said I’ll ha’e
nae hauf-way hoose, but aye be whaur extremes meet –
then dropped me down at the feet of Lawrence, D. H.,
who picked me up and was modelling me as he mused
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself, then chucked me over
to Robert Graves. He pulled me low on his head and said
There’s a cool web of language winds us in, then began
to nod off. I was pinched from his brow by Riding, Laura,
who was trying me on as she thought The wind suffers
of blowing, the sea suffers of water, then squashed me
down onto Dylan Thomas’s curls. Do not, he said,
go gentle into that good night, then sold me on
for the price of a pint to Louis MacNeice. He wore me
when he said World is crazier and more of it
than we think, then decided to give me to Auden, W. H.
He was delighted, wore me all night, said the desires
of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews, but left me
behind the next day in the loo. John Betjeman found me,
smoothed, dusted-down me, and popped me on
as he trilled Come, friendly bombs, then flopped me on
to the head of Philip Larkin, who cycled past, saying
Man hands on misery to man, then stopped at a church
and handed me on by the graves to Stevie Smith,
who wore me on holiday with her aunt, where she said
I was much further out than you thought, and not waving
but drowning. I was all at sea, till Elizabeth Bishop deftly
hooked me, said I caught a tremendous fish, and held him
beside the boat, then left me behind on an airport seat
for Robert Lowell to find and put on for the flight over
to England. He arrived and declared Everywhere,
giant finned cars nose forward like fish, and gave me
to Sylvia Plath. Dying, she said, is an art like everything else,
and left me to Hughes, Ted, man in black, who growled
with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox it enters the dark hole
of the head . . . but whose head, whose head, whose head,
whose head, whose head, whose will I settle on next?
The Raven
EDGAR ALLEN POE
1809–49
After falling asleep whilst reading a book, the young man who narrates this poem is woken up by a stranger tapping at his door. Already distressed by the loss of his love, he is gradually driven mad by the haunting visitor. With its strange story and echoing rhymes (‘more’, ‘door’ and ‘nevermore’), this poem might send a tingle up your spine, just like a ghost story. The word ‘Plutonian’ refers to Pluto, the Roman god of the underworld.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore –
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
‘’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
‘’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more.’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
‘Sir,’ said I, ‘or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, ‘Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning.
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; –
’Tis the wind and nothing more!’
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
‘Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, ‘art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as ‘Nevermore’.
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered, ‘Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, ‘Nevermore.’
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
‘Doubtless,’ said I, ‘what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never – nevermore”.’
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking ‘Nevermore.’
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
‘Wretch,’ I cried, ‘thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
‘Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked, upstarting –
‘Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
