The Belloc cycle is drawing to a close. If anyone wants to comment about other cycles, do so. XXXITI Of meadows drowsy with Trinacrian bees, Of shapes that moved a rising mist among — Persephone between the Cypress trees — Of lengthier shades along the woodland flung, Of calm upon the hardly whispering seas, Of … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet.
XXXI The world's a stage. The trifling entrance fee Is paid (by proxy) to the registrar. The Orchestra is very loud and free But plays no music in particular. They do not print a programme, that I know. The caste is large. There isn't any plot. The acting of the piece is far below The … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet
This one from Belloc is more like Kipling than Hopkins. But it is Sunday, the theme is death, and I don't merely want to put a satirical sonnet up. Spring and Fall to a young child Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet.
This was the sonnet that would have gone up on Christmas Eve. Which would have been wrong. XXVIII But oh t not Lovely Helen, nor the pride Of that most ancient Hium matched with doom. Men murdered Priam in his royal room And Troy was burned with fire and Hector died. For even Hector's dreadful … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet.
XXVII Are you the end, Despair, or the poor least Of them that cast great shadows and are lies T That dread the simple and destroy the wise, Fail at the tomb and triumph at the feast ? You were not found on Olivet, dull beast, Nor in Thebaid, when the night's agonies Dissolved to … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet
XXVI 0 my companion, 0 my sister Sleep, The valley is all before us, bear me on. High through the heaven of evening, hardly gone, Beyond the harbour lights, beyond the steep, Beyond the land and its lost benison To where, majestic on the darkening deep, The night comes forward from Mount Aurion. 0 my … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet
XXV It freezes : all across a soundless sky The birds go home. The governing dark's begun. The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun ; The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die. Death with his evil finger to his lip Leers in at human windows, turning spy To learn the country where … Continue reading Sunday Sonnett
XXIV Hoah Time about the House betakes him slow Seeking an entry for his weariness. And in that dreadful company distress And the sad night with silent footsteps go. On my poor fire the brands are scarce aglow And in the woods without what memories press Where, waning in the trees from less to less … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet
November is that historied Emperor Conquered in age but foot to foot with fate Who from his refuge high has heard the roar Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late, Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war, And arms the garrison of his last heirloom, And shakes the sky to its extremest … Continue reading Sunday Sonnett
Ironically, this is being published on Guy Fawkes' Day. Twenty one Almighty God, whose justice like a sun Shall coruscate along the floors of Heaven, Raising what's low, perfecting what's undone, Breaking the proud and making odd things even. The poor of Jesus Christ along the street In your rain sodden, in your snows unshod, … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet