Стихи и эссе

Who is Who?

A shilling life will give you all the facts:
How Father beat him, how he ran away,
What were the struggles of his youth, what acts
Made him the greatest figure of his day

Of how he fought, fished, hunted, worked all night,
Though giddy, climbed new mountains; named a sea:
Some of the last researchers even write
Love made him weep his pints like you and me.

With all his honours on, he sighed for one,
Who, say astonished critics, lived at home;
Did little jobs about the house with skill
And nothing else; could whistle; would sit still
Or potter round the garden; answered some
Of his long marvelous letters but kept none

The Ship

All streets are brightly lit; our city is kept clean;
Her Third-Class deal from greasy packs, her First bid high;
Her beggars banished to the bows have never seen
What can be done in state-rooms: no one asks why.

Lovers are writing latters, athletes playing ball,
One doubts the virtue, one the beauty of his wife,
A boy's ambitious: perhaps the Captain hates us all;
Someone perhaps is leading a civilised life.

Slowly our Western culture in full pomp progresses
Over the barren plains of the sea;  somewhere ahead
A septic East, odd fowl and flowers, odder dresses:

Somewhere a strange and shrewd To-morrow goes to bed,
Planning a test for men from Europe; no one guesses
Who will be most ashamed, who richer, and who dead.

'O, Tell Me The Truth About Love'

Some say that love 's a little boy,
    And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
    And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
    Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
    And said it wouldn't do.

        Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
           Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
        Does its odour remind one of llamas,
           Or has it a comforting smell?
        Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
           Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
        Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
           O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
    In cryptic little notes.
It's quite a common topic on
    The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
    Account of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
    The back of railway-guides.

    Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
    Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
    On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is it's singing at parties a riot?
    Does it only like classical stuff?