painting by: John Singer Sargent, August 1885
Still I Love to Rhyme
by Robert Louis Stevenson
Still I love to rhyme, and still more, rhyming, to wander
Far from the commoner way;
Old-time trills and falls by the brook-side still do I ponder,
Dreaming to-morrow to-day.
Come here, come, revive me, Sun-God, teach me, Apollo,
Measures descanted before;
Since I ancient verses, I emulous follow,
Prints in the marbles of yore.
Still strange, strange, they sound in old-young raiment invested,
Songs for the brain to forget -
Young song-birds elate to grave old temples benested
Piping and chirruping yet.
Thoughts? No thought has yet unskilled attempted to flutter
Trammelled so vilely in verse;
He who writes but aims at fame and his bread and his butter,
Won with a groan and a curse.
Posted on 8 May '09 by James, under Poems. No Comments.
In a state of curiousity I boarded a train from Saco, Maine to Boston, Massachusetts yesterday. I had made up my mind to purchase a one way ticket as I walked by the train station. I was out yesterday looking for a Mother’s Day present, of course the constant downpour and cold weather coming in hindered my efforts.
Outfitted with a camera, umbrella, kindle, school ID and check card I boarded the train and trekked towards Boston. I plan on talking about the Kindle in a later post, but that miracle reading device makes any traveling enjoyable. After two hours on board, I arrive at my final destination, North Station\TD Banknorth Garden in the North End of Boston. Armed now with a free Trolley tour map I descend upon the city on streets that appear to circle back on themselves.
With no plans or events to see I continue down roads and alleyways not with the psyche of an out of order wayfarer but that of a natural denizen. Boston is unlike the dozens of other cities I’ve been to. Soon enough I will have to make the decision where I’ll want to start my career and future. Therefore I always go by the roads not taken.
The Road not Taken
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
(1920)
Posted on 6 May '09 by James, under Poems. No Comments.
