The Poet's Death


[Another of Carry's wonderful works]

The world is taking little heed
And plods from day to day:
The vulgar flourish like a weed,
The learned pass away.

We miss him on the summer path
The lonely summer day,
Where mowers cut the pleasant swath
And maidens make the hay.

The vulgar take but little heed;
The garden wants his care;
There lies the book he used to read,
There stands the empty chair.

The boat laid up, the voyage oer,
And passed the stormy wave,
The world is going as before,
The poet in his grave.
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3 comments:

Nomad said...

The phrasing of the last line is a striking echo of the last line describing 'The Peasant Poet': 'A Poet in his joy'. When were each written, please?

I am torn rather between 'wishing otherwise' sadness and simply nodding with acceptance. I suppose the two aren't incompatible responses.

Nomad said...

I also wonder whether Charles Causley had the last paragraph in his thoughts (however consciously or unconsciouly) when he thought of Clare's grave as an upturned boat.

Roger R. said...

Very good comments... all late I think. Sounds like an asylum poem.

Never thought of the Causley connection, but I do see what you mean.