So, my proud soul, so you, whose shining force Had galloped with me to eternity, Stand now, appealing like a tired horse: Unharness me.
O passionate world! O faces of my friends! O half-grasped meanings, intricate and deep! — Sudden, as with a child, the tumult ends, Silenced by sleep.
I DREAMT, when I had talked with you, God re-arranged the world in two, And marshalled it in two great lines, Bohemians and Philistines;
And well I knew, O well I knew, Which host my heart would lead me to.
All honour to the Philistines, Whose sober gods, in solid shrines, Are Duty and Obedience, Self-sacrifice and Common-sense.
With tender and untortured hearts, They go their ways and play their parts. I honour them, so let it be; But O, their ways are not for me.
For I must go to join that throng, So often ruthless, stained, and wrong, Who madly plunge and stray and strive, But, O my God, they are alive!
Life stabs them deep with Love and Hate, And from their longings they create; And even their blackest, deepest wrongs Must blossom into little songs.
A YOUNG Apollo, golden-haired, Stands dreaming on the verge of strife, Magnificently unprepared For the long littleness of life.
I THOUGHT she was a country squire's daughter: Along the leafless hedges drowned in sun, She galloped on her pony — coat undone, And hair flung up like golden flakes of water.
They are mowing wheat Through the heavy days; Through the silent heat They are mowing wheat; Flat fields retreat
Into shrouding haze; They are mowing wheat Through the heavy days.
My mother earth I shall forget When I am sick and like to die; There, in a breathless chamber set, My mother earth I shall forget, These hedges starred with flowers wet, These muddy roads beneath the sky. My mother earth I shall forget, When I am sick and like to die.
So begins the day, Solid, chill, and grey, But my heart will wake Happy for your sake; Singing like a child, No more tossed and wild, Quiet as a flower In this first grey hour.
So my heart will wake Happy, for your sake.
Through the sheltering sycamores Blows the wild wind from the shores, And the nations of the wheat Bow and sway before his feet. Where the far fields fade, and die In the shining of the sky, Right across the spacious plain He is gone, and back again. He will ruffle, as they browse, Those old meadow-gods, the cows; He will toss, like prancing steeds, All the beanfields and the reeds, Whilst the scattered clouds on high Speed like galleons through the sky.
We alone are safe indoors, Sheltered by the sycamores.
Frances Cornford (1886–1960) was an English poet who lived most of her life in Cambridge, England, and was connected to the prominent Darwin and Cornford intellectual families. Her poetry is known for its wit, precision, and gentle irony, often focusing on domestic scenes, nature, and moments of quiet reflection. She frequently employed a light, epigrammatic style that balanced humor with a sense of pathos, as seen in her widely anthologized poem 'To a Fat Lady Seen from the Train.' Cornford published several collections, including Poems (1910) and Different Days (1928), and her work has been recognized for its formal dexterity and emotional restraint. Though not as celebrated as some of her contemporaries, she remains a respected figure in early twentieth-century English poetry, noted for her accessible yet artful verse.
Aprendizaje paso a paso, grabaciones de voz para compartir y recordatorios de repaso.
