Friday 19 June 2009

A Moth at Midnight

The Moth

Isled in the midnight air,
Musked with the dark's faint bloom,
Out into glooming and secret haunts
The flame cries,

Lovely in dye and fan,
Atremble in shimmering grace,
A moth from her winter swoon
Uplifts her face:

Stares from her glam'rous eyes;
Wafts her on plumes like mist;
In ecstasy swirls and sways
To her strange tryst.

(Walter de la Mare 1873 - 1956)


MrsM is painfully reminded of the time
when she attempted to persuade MasterM
to learn poetry.
She felt it would be beneficial
for his inner landscape.
MrsM offered to pay by the line
and suggested that 'The Moth'
would be a good one
to start with.

MasterM politely explained
that learning poetry
was not a lifestyle choice
that he was comfortable with.


Quinn said...

oooh, I just saw the ?felted magpie for the first time! It's lovely! Nice ti see something so bright on (yet another) rainy day.

(Has it been there forever and I just haven't scrolled down that far??)

Lynn said...

Your blog is good for my inner landscape.

Anonymous said...

Refusing a bribe? He has a lot of integrity and that is always the sign of a good inner landscape.

M said...

I must use that line sometime. I can think of many uses.

I'm sorry, I can't do an extra day's work, it's just not a lifestyle choice that I'm comfortable with.

I'm sorry I just can't wash those dishes, it's just not a lifestyle choice I'm comfortable with.

Unknown said...

Good man - knows his own mind

Gina said...

"Not a lifestyle choice he was comfortable with". Wonderful - Like Mr M, I shall store that one away for future use. The boy is an inspiration and I'm quite certain he has a very healthy inner landscape.

blackbird said...

He's a smart fellow - poetry on men is like the rumpled un-tucked shirt - not all of them can carry it off.

(though I suspect MasterM *could* do the rumpled un-tucked shirt nicely)

menopausalmusing said...

If my mother (a Scot) had offered to "pay by the line", I would have chosen "Tam O Shanter" . . . ha! ha!

Anonymous said...

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter...