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Quote of the Day: The First Eighteen Lines
I know many of you know them by heart. I’ve seen some of you say so, on Ricochet, over the past nine years. At some point in your lives, you probably had them thrust at you; you might have struggled through them; maybe you cheated with the Cliffs Notes; perhaps you said you couldn’t possibly figure them out; you didn’t believe you could just “read them out loud” and understand them; and when you did, you couldn’t quite believe that your mouth, and your larynx had made such weird sounds; perhaps you memorized them; and very likely you either hated, or you loved, your taskmaster and teacher.
I loved my teacher of forty years ago. And a couple of years after the class in which all of the above thoughts ran through my mind at one point or another, we married each other. I don’t know how far we’ll get into the next forty together, but we’ve had a pretty good run. And now, it’s April again, the Ram has run his “half-course,” the world is greening, and, as happens every year at this time, I’m reminded.
This is for Frank. And Geoffrey. With whom hyt alle bigan. With love.
Loose translation, by She: When April, with its sweet showers has watered and wet down March’s drought, all the way to the roots, and every leaf is bathed in the water of life, the power of which begets the flowers: When the sweet breath of the West Wind has breathed life into the tender leaves in every wood and meadow, and the young Sun has run half his course in the Sign of the Ram. And little birds sing tunefully and sleep at night with their eyes open, so full are their hearts with Nature and life. Then, folks long to take pilgrimages, some seeking journeys to foreign shrines in far-away and sundry lands; but especially from every part of England, pilgrims find their way to Canterbury, where they seek the shrine of the holy, blessed martyr who helped them when they were sick.
Is there a piece of poetry or prose you love so much that you’ve memorized it for life? Please share.
Published in Literature
My husband and I finally watched this movie a couple of years ago. We enjoyed it so much. Long live Rudyard Kipling! :-)
One of my dad’s favorites. He could quote yards and yards of poetry.
He met his match, though, in a fisherman from Prince Edward Island whose education ended after ten grades in a one-room schoolhouse in North Rustico. I used to love watching them spar and trying to outdo each other, finding more and more obscure poems to recite. Dad didn’t always win.
The earliest poem I memorized was from my father reading Mother Goose. This poem about the couple in Fife (along with “Poor Babes In The Woods”) I can still recite.
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
-From the Hound of Heaven, Francis Thompson
I only memorized these lines, but the rest of the stanza goes:
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat—and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet—
‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me’.
And this silly poem I memorized in its entirety and still remember it 40 years later:
The Modern Hiawatha
He killed the noble Mudjokivis.
Of the skin he made him mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside,
Made them with the skin side outside.
He, to get the warm side inside,
Put the inside skin side outside;
He, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side fur side inside.
That ’s why he put the fur side inside,
Why he put the skin side outside,
Why he turned them inside outside.
Wonderful! And it put me in mind of my granddaughter. When she was a tot (maybe not even four) she had an imaginary friend, Mopsy (who she borrowed from the Beatrix Potter stories. Not sure if there’s a word for doing that sort of thing, but there ought to be). The imaginary Mopsy had superpowers, was a defender and protector, a shape-shifter, and could zoom from being microscopically tiny to unbelievably enormous, in an instant.
One day, we were wandering about the fields, looking for interesting things, and my granddaughter spotted a hole in the ground. “That’s where Mopsy lives,” she announced. “Really? Does Mopsy live there all year?” I asked. “Yes,” she said. “Doesn’t Mopsy get cold in the winter?” I asked. “No,” she said. Mopsy has fur on the outside and fur on the inside, too.” “Hm,” I said. “Doesn’t she get hot in the summer?” “Oh no,” my granddaughter said. “Mopsy has ice underpants.”
Lord. To be four years old again. Or maybe not. Tomorrow, I’m going to ask her if she knows any poems by heart, and which one is her favorite.
That is adorable!
I’ve always enjoyed memorizing poetry, and when I was a kid, I memorized some fairly long ones. That’s not as easy for me as it used to be, as my brain becomes more and more like a piece of “tired” elastic, so these days I stick to sonnets. Not always because I adore the poem in question, but because it’s a manageable length, and some of them really are quite lovely.
I never really thought about the image, “Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang,” until Mr. She and I visited Tintern Abbey, on one of our trips to England. It’s an absolutely beautiful, contemplative, place. That was the phrase that immediately sprang to mind, and I was glad I could pull it out of the heap:
Garry Wills used that line for the title of his book on the Church after Vatican II…
Wer reitet so spat durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind.
Er halt den Knabe wohl in dem Arm,
Er halt ihn sicher, er halt ihn warm.
Mein Sohn, warum siehst du so bang aus deinem Gesicht?
Siehst Vater du den Erlkönig nicht?
Den Erlkönig mit Kron und Schweif?
Mein Sohn es ist nur ein Nebelstreif.
Du liebes Kind, komm geh mit mir
Gar schöne Spiele spiel ich mit dir
Manch bunte Blumen sind am Strand
Meine Mutter hat manch golden Gewand.
Or as I remember the first three verses from Goethe’s Erlkönig. The actual wording:
Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.
“Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?” –
“Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron’ und Schweif?” –
“Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.”
“Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel’ ich mit dir;
Manch’ bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand.” –
“Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?” –
“Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind;
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.” –
“Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn,
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.” –
“Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?” –
“Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh’ es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau. –”
“Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch’ ich Gewalt.” –
“Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an!
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!” –
Dem Vater grauset’s; er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not;
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.
Poem still gives me goosebumps.
Translation: A father and son are riding through the night. The son suddenly has the Erlkönig come upon him offering a wonderful life. The boy is alarmed and begins telling his father that something mysterious is happening. The father all kinds of natural explanations – it’s the fog, it’s the wind and trees rustling. The boy finally cries out that the Erlkönig has him in his hold, the father rides faster, but the boy is dead.
Well, I asked about granddaughter’s favorite poem. She just turned eleven, and we think she’s pretty special. Here it is:
Do song lyrics count? Because I’m pretty sure I have most of Weird Al’s catalog up through 1999 memorized.
If we’re gonna slip into the silly, my favorite haiku:
Hippopotamus
Antihippopotamus
Annihilation
I don’t think Chaucer would have minded some slips into the silly. He’d probably have required them actually, as he certainly wasn’t above them himself.
And sure, @skipsul, song lyrics can count.
I am continually dismayed by how easily I remember the lyrics of songs (although I exempt most popular music since about 1960 from the equation, because I just don’t listen to enough of it.) But I’m known as the family member who “remembers all the words.”
But I’m a walking, talking encyclopedia of song, from the British music hall of the early twentieth-century (Marie Lloyd, Florrie Forde), up through Broadway musicals while they still had tunes, and before they got woke.
I can be quite entertaining at social gatherings, and it doesn’t take much to get me going.
When I was one and twenty, I heard a wise man say,
“Give crowns and pounds and guineas but not your heart away.
Give pearls away and rubies, but keep your fancy free.”
But I was one and twenty. No use to talk to me.
When I was one and twenty, I heard him say again,
“The heart out of the bosom is never given in vain.
‘Tis paid with sighs a plenty, and sold for endless rue.”
And I am two and twenty and oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.
Not sure why this one stuck with me. I was never required to memorize it. I have never been very good at memorization and was certainly not much of a lover or even dater at age 21. Perhaps it is the simplicity of the truth and the language which made it easier to remember for me than most other poetry.
I like that one myself. And if it stuck with you at a “young age,” then you were very perceptive. At the decrepit age of 64, looking back, I can say that I wasn’t quite that smart myself, but now, I can totally see it. Although I’ve never quite developed the cynical shell to protect myself from the outcome he describes.
I’m kind of the same way (though I tend more toward ’70s-’80s rock/pop). This may be a wide-spread trait, as John Derbyshire noted in a 2001 column:
I get what Derb meant, including having to go to a manual for specifics on programming languages.
Dan, I’ve always loved this little poem.
She, I know you married a professor, but did you ever teach? If you didn’t, I’ll bet you would have made a wonderful teacher.
Thanks, @kentforrester. I don’t subscribe to the notion, prescribed by some, that “those who can, do” and “those who can’t do, teach.”
My wonderful friend Bernie, used to say, “those who can teach, must.”
And that’s where I come down. I suspect, friend, that you were a pretty good teacher yourself.
Yes, I taught for a few years in an academic setting. After that, I moved on to IT in a sales, and then a support, and eventually a management, environment.
But, I hope I never stopped teaching. I tried not to. Because it’s my first love.
A couple of years ago, when the wonderful lady, a former employee of mine, who replaced me in my position when I retired said to me “you know, I learned so much from you, most of all that I should support my people and have their backs,” I thought, just for a moment, that I might have got it right.
Perhaps I did. Bless. And thanks again.
I haven’t memorized bits of it, but I can still quote part of Iowahawk/Dave Burg’s satirical ‘An Archbishop of Canterbury Tale.’ I can’t offer a link from my phone, but an internet search should readily bring it up
We memorized it in twelfth grade.
As for poems that I can remember, here is part of a longer poem from G.K. Chesterton that I have always enjoyed:
“The great Gaels of Ireland
are the men whom God made mad.
For all their wars are happy
and all their songs are sad.”
And one from Robert Conquest:
”There was an old bastard named Lenin
Who did two or three million men in.
That’s a lot to have done in but where he did one in
that old bastard Stalin did ten in.”
And one that has stayed with me since high school. I think it is from Tolkien but I’m not sure:
”We shall remember ,
We who dwell
Among the trees,
The starlight of the western seas.”
That sounds Galadrielish.
I’m thinking Gildor, in the Shire, but yeah; could be.
Those elves are all alike.
With the bow?