Swan

Several swans were swimming in the rhines on the Levels when we went out for a bike ride this morning and, following on from Chris's appearance on Pointless over the last two days and yesterday being National Poetry Day, on today's programme there was a question about the first names of (mainly) famous poets which revealed that very few of the contestants, particularly the younger ones, could identify them correctly and all of them said they didn't read poetry, including one who was studying Literature on a Uni course.

Given that all the teachers I ever worked with always taught poetry every year to all students and it's an integral part of the National Curricuum and all GCSE English exams, I found this a great shame. So, to redress the balance a bit, here's a famous poem about Swans, by W B Yeats (William Butler!)

The Wild Swans At Coole

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.


The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.


I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.


Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.


But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

Couldn't muster 59 swans to blip!

One year ago, I've just noticed, I blipped a golf poem.