Стихи и эссе

Some say that love 's a little boy,
    And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
    And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
    Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
    And said it wouldn't do.

        Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,

           Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
        Does its odour remind one of llamas,
           Or has it a comforting smell?
        Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
           Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
        Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
           O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it

    In cryptic little notes.
It's quite a common topic on
    The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
    Account of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
    The back of railway-guides.

    Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,

    Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
    On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is it's singing at parties a riot?
    Does it only like classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
    O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;

    It wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
    And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
    Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
    Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?

    Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
    Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
    Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
    O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning

    Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
    Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
    Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

Their Lonely Betters

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade
To all the noises that my garden made,
It seemed to me only proper that words
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.

A robin with no Christian name ran through

The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
And rustling flowers for some third party waited
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying,

There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely betters

Who count some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
Words are for those with promises to keep.

Shorts