Classic Poetry Aloud

Classic Poetry Aloud

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Classic Poetry Aloud gives voice to poetry through podcast recordings of the great poems of the past. Our library of poems is intended as a resource for anyone interested in reading and listening to poetry. For us, it's all about the listening, and how hearing a poem can make it more accessible, as well as heightening its emotional impact. See more at: www.classicpoetryaloud.com


Occasional Miscellany Number 2

October 20th, 2007

Episode 57 of 608 episodes

To a Fat Lady Seen From the Train by Frances Cornford (1886-1960) O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, Missing so much and so much? O fat white woman whom nobody loves, Why do you walk through the fields in gloves, When the grass is soft as the breast of doves And shivering sweet to the touch? O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, Missing so much and so much? The Fat White Woman Speaks by G. K. Chesterton (1874 - 1936) Why do you rush through the field in trains, Guessing so much and so much? Why do you flash through the flowery meads, Fat-head poet that nobody reads; And why do you know such a frightful lot About people in gloves as such? And how the devil can you be sure, Guessing so much and so much, How do you know but what someone who loves Always to see me in nice white gloves At the end of the field you are rushing by, Is waiting for his Old Dutch? Two Limerick by Ronald Knox There was young man who said ‘God Must think it exceedingly odd If he finds that this tree Continues to be When there’s no one about in the quad.’ Dear Sir, Your astonishment’s odd: I am always about in the quad. And that’s why the tree Will continue to be, Since observed by Yours faithfully, God. Two Epigrams on Physicists Nature and nature's laws lay hid in night: God said, `Let Newton be!' and all was light. It did not last: the Devil, shouting "Ho, Let Einstein be" restored the status quo. Two Quatrains by Edna Saint Vincent Millay My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But, ah, my foes, and, oh, my friends It gives a lovely light. Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?

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