Day 12 and 13

Day 12- a poem you dont understand a word of


Blow, Bugle, Blow by Lord Alfred Tennyson


The splendour falls on castle walls
and snowy summits old in story:
the long light shakes across lakes
and the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying
Blow, bugle, blow, eachoes, dying dying, dying.


O hark, O hear! how thing and clea
and thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far fron cliff and scar
the horns of elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying



O love, they die in yon rich sky,
they faint on hill or field or river:
our echoes for ever and for ever.
Blow bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
and answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.




Day 13- a poem that is a guilty pleasure

Raymond Carver's Woman bathing

Natches River. Just below the falls.

Twenty miles from any town. A day

of dense sunlight

heavy with odours of love.

How long have we?

Already your body, sharpness of Picasso,

is drying in this highland air.

I towel down your back your hips,

with my undershirt.

Time is a mountain lion.

We laugh at nothing

and as I touch your breasts

even the ground-

squirrels

are dazzeled.