Poetry in Motion
I was walking the Thames Path from Richmond
to Westminster, just because I was free
to do so, just for the pleasure of light
filling my head, just for the breeze like a hand
tap-tap-tap-tapping the small of my back,
just for the slow and steady breath of dust
fanning on flints, on cobbles, on squared-off
slab-stones - dust which was marking the time
it takes for a thing to be born, to die,
then to be born again. The puzzled brow
of Parliament filled the distance, ducking
and diving as long parades of tree-clouds
or skinny-ribbed office blocks worked their way
in between. The mouth of the Wandle stuck
its sick tongue out and went. The smoke-scarred walls
of a disused warehouse offered on close
inspection a locked-away world of rust
and sand flecks and slate all hoarding the sun.
That's right. I was walking the Thames Path east
as though I was water myself - each twist
and turn bringing me out on the level,
leading me hither and thither through brick-chinks
into the hush of my clarified head,
into the chamber where one voice speaking
its mind could fathom what liberty means,
and catch the echo of others which ring
round the rim of the world. Catch and hold.
The buttery sun kept casting its light
on everything equally. The soft breeze
did as it always did, and ushered me on.
Andrew Motion
Poet Laureate
1999
To walk abroad is, not with eyes,
But thoughts, the fields to see and prize;
Else may the silent feet,
Like logs of wood,
Move up and down, and see no good,
Nor joy nor glory meet.
Even carts and wheels their place do change,
But cannot see; tho very strange
The glory that is by.
Dead puppets may
Move in the bright and glorious day,
Yet not behold the sky.
And are not men than they more blind,
Who having eyes yet never find
The bliss in which they move?
Like statues dead
They up and down are carried,
Yet neither see nor love.
To walk is by a thought to go;
To move in spirit to and fro;
To mind the good we see;
To taste the sweet:
Observing all the things we meet
How choice and rich they be.
To note the beauty of the day,
And golden fields of corn survey;
Admire the pretty flowers
With their sweet smell;
To celebrate their Maker, and to tell
The marks of His great powers.
To fly abroad like active bees,
Among the hedges and the trees,
To cull the dew that lies
On every blade,
From every blossom; till we lade
Our minds, as they their thighs.
Observe those rich and glorious things,
The rivers, meadows, woods, and springs,
The fructifying sun;
To note from far
The rising of each twinkling star
For us his race to run.
A little child these well perceives,
Who, tumbling among grass and leaves,
May rich as kings be thought;
But there's a sight
Which perfect manhood may delight,
To which we shall be brought.
While in those pleasant paths we talk
'Tis that towards which at last we walk;
But we may by degrees
Wisely proceed
Pleasures of love and praise to heed,
From viewing herbs and trees.
Thomas Traherne (1637-1674)
Ode upon Westminster Bridge
(composed September 3rd 1802 )
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Wordsworth
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost