There is a Lady Sweet and Kind

Thomas Ford 1580-1648

There is a lady sweet and kind,

Was never face so pleas'd my mind;

I did but see her passing by,

And yet I love her till I die.

Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,

Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles,

Beguiles my heart, I know not why,

And yet I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged and doth range,

Her country so my love doth change:

But change she earth, or change she sky,

Yet will I love her till I die. 

-o0o-

Today's poem concludes the series. My Poetry Digest continues tomorrow in
Johns Mixed Bag Blog
johnsmixedbagblog.blogspot.com

Song of Songs

My beloved speaks and says to me:

"Arise, my love, my fair one,

and come away;

for now the winter is past,

the rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth;

the time of singing has come,

and the voice of the turtle dove

is heard in our land.

The fig tree puts forth its figs,

and the vines are in blossom;

they give forth fragrance.

Arise, my love, my fair one,

and come away.

Set me as a seal upon your heart,

as a seal upon your arm;

for love is strong as death,

passion fierce as the grave.

Its flashes are flashes of fire,

a raging flame.

Many waters cannot quench love,

neither can floods drown it."

Those lines are just a section of the Song of Songs, also known as the Song of Solomon, in the Hebrew Bible and the Christian Old Testament.

-o0o-

Blog Changes
On Friday 21st December my four blogs will combine to form
JOHNS MIXED BAG BLOG
and the final posts on Now that what I call art, The Thomas Hardy Poetry Path, My Poetry Digest and Every Day a Discovery on the Net will be on Thursday 20th December
The new blog can be seen at
JOHNS MIXED BAG BLOG
johnsmixedbagblog.blogspot.com


The ABC

Spike Milligan 1918-2002

'Twas midnight in the schoolroom

And every desk was shut

When suddenly from the alphabet 

Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"

Said A to B, "I don't like C;

His manners are a lack.

For all I ever see of C

Is a semi-circular back!"

"I disagree," said D to B,

"I've never found C so.

From where I stand he seems to be

An uncompleted O."

C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,

You criticise my shape.

I'm made like that, to help spell Cat

And Cow and Cool and Cape."

"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"

Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"

"You're dropping me," roared H to G.

"Don't do it please I pray."

"Out of my way," LL said to K.

"I'll make poor I look ILL."

To stop this stunt J stood in front,

And presto! ILL was JILL.

"U know," said V, "that W

Is twice the age of me.

For as a Roman V is five

I'm half as young as he."

X and Y yawned sleepily,

"Look at the time!" they said.

"Let's all get off to beddy byes."

They did, then "Z-z-z." 

-o0o-

Mistletoe

Walter de la Mare 1873-1956

Sitting under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

One last candle burning low,

All the sleepy dancers gone,

Just one candle burning on,

Shadows lurking everywhere:

Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go

Nodding under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

No footsteps came, no voice, but only,

Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,

Stooped in the still and shadowy air

Lips unseen - and kissed me there.

-o0o-

The Road not Taken

Robert Frost 1874-1963

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, 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 travelled by,

And that has made all the difference.

-o0o-

Daffodils

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed - and gazed - but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

-o0o-

No.139

Archimedes Was All Wet

Anon

King Hero of old Syracuse had doubts that made him frown.

"Perhaps my goldsmith did not use pure gold to make the crown."

Since proof of mischief must be strong to put a thief in collar,

The king who feared his judgment wrong called on his science scholar.

"Archimedes, friend of old, find me the solution!

Is my crown pure solid gold, or is that an illusion?"

The scholar's task was serious; he struggled hard with math.

His mind was near delirious until he poured his bath.

He noticed how the water pushed him up as he stepped in.

He thought about it harder as he stroked his bearded chin.

"The weight of displaced liquid should always let me know

When any golden solid has a density too low!"

"Eureka!", he resounded. "I have such a clever mind".

Yet his claim was unfounded 'cause he left his clothes behind!

-o0o-

No.138

Silver

Walter de la Mare 1873-1958

Slowly, silently, now the moon

Walks the night in her silver shoon;

This way, and that, she peers, and sees

Silver fruit upon silver trees;

One by one the casements catch

Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;

Couched in his kennel, like a log,

With paws of silver sleeps the dog;

From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep

Of doves in silver feathered sleep

A harvest mouse goes scampering by,

With silver claws, and silver eye;

And moveless fish in the water gleam,

By silver reeds in a silver stream. 

-o0o-

No.137

Invalided

Edward Shillito 1871-1948

He limps along the city street,

Men pass him with a pitying glance;

He is not there, but on the sweet

And troubled plains of France.

Once more he marches with the guns,

Reading the way by merry signs,

His Regent Street through trenches runs,

His Strand among the pines.

For there his comrades jest and fight,

And others sleep in that fair land;

They call him back in dreams of night

To join their dwindling band.

He may not go; on him must lie

The doom, through peaceful years to live,

To have a sword he cannot ply,

A life he cannot give.

-o0o-

No.136

A'wearyin' for You

Frank Stanton 1857-1927

Just a’wearyin' for you

All the time a’feelin' blue

Wishin' for you, wonderin' when

You’ll be coming home again

Restless don’t know what to do

Just a’wearyin' for you

Morning comes, the birds awake

Seem to sing so for your sake

But there’s sadness in the notes

That come trillin' from their throats

Seem to feel a sadness too

Just a’wearyin' for you

Evening comes I miss you more

When the dark gloom’s round the door

Seems just like you ought to be

Here to open it for me

Latch goes tinklin' thrills me through

Sets me wearyin’ for you

Just a’wearyin' for you

-o0o-

The Monday Monologue

There's a little sallow Man lives north of Waterloo

Billy Bennett 1887-1942

There's a little sallow man lives north of Waterloo,

And he owns the toughest music hall in town, 

There are broken-hearted comics, there's a graveyard for them too

And the gallery gods are forever gazing down.

He was known as Fat Caroo in the pubs round Waterloo,

And he wore a green tie with a diamond pin; 

He was worshipped in the ranks by the captain of the swanks,

And the coalman's daughter loved his double chin.

He had loved her all along and despite his ong-bong-pong

The fact that she loved him they say was right, 

Though her complexion was a fake, and her teeth were put and take 

Put in by day and taken out by night.

'Twas the fifteenth anniversary of her twenty-second year,

So he smiled at her as sweetly as a hog 

And asked what present she would like. And jestingly she said: 

"Your green tie for my little yellow dog."

Fat Caroo seemed in a trance and his heart slipped through his pants,

But he tried his utmost not to look a wreck, 

So he handed her the tie and kissed her hand good bye- 

When he bowed his head she bit his neck.

Later on Caroo came to, his tie had gone, it's true

And his tiepin with it! He seemed in a fog.

He rushed liked mad to find, that she'd tied that tie behind

To the tailpiece of her little yellow dog.

She was screaming like a child, the dog was running wild,

Biting policemen as he galloped up the straight; 

For the little dog, called Tom, when he wagged his to and from,

Felt the tie pin urge him on to meet his fate.

The dog returned at dawn with his windscreen slightly torn,

And unseen took something from the lady's room. 

To another room he flew, saying: "That's for Fat Caroo,"

And silently he slunk out in the gloom.

When Caroo jumped into bed, he'd ‘ave wakened up the dead

With a scream as he fell like a hog; 

Her false teeth, they were buried in the seat of Fat Caroo- 

'Twas the vengeance of that little yellow dog.

There's a cockeyed yellow poodle to the north of Conga Pooch;

There's a little hot cross bun that's turning green;

There's a double-jointed woman doing tricks in Chu-Chin-Chow,

And you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din.

-o0o-

No.134

I, too, sing America
Langston Hughes 1902-67

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides, 
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed -

-o0o-

No.133

Ben Lomond

Thomas Campbell 1777-1844

Hadst thou a genius on thy peak,

What tales, white-headed Ben,

Could'st thou of ancient ages speak,

That mock th'historian's pen!

Thy long duration makes our lives

Seem but so many hours;

And likens, to the bees' frail hives,

Our most stupendous towers.

Temples and towers thou seest begun,

New creeds, new conquerors sway;

And, like their shadows in the sun,

Hast seen them swept away.

Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied

(Unlike life's little span),

Looks down a mentor on the pride

Of perishable man.

-o0o-

No.132

Keep A-Goin'

Frank L. Stanton 1857-1927

If you strike a thorn or rose,

Keep a-goin'!

If it hails or if it snows,

Keep a-goin'!

'Taint no use to sit an' whine

When the fish ain't on your line;

Bait your hook an' keep a-tryin' - 

Keep a-goin'!

When the weather kills your crop,

Keep a-goin'!

Though 'tis work to reach the top,

Keep a-goin'!

S'pose you're out o' ev'ry dime,

Gittin' broke ain't any crime;

Tell the world you're feelin' prime -

Keep a-goin'!

When it looks like all is up,

Keep a-goin'!

Drain the sweetness from the cup,

Keep a-goin'!

See the wild birds on the wing, 

Hear the bells that sweetly ring,

When you feel like singin', sing -

Keep a-goin'!

-o0o-

No.131

I Dream of Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair

Stephen Foster 1826-64

I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,

Borne, like a vapor, on the summer air;

I see her tripping where the bright streams play,

Happy as the daisies that dance on her way.

Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour.

Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er:

Oh! I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,

Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

I long for Jeanie with the daydawn smile,

Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile;

I hear her melodies, like joys gone by,

Sighing round my heart o'er the fond hopes that die:—

Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain,—

Wailing for the lost one that comes not again:

Oh! I long for Jeanie, and my heart bows low,

Never more to find her where the bright waters flow.

I sigh for Jeanie, but her light form strayed

Far from the fond hearts round her native glade;

Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown,

Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone.

Now the nodding wild flowers may wither on the shore

While her gentle fingers will cull them no more:

Oh! I sigh for Jeanie with the light brown hair,

Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

-o0o-

No.130

Touched by an Angel

Maya Angelou 1928-2014

We, unaccustomed to courage

exiles from delight

live coiled in shells of loneliness

until love leaves its high holy temple

and comes into our sight

to liberate us into life.

Love arrives

and in its train come ecstasies

old memories of pleasure

ancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold,

love strikes away the chains of fear

from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity

In the flush of love's light

we dare be brave

And suddenly we see

that love costs all we are

and will ever be.

Yet it is only love

which sets us free.

-o0o-

No.129

The Brook

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1809-92

(These are the first three verses of a much longer poem)

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,

By twenty thorpes, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever.

-o0o-

The Monday Monologue

The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God

Milton Hayes 1884-1940 

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,

There's a little marble cross below the town,

There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,

And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,

He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell,

But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,

And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,

The fact that she loved him was plain to all,

She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun

To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;

They met next day as he dismissed a squad,

And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do

But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,

And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars,

But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,

Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,

And a gash across his temple dripping red,

He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,

And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through,

She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod,

He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew,"

And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,

Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet,

But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone

With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,

She thought of him and hurried to his room,

As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air

Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through,

The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod,

An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,

'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,

There's a little marble cross below the town,

There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,

And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

-o0o-

No.127

An Insincere Wish Addressed to a Beggar

Mary Elizabeth Coleridge 1861-1907

We are not near enough to love,

I can but pity all your woe;

For wealth has lifted me above,

And falsehood set you down below.

If you were true, we still might be

Brothers in something more than name;

And were I poor, your love to me

Would make our differing bonds the same.

But golden gates between us stretch,

Truth opens her forbidding eyes;

You can't forget that I am rich,

Nor I that you are telling lies.

Love never comes but at love's call,

And pity asks for him in vain;

Because I cannot give you all,

You give me nothing back again.

And you are right with all your wrong,

For less than all is nothing too;

May Heaven beggar me ere long,

And Truth reveal herself to you! 

-o0o-

No.126

From a Railway Carriage

Robert Louis Stevenson 1850-94

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

And charging along like troops in a battle

All through the meadows the horses and cattle:

All of the sights of the hill and the plain

Fly as thick as driving rain;

And ever again, in the wink of an eye,

Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,

All by himself and gathering brambles;

Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;

And here is the green for stringing the daisies!

Here is a cart runaway in the road

Lumping along with man and load;

And here is a mill, and there is a river:

Each a glimpse and gone forever! 

-o0o-

No.125

When They Begin The Beguine

Cole Porter  1891-1964

When they begin the beguine,

It brings back the sound of music so tender,

It brings back a night of tropical splendour,

It brings back a memory ever green.

I'm with you once more under the stars

And down by the shore an orchestra's playing

And even the palms seem to be swaying,

When they begin the beguine.

To live it again is past all endeavour

Except when that tune clutches my heart,

And there we are swearing to love forever

And promising never, never to part.

What moments divine, what rapture serene,

Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted

And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,

I know but too well what they mean.

So don't let them begin the beguine,

Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember,

Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember,

When they begin the beguine.

Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play

Till the stars that were there before return above you,

Till you whisper to me once more, darling I love you,

And we suddenly know what heaven we're in,

When they begin the beguine.

-o0o-

No.124

Warning

Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

-o0o-

No.123

Lucy

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh,

The difference to me!

-o0o-

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods

 George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 

There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 

I love not man the less, but Nature more, 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 

From all I may be, or have been before, 

To mingle with the Universe, and feel 

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

-o0o-

The Monday Monologue

If You'll Pardon My Saying So

(Watkins the family butler addresses his young master who is still in bed)

A lady to see you, Mr. Archibald, sir.

The matter appears to be pressing.

Luncheon was served quite an hour ago,

I didn’t awaken you, sir, as you know.

There are times, sir, when sleep is a blessing.

I have here some ice, sir, to put on your head,

And also a whisky and 'polly'.

I don't know what time you retired to bed,

But the party sir, must have been jolly…

…If you'll pardon my saying so.

The lady in question a-waiting below,

Is accompanied, sir, by her mother,

And also a prize-fighting gentleman, sir,

A pugnacious character one might infer,

Whom the lady describes as her brother.

The elderly female is quite commonplace,

A most vulgar person, I fear, sir,

Who shouts in a nerve wracking falsetto voice,

And her language is painful to hear, sir…

…If you'll pardon my saying so.

The prize-fighter person is burning with hate.

He refers to you, sir, as a 'twister.'

He threatens to alter the shape of your 'clock,'

To break you in half, sir, and knock off your 'block,'

Unless you do right by his sister.

The young lady says, sir, with trembling lips,

That you made her a promise of marriage.

She wants to know why she should eat fish and chips,

While you, sir, ride by in your carriage…

…If you'll pardon me saying so.

Sir John has a dreadful attack of the gout,

He is fuming to beat all creation.

My lady, your mother, is up in the air.

She is having hysterics and tearing her hair,

And borders on nervous prostration.

Would you wish me to pack your portmanteau at once,

And look up the times of the trains, sir?

Or perhaps you would rather I brought you a drink,

And a pistol to blow out your brains, sir…

…If you'll pardon my saying so.

Another monologue next Monday

No.120

The Road Goes Ever On

J.R.R. Tolkien 1892-1973

The Road goes ever on and on

   Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

   And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

   Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

   And whither then? I cannot say.

-o0o-

No.119

Life has Loveliness to Sell

Sara Teasdale 1884-1933

Life has loveliness to sell,

     All beautiful and splendid things,

Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

     Soaring fire that sways and sings,

And children's faces looking up

Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,

     Music like a curve of gold,

Scent of pine trees in the rain,

     Eyes that love you, arms that hold,

And for your spirit's still delight,

Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,

     Buy it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

     Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstasy

Give all you have been, or could be.

-o0o-

No.118

Ye Banks and Braes 

Robert Burns 1759-96

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn!

Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed, never to return.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon

To see the rose and woodbine twine;

And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And fondly sae did I o' mine;

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree!

And my fause luver stole my rose -

But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

-o0o-

No.117

A BIRD FROM THE WEST

Dora Sigerson Shorter 1866-1918

At the grey dawn, amongst the falling leaves,

   A little bird outside my window swung,

High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,

   And "Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!" ever sung.

Take me, I cried, back to my island home;

   Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings;

For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,

   And home and home and home he ever sings.

We lingered over Ulster stern and wild.

   I called: "Arise! doth none remember me?"

One turnèd in the darkness murmuring,

   "How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!"

We rested over Connaught – whispering said:

   "Awake, awake, and welcome! I am here."

One woke and shivered at the morning grey;

   "The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear."

We flew low over Munster. Long I wept:

   "You used to love me, love me once again!"

They spoke from out the shadows wondering;

   "You'd think of tears, so bitter falls the rain."

Long over Leinster lingered we. "Good-bye!

   My best beloved, good-bye for evermore."

Sleepless they tossed and whispered to the dawn;

   "So sad a wind was never heard before."

Was it a dream I dreamt? For yet there swings

   In the grey morn a bird upon the bough,

And "Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!" ever sings.

   Oh! fair the breaking day in Ireland now.

No.116

When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly

Oliver Goldsmith 1730-74

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 

And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can sooth her melancholy, 

What art can wash her guilt away? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 

And wring his bosom—is to die. 

-o0o-

No.115

How to Make a Portrait of a Bird

Jacquet Prévert 1900-77

First paint a cage

with an open door

then paint

something pretty

something simple

something beautiful

something useful

for the bird

then place the canvas within a tree

in a garden

in a wood

or in a forest

hide behind the tree

without saying anything

without moving an inch…

Sometimes the bird arrives quickly

but he can also take many years

before deciding

do not become discouraged

wait

wait for years if you have to

the speed or the sluggishness of the bird’s arrival

has no effect

on the outcome of your painting

When the bird arrives

if it arrives

keep the most profound silence

wait for the bird to enter the cage

and when he is inside

gently close the door with the paintbrush

then

erase all of the bars one by one

while taking care not to touch any of the bird’s feathers

then do the tree’s portrait

choosing the most beautiful branch

for the bird

paint the greenery and the freshness of the wind as well

the spray of the sun

and the noise of the animals in the grass in the heat of summer

and then wait for the bird to decide to sing

If the bird doesn’t sing

it’s a bad sign

it’s a sign that your painting is bad

but if it sings it’s a good sign

it’s a sign that you can sign

Then you very gently pluck

one of the bird’s feathers

and you write your name in a corner of the canvas.

Prévert was a French poet and screenwriter. His poems became and remain popular in the French-speaking world, particularly in schools.