While in graduate school at the University of Houston, I supplemented my income by working as a writer in residence for Writers in the Schools (WITS). I was with WITS for three years, during which I visited third, fourth, and fifth grade classrooms, and worked with groups of…
So Here Then is the Last Ride Robert Browning. The Roycrofters, NY, 1900.
One of 25 copies on vellum, finely bound. Hand-colored pictorial borders illumined by Harriet Robarge. Finely bound in full plum levant morocco, spine lettered in gilt, raised bands, wrap-around strapping designs in blind on covers and spine, gilt-rolled double rule on board edges, full morocco front doublure in cream, blue, turquoise, plum, and green leathers in an elaborate in-laid design with decorative gilt stamping, title in gilt at center, rear full morocco doublure in a less elaborate design, silk endleaves, top edge gilt. _______________________________________________ What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. ‘Tis something, nay ‘tis much: but then, Have you yourself what’s best for men? Are you—-poor, sick, old ere your time—- Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.
Long ago were paths to the past closed,
And what shall I do with past, at all?
What is there? Just washed with blood flat stones,
Or the door, immured in a wall.
Or the echo, that all time me worries,
Tho’ I pray it to be silent, hard…
To this echo happened the same story,
That – to one, I bear in my heart. (via)
There’re no paths to where the former gone is.
I don’t crave for the passed by long ago.
And what is there? The lit with blood floor stones,
The immur’d and forgotten door,
Or echo which still doesn’t have any patience
To be quite mute, though I’ve prayed much for that…
This helpless echo fell in the same station,
In which is one in my heart set. (via)