Edmund Charles Blunden Quotes
Edmund Charles Blunden shares grand poetic musings about villages, honor, and the passage of time.
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At Quincy's moat the squandering village ends, And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friends Of all the village, two old dames that cling As close as any trueloves in the spring.
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To-day's house makes to-morrow's road; I knew these heaps of stone When they were walls of grace and might, The country's honour, art's delight That over fountain'd silence show'd Fame's final bastion.
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Tired with dull grief, grown old before my day, I sit in solitude and only hear Long silent laughters, murmurings of dismay, The lost intensities of hope and fear; In those old marshes yet the rifles lie, On the thin breastwork flutter the grey rags, The very books I read are there-and I Dead as the men I loved, wait while life drags.
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Its wounded length from those sad streets of war Into green places here, that were my own; But now what once was mine is mine no more, I seek such neighbours here and I find none. With such strong gentleness and tireless will Those ruined houses seared themselves in me, Passionate I look for their dumb story still, And the charred stub outspeaks the living tree.
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Mastery in poetry consists largely in the instinct for not ruining or smothering or tinkering with moments of vision.
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I am for the woods against the world, But are the woods for me?
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Cricket to us was more than play, it was a worship in the summer sun.
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Like the bee that now is blown, Honey-heavy on my hand, From his toppling tansy-throne In the green tempestuous land
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“Devise some creed, and live it, beyond theirs, Or I shall think you but their spendthrift heirs.”