Truly Great – a poem by William Henry Davies

My walls outside must have some flowers,
My walls within must have some books;
A house that’s small; a garden large,
And in it leafy nooks.

A little gold that’s sure each week;
That comes not from my living kind,
But from a dead man in his grave,
Who cannot change his mind.

A lovely wife, and gentle too;
Contented that no eyes but mine
Can see her many charms, nor voice
To call her beauty fine.

Where she would in that stone cage live,
A self-made prisoner, with me;
While many a wild bird sang around,
On gate, on bush, on tree.

And she sometimes to answer them,
In her far sweeter voice than all;
Till birds, that loved to look on leaves,
Will doat on a stone wall.

With this small house, this garden large,
This little gold, this lovely mate,
With health in body, peace in heart–
Show me a man more great.

William Henry Davies

We night think W. H. Davies idea of what is truly great rather old fashioned and even somewhat misogynistic these days, but indeed we each have our own idea of luxury, don’t we? What’s yours? Share a comment!

Best wishes

Lis Goodwin – your voice coach

http://www.gloriousvoicecoaching.com

No Master – a poem by W. H. Davies

Indeed this is the sweet life! my hand
Is under no proud man’s command;
There is no voice to break my rest
Before a bird has left its nest;
There is no man to change my mood,
When I go nutting in the wood;
No man to pluck my sleeve and say —
I want thy labour for this day;
No man to keep me out of sight,
When that dear Sun is shining bright.
None but my friends shall have command
Upon my time, my heart and hand;
I’ll rise from sleep to help a friend,
But let no stranger orders send,
Or hear my curses fast and thick,
Which in his purse-proud throat would stick
Like burrs. If I cannot be free
To do such work as pleases me,
Near woodland pools and under trees,
You’ll get no work at all, for I
Would rather live this life and die
A beggar or a thief, than be
A working slave with no days free.

William Henry Davies

Another great poen from W. H. Davies – I hope you enjoyed it!

Best wishes

Lis Goodwin, your voice coach

http://www.gloriousvoicecoaching.com

The Hermit – a poem by W. H. Davies

WHAT moves that lonely man is not the boom
Of waves that break against the cliff so strong;
Nor roar of thunder, when that travelling voice
Is caught by rocks that carry far along.

‘Tis not the groan of oak tree in its prime,
When lightning strikes its solid heart to dust;
Nor frozen pond when, melted by the sun,
It suddenly doth break its sparkling crust.

What moves that man is when the blind bat taps
His window when he sits alone at night;
Or when the small bird sounds like some great beast
Among the dead, dry leaves so frail and light.

Or when the moths on his night-pillow beat
Such heavy blows he fears they’ll break his bones;
Or when a mouse inside the papered walls,
Comes like a tiger crunching through the stones.

William Henry Davies

W. H. Davies is one of my absolute favourite poets – a master of description. I hope you enjoyed this poem!

Best wishes

Lis Goodwin, your voice coach

http://www.gloriousvoicecoaching.com