In school, we used to have elocution competitions. Our headmistresses, Mother Gabrielle, selected poems for each individual participant , in the different classes. Such was her love for poetry and for perfect diction that she would spend hours with us, making us recite them again and again and again, making us bite our lips when uttering a word beginning with “V” and draw them together to a small circle to pronounce “w”, in the way it should be. We were to say each word clearly, so that the  syllable at the end of  each word was also clearly audible .

     The ex-pressions on our faces and the tone of our voices had to be just right too. If it was a sad poem, the pathos had to come through. She would  patiently explain the situation and  the nature of emotions involved, so that we could get under the skin of the poem and make it our own. After many school periods of practice of emoting a poem, one could actually make the eyes turn misty while saying ”Sweet my child, I live for thee”, the last line of the poem ”Home they brought the Warrior dead.” Listening to her describe the beauty abundant in Nature, while teaching us a poem like “Daffodils”by William Wordsworth  or “Leisure” by W.H.Davies, one learnt to appreciate many things around us, which we would otherwise have taken for granted.

     She was a nun, but quite a “zinda dilwali”, much like  “Maria” of “Sound of Music”. No, she did not run away from the convent or fall in love. But she had the same joy which she generously spread around. So she taught us poems like “The Highwayman”, “Lochinvar” and “The Lady of Shalott”. All those made our teenage hearts go a flutter .

     Years have gone by. But I still love everyone of those poems. Here I share a few of them with you.:-)

  Lochinvar  

O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none.
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar

He staid not for brake, and he stoppd not for stone.
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war.
Or to dance at our bridal. young Lord Lochinvar?'

'I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine.
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up.
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She lookd down to blush. and she look'd up to sigh.
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, -
'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face.
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "Twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear.
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
Theyll have fleet steeds that follow', quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

-                                                                                                                                               Sir Walter Scott

(Doesn’t this poem remind you of  our very own Prithviraj Chauhan, Jaichand ,Princess Samyukta and the story of her “swayamvar”?

"LEISURE"

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

                                     W.H.Davies

              I try and take time out whenever I can, to stand and stare. Might as well, don’t you think, since it is otherwise so full of care? While googling for this poem , I also found this interesting snippet about the poet:

“ William Henry Davies (1871-1940) is to be considered as the poet of the tramps. Born at Newport, Wales in the UK, Davies came to America from Great Britain and lived the life of a vagabond. One day, as the result of jumping a train, he lost one of legs. Davies returned to England where he continued to live the life of a tramp and a pedlar. He wrote poetry (presumably he did right along) and, eventually, he determined to print his own book and did so with the little money he earned panhandling. A copy of this first work, A Soul's Destroyer, came into the hands of George Bernard Shaw; which, in turn, led to the popularization of the poet.”

            And then of course is this favourite. I liked it even then, when one had no idea of the sorrow of separation from a loved one. I like it even better now after going through all the aches and pains of motherhood.

Home they brought her warrior dead:
 She nor swooned, nor uttered  cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
 'She must weep or she will  die.'

Then they praised him, soft and low,
 Called him worthy to be  loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
 Yet she neither spoke nor  moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
 Lightly to the warrior stept, 
Took the face-cloth from the face;
 Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
 Set his child upon her knee— 
Like summer tempest came her tears—
 'Sweet my child, I live for thee.' 

                                                   -Tennyson