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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=402964" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Week-End</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I <br>The train! The twleve o'clock for paradise. <br>Hurry, or it will try to creep away. <br>Out in the country every one is wise: <br>We can be only wise on Saturday. <br>There you are waiting, little friendly house: <br>Those are your chimney-stacks with you between <br>Surrounded by old trees and strolling cows, <br>Staring through all your windows at the green. <br>Your homely floor is creaking for our tread; <br>The smiling tea-pot with contented spout <br>Thinks of the boiling water, and the bread <br>Longs for the butter. All their hands are out <br>To greet us, and the gentle blankets seem <br>Purring and crooning: 'Lie in us, and dream.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II <br>The key will stammer, and the door reply, <br>The hall wake, yawn, and smile; the torpid stair <br>Will grumble at our feet, the table cry: <br>'Fetch my bolongings for me; I am bare.' <br>A clatter! something in the attic falls, <br>A ghost has lifted up his robes and fled. <br>Then silence very slowly lifts his head. <br>The starling with impatient screech has flown <br>The chimney, and is watching from the tree. <br>They thought us gone for ever: mouse alone <br>Stops in the middle of the floor to see. <br>Now all you idle things, resume your toil. <br>Hearth, put your flames on. Sulky kettle, boil. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">III <br>Contented evening; comfortable joys; <br>The snoozing fire, and all the fields are still: <br>Tranquil delight, no purpose, and no noise -- <br>Unless the slow wind flowing round the hill. <br>'Murry' (the kettle) dozes; little mouse <br>Is rambling prudently about the floor. <br>There's lovely conversation in this house: <br>Words become princes that were slaves before. <br>What a sweet atmosphere for you and me <br>The people that have been here left behind. . . . <br>Oh, but I fear it may turn out to be <br>Built of a dream, erected in the mind: <br>So if we speak too loud, we may awaken <br>To find it vanished, and ourselves mistaken. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV <br>Lift up the curtain carefully. All the trees <br>Stand in the dark like drowsy sentinels. <br>The oak is talkative to-night; he tells <br>The little bushes crowding at his knees <br>That formidable, hard, voluminous <br>History of growth from acord into age. <br>They titter like school-children; they arouse <br>Their comrades, who exclaim: ' He is very sage. ' <br>Look how the moon is staring through that cloud, <br>Laying and lifting idle streaks of light. <br>O hark! was that the monstrous wind, so loud <br>And sudden, prowling always through the night? <br>Let down the shaking curtain. They are queer, <br>Those foreigners. They and we live so near. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">V <br>Come, come to bed. The shadows move about, <br>And some one seems to overhear our talk. <br>The fire is low; the candles flicker out; <br>The ghosts of former tenants want to walk. <br>Already they are shuffling through the gloom. <br>I felt on old man touch my shoulder-blade; <br>Once he was married here; they love this room, <br>He and his woman and the child they made. <br>Dead, dead, they are, yet some familiar sound, <br>Creeping along the brink of happy life, <br>Revives their memory from under ground -- <br>The farmer and his troublesome old wife. <br>Let us be going: as we climb the stairs, <br>They'll sit down in our warm half-empty chairs. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI <br>Morning! Wake up! Awaken! All the boughs <br>Are rippling on the air across the green. <br>The youngest birds are singing to the house. <br>Blood of the world! -- and is the country clean? <br>Disturb the precinct. Cool it with a shout. <br>Sing as you trundle down to light the fire. <br>Turn the encumbering shadows tumbling out, <br>And fill the chambers with a new desire. <br>Life is no good, unless the morning brings <br>White happiness and quick delight of day. <br>These half-inanamate domestic things <br>Must all be useful, or must go away. <br>Coffee, be fragrant. Porridge in my plate, <br>Increase the vigour to fulfil my fate. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII <br>The fresh air moves like water round a boat. <br>The white clouds wander. Let us wander too. <br>The whining, wavering plover flap and float. <br>That crow is flying after that cuckoo. <br>Look! Look! . . . They're gone. What are the great trees calling? <br>Just come a little farther, by that edge <br>Of green, to where the stormy ploughland, falling <br>Wave upon wave, is lapping to the hedge. <br>Oh, what a lovely bank! Give me your hand. <br>Lie down and press your heart against the ground. <br>Let us both listen till we understand, <br>Each through the other, every natural sound. . . . <br>I can't hear anything to-day, can you, <br>But, far and near: ' Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ' ? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII <br>The everlasting grass -- how bright, how cool! <br>The day has gone too suddenly, too soon. <br>There's something white and shiny in that pool -- <br>Throw in a stone, and you will hit the moon. <br>Listen, the church-bell ringing! Do not say <br>We must go back to-morrow to our work. <br>We'll tell them we are dead: we died to-day. <br>We're lazy. We're too happy, We will shirk, <br>We're cows. We're kettles. We'll be anything <br>Except the manikins of time and fear. <br>We'll start away to-morrow wandering, <br>And nobody will notice in a year. . . . <br>Now the great sun is slipping under ground. <br>Grip firmly! -- How the earth is whirling round! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX <br>Be staid; be careful; and be not too free. <br>Temptation to enjoy your liberty <br>May rise against you, break into a crime, <br>And smash the habit of employing Time. <br>It serves no purpose that the careful clock <br>Mark the appointment, the officious train <br>Hurry to keep it, if the minutes mock <br>Loud in you ear: 'Late. Late. Late. Late again.' <br>Week-end is very well on Saturday: <br>On Monday it's a different affair -- <br>A little episode, a trivial stay <br>In some oblivious spot somehow, somewhere. <br>On Sunday night we hardly laugh or speak: <br>Week-end begins to merges itself in Week. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">X <br>Pack up the house, and close the creaking door. <br>The fields are dull this morning in the rain. <br>It's difficult to leave that homely floor. <br>Wave a light hand; we will return again. <br>(What was that bird?) Good-bye, ecstatic tree, <br>Floating, bursting, and breathing on the air. <br>The lonely farm is wondering that we <br>Can leave. How every window seems to stare! <br>That bag is heavy. Share it for a bit. <br>You like that gentle swashing of the ground <br>As we tread ? . . . <br>It is over. Now we sit <br>Reading the morning paper in the sound <br>Of the debilitating heavy train. <br>London again, again. London again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Harold+Monro">Harold Monro</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=402964" data-title="Week-End de Harold Monro" data-description="I 
The train! The twleve o'clock for paradise. 
Hurry, or it will try to creep away. 
Out in the country every one is wise: 
We can be only wise on Saturday. 
There you are waiting, little friendly house: 
Those are your chimney-stacks with you be..."></div>
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