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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447405" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Lawstudent And Coach</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Each day I sit in an ill-lighted room <br>To teach a boy; <br>For one hour by the clock great words and dreams <br>Are our employ. <br>We read St Agnes' Eve and that more fair <br>Eve of St Mark <br>At a small table up against the wall <br>In the half-dark. <br>I tell him all the wise things I have read <br>Concerning Keats. <br>'His earlier work is overfull of sense <br>And sensual sweets.' <br>I tell him all that comes into my mind <br>From God-knows-where, <br>Remark, 'In English poets Bertha's type <br>Is jolly rare. <br>She's a real girl that strains her eyes to read <br>And cricks her neck. <br>Now Madeline could pray all night nor feel <br>Her body's check. <br>And Bertha reads, p'rhaps the first reading girl <br>In English rhyme.' <br>It's maddening work to say what Keats has said <br>A second time. <br>The boy sits sideways with averted head. <br>His brown cheek glows. <br>I like his black eyes and his sprawling limbs <br>And his short nose. <br>He, feeling, dreads the splendour of the verse, <br>But he must learn <br>To write about it neatly and to quote <br>These lines that burn. <br>He drapes his soul in my obscuring words, <br>Makes himself fit <br>To go into a sunny world and take <br>His part in it. <br>'Examiners' point of view, you know,' say I, <br>'Is commonsense. <br>You must sift poetry before you can <br>Sift Evidence.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lesbia+Harford">Lesbia Harford</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=447405" data-title="Lawstudent And Coach de Lesbia Harford" data-description="Each day I sit in an ill-lighted room 
To teach a boy; 
For one hour by the clock great words and dreams 
Are our employ. 
We read St Agnes' Eve and that more fair 
Eve of St Mark 
At a small table up against the wall 
In the half-dark. 
I tell hi..."></div>
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