Wednesday, April 19, 2006

2400 Harriet Coleridge

"The truth, if we're honest, is that the poems of Harriet Coleridge (if there were such a person) would by now be an unforgivable omission in every anthology."

Ouch! Now there's a slam at required women's studies courses if I've ever read one. There was a short article on the less than stunning career of Hartley Coleridge (1796-1849), son of the famous poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, in the March 2006 issue of Poetry. He writes about being forever a child and unfulfilled promise. The writer of the article mentions he could have been a great poet if he had taken more than 10 minutes and if he could have forgotten whose son he was.


by: Hartley Coleridge (1796-1849)

NELLY, methinks, 'twixt thee and me
There is a kind of sympathy;
And could we interchange our nature, --
If I were cat, thou human creature, --
I should, like thee, be no great mouser,
And thou, like me, no great composer;
For, like thy plaintive mews, my muse
With villainous whine doth fate abuse,
Because it hath not made me sleek
As golden down on Cupid's cheek;
And yet thou canst upon the rug lie,
Stretch'd out like snail, or curl'd up snugly,
As if thou wert not lean or ugly;
And I, who in poetic flights
Sometimes complain of sleepless nights,
Regardless of the sun in heaven,
Am apt to doze till past eleven, --
The world would just the same go round
If I were hang'd and thou wert drown'd;
There is one difference, 'tis true, --
Thou dost not know it, and I do.


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