Twilight was turning to darkness outside.
Under the eaves a window banged wide.
A curtain was lifted, a light briefly shone,
a swift shadow fell down the wall and was gone.
Happy the man who falls head first to death:
at least for a moment his viewpoint is fresh.
by Владислав Фелицианович Ходасевич (Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich)
(1922)
translated by Michael Frayn
The sower walks down the even furrows;
his fathers all furrowed the path he follows.
The young seed glitters gold in his hand,
but it must fall into the black ground.
There, amid the tunnels of the blind worm,
it will die on its due day – and grow again.
So now my soul treads the path of the grain –
down into darkness – and spring’s return.
And you, my people, and you, my native land,
you will die and live, when the dark months end,
for we have been granted only this one truth:
whatever lives must follow the grain’s path.
by Владислав Фелицианович Ходасевич (Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich)
(1917)
translated by Robert Chandler
Shape ships to seek some shining shore,
or, if you choose, chirp chants in churches.
But seize your chance – shout one shy cheer,
and shoot up starwards, sharp and sheer…
I shift the chairs – a cheerless chore…
What tosh you chunter in these searches
for shoes and spectacles, to be sure!
by Владислав Фелицианович Ходасевич (Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich)
(1922)
translated by Michael Frayn
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I’m 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I’m 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber’s chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides
Or when I’m 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
‘what a nice way to go’ death
by Roger McGough
A tree toad loved a she-toad
That lived up in a tree.
She was a three-toed tree toad
But a two-toed toad was he.
The two-toed toad tried to win
The she-toad’s friendly nod,
For the two-toed toad loved the ground
On which the three-toed toad trod.
But no matter how the two-toed tree toad tried,
He could not please her whim.
In her tree toad bower
With her three-toed power,
The she toad vetoed him.
– by Anon.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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