Smooth between sea and landIs laid the yellow sand,And here through summer daysThe seed of Adam plays.Here the child comes to foundHis unremaining mound,And the grown lad to scoreTwo names upon the shore.Here, on the level sand,Between the sea and land,What shall I build or writeAgainst the fall of night?Nothing: too near at hand,Planing the figured sand,Effacing clean and fastCities not built to lastAnd charms devised in vain,Pours the confounding main.
"Pours the confounding main". "His unremaining mound". I love those. Curtis
That's a poem Housman did not bother to publish in his lifetime. (I cut out a couple stanzas.)Confounding could've been rhymed with bounding; "Sailing, sailing, o'er the confounding main.""Boy's mound" would've made Wally Rowe cackle.Do you remember inserting "lads in their hundreds" into a column we co-wrote?
"Lads in their hundreds" sounds familiar. Lately my whole life is revisiting me nightly in dreams. That's what a combination of temporary teetotal and permanent exhaustion will do to you. Your comment about W. Rowe is absolutely accurate, but chiefly I remember the nervous tic cough, which I guess was related to the his entire persona, and a few key aphorisms he passed along. I thought he was a very good teacher and guide and I remain grateful to him for setting me on the right path. Curtis