Samuel Taylor Coleridge was an English poet, literary critic and philosopher who, with his friend William Wordsworth, was a founder of the Romantic Movement in England and a member of the Lake Poets.Wikipedia
” And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. “
_ T’was by a lovely morning
_ When the summertime came
_ and just before that school closed
_ Going my way, nice and easy, in deed
_ suddenly, I felt I had to write this piece of poetry
_ that’s when sometimes you got the blues
_ and you had the heart away.
_ At the fork of two roads, as often
_ I choose that day the one not taken,
_I stopped by, at the school of cutting classes,
where you play hid, and seek, by the bushes
_where you learnt the tools of the trades, arts and crafts,
_ those small things of life, state-of-art, of everything
_ things that people envy you for, gossip and jibe,
_ but silently wish to do, and dare never did.
_ Sweet sixteen, smoking cigs, makes you feel not at ease,
just because to show off, among friend and but to please.
_ What had left, at last, of things that had to pass,
but then when there is no more of such sweet things,
_of see you later, I love you and for forever, alas
_ who fancy, to tell me how? It’s all fake
_ you, who knows, where and how to take
_”and I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Not honey to make, nor pair, no build or sing”
_ It was all about love, and understanding.
_ Bitterly, this is it, C’est la vie, I learnt
_ By the road not always people took, I went
to see, railroads men, and departing train.
_pain in my heart, as it might rain
_ I will tell you such, and such were the joy
_tears, laughters, wounded limbs of a lit’le boy
_If you please, take pain to listen to me
_ it’s a nonsense, you may say
_then you burst in laughters,
_ and that, also I know, and dare say
_Oh, my heart, you still remember, do you?
_ When Marie went to draw water from the well
_She was so pretty and jolly.
Then, Fatima, the brunette, of Holy molly,
when I took her hand
it was so smooth ever than a step stone, where we sat
at the threshold of a fountain
_tear off petals of daisy flowers, and hours
_we thought then night and day, and the world were ours
To please them both, I learnt poetry, De Musset,
Baudelaire, et Rimbaud, Aragon, Hugo and La Fontaine.
Love me, love me not play
Proust, the Swan way.
à L’ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs.
Cutting classes, Fridays afternoon
And Sweet Tuesdays with moon
For the love of a girl’s mile
you can do anything, like walking handred and a mile
Many years, later on, I can’t help
But still remember now and then
Those were the days, my friend
That seemed never end
Please tell me where are they
When, eat, love and play
Was a day of no worried