Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
John McAuliffeBill Manhire in Conversation with John McAuliffe
(PN Review 259)
Patricia CraigVal Warner: A Reminiscence
(PN Review 259)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Tim Parksin conversation with Natalia Ginzburg
(PN Review 49)
Next Issue Gwyneth Lewis ‘Spiderings’ Ian Thomson ‘Fires were started: Tallinn, 1944’ Adrian May ‘Traditionalism and Tradition’ Judith Herzberg ‘Poems’ translated by Margitt Helbert Horatio Morpurgo ‘What is a Book?’
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
Reader Survey
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 63, Volume 15 Number 1, September - October 1988.

Four Poems James Keery

Pope Reflects

The gloomy verdure of Stonor, and then the shades of the evening overtook me;
The moon rose in the clearest sky I ever saw. Nothing could have more
Of that melancholy, which once used to please me, than that day's journey.

I conformed myself to the college hours, and was rolled up in books.
I lay in one of the most ancient, dusky parts of the University,
And was as dead to the world as any hermit of the desert.

If anything was awake or alive in me, it was a little vanity;
For I found myself received with a sort of respect
Which this idle part of mankind, the learned, pay to their own species.

Methinks I do very ill, to leave the only place where I make a good figure,
And from seeing myself seated on the most conspicuous shelves of a library
To venture out again, into the sun, into the mirrors and lights of Bolton St.

Newchurch Halt

They marvelled at the lifeless-looking water.
The pond was just a depression in the middle

Searching, please wait... animated waiting image