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Ladies gentlemen, University Extension, the University of Delaware presents Robert Hill, you're American poet. I'll begin with a poem of my

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own from my book, the sea. It's entitled L in the morning. And in the morning of a lovely summer day. As they lowered the bright awning

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at the outdoor cafe. I was breakfast sting on cross on a cafe ole, under greenery like scenery. And with Francois FMEA,

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they were hosing hot pavement or the dash, a flashing spray and a smell Like so much hours when the dust is drenched

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away under greenery like scenery. Read Francois FMEA, I was 20 and a lava. And in paradise to stay very early in the morning,

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Have a lovely summer day. The next poem on the program is valid. The great American poet, I do nine and Robinson.

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It's called Mr. floods Pompei. And it's typical of Robinson's delineation of character. With so much pathos, so much sympathy,

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understanding, and yet also a sense of humor. Mr. floods potting, old Evan flood, climbing alone one night over the hill between the town below and the

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FAA second up land heritage that held as much as he should ever now on again, if home paused where LA the road was his with not a naked man.

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And Evan having leisure, said aloud for no man else until re town to hear. Well, Mr. flood, have the harvest moon again,

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and we may not have many, ma, the bed is undoing, the poet says, and you and I have said it here before.

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Drink to the bed. He raised up to the light, the jug that he had gone so far to fail at that and said

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Haskell a realm is to flood. Since you propose it, I believe I well, alone as if enduring to the end a

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valiant of Scott hopes out lawn. He stood there in the middle of the road, like Roland's goes, winding and silent Han

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below him in the town among the trees. Dear friends if other days had honored him, a phantom salutation of the dead rang thinly till old Evans eyes were dim.

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Then as another they have sleeping child down 10 delay. Theory may awake. He set the jug down slowly at

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his feet with trembling care, knowing that most things break. And only want to show that anthem. It stood as the uncertain lives

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of men assuredly did not. He paced away and with his hand extended, paused again. We're almost to flood.

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We have not met like this in a long time. And many change has come to both of us. I fear since last it was we had a drought together.

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Welcome home. Convivial a returning with himself. Again. He raised the jug up to the light and with

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an acquiescent quaver said, Well, Mr. flood, if you insist, I might only have very little mister flood for all Lang Zhan know matzah.

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That will do. So for the time apparently did. And Evan evidently thought so too. For soon amid the silver loneliness of night,

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he lifted up his voice and saying, secure with only two moons, listening until the whole harmonious landscape rang.

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For all Lang xi1, that where a throat gave out the last word way that in the song being done,

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he raised again the jag regretfully and shook his head and was again alone. There was not much that was ahead of him. And there was nothing in the town

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below where strangers would have shut the many daws that many friends had opened long ago. In order to give our program variety.

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I'm going to turn back now to the Elizabethan sonnet. I'm going to read two sonnets by the final, the Elizabethan poet Michael Drayton,

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who was a very impatient man. And this man and his son it show it, they're very outspoken views offend of Shakespeare.

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And often his sonnets and Shakespeare's deal with the same themes. Now the first of these two scientists tells of his despair.

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Concerning his love for his lady, the second son, it is as rude, assign it as was ever written to any lady.

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Why should your fair eyes with such sovereign grace, disperse their raise on every valgus spirit, whilst IN darkness in the self-same place.

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Get not one glance to recompense minor. So does the plum and gaze the wandering star. And only rest contented with the light that Netherland constellations.

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Beyond the bend of his unknowing side. Oh, why should build a custom to obey to their growth cents? Apply herself.

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So l would God, I were as ignorant as day when I, uh, made unhappy by my scale. Only compel on this poor, good to boast.

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Heavens are not kind to them that know them most. He didn't win the lady. And among many impatient sonnets,

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I read this one which was supposed to hit her vanity. The most. Nothing gray use neighbor that aid should

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haste that in my days I may not see the IO that where those two care sparkling eyes are placed. Only two loopholes than I might behold.

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That lovely jade ivory polished brow, the face to his wrinkles that I might not see. The identity hair so killed and crisp and

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now like grizzled mass upon some aged tree, like shake, now flushed with roses, sunk and lean. Thy lips with age is

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any wafer-thin live Pele teeth out of thy head so clean, that will now feeds die No shall touch such in these lines that now Das kannst,

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which should delight they. Then when I make the read back to despite a, as I say, I think that is as rude. Assign it as who's ever written interrelated.

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So I think that I did it one supply the ad he dealt with a poem of William Butler Yeats is also dealing with His love when she grows old,

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but with a very different tone. When you are old and grey and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book And

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slowly read and dream of the soft lock your eyes had once and of their shadows deep. How many loved your moments of glad grace And

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loved your beauty with love, false or true. But one man loved the pilgrim soul and knew and loved the sorrows of your changing face.

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And bending down beside the glowing bars a little sadly, how Love fled and paste upon the mountains overhead and hid his face,

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emit a cloud of stars. And while we're reading from Yates, I see the lovely and LA lyric the lake either industry.

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I will arise and go now and go to Innisfree and a small cabin, build their clay and waffles. Male 9 been Roseville. I have there.

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I have for the honeybee and live alone and be loud, Wade. And I shall have some peace there. For peace comes dropping slow,

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dropping from the veils of the morning to hear the crickets sing their midnights, all a grandma and noon,

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a purple bow, and evening. Follow the Lennon swings. I will arise and go now for always night and day.

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I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the Sean. While I stand on the roadway around the pavements grey.

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I hear it in the de, heart's com. There are many poets who have written in English, who have succeeded in

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writing only one poem that isn't dead cell to posterity. And among these, it seems to me is William Curry,

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who made a translation from the Greek anthology. Which seems to me or an honorable beauty. It's a friend morning for

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a friend whose name was Heraclitus. And it goes thus. They told me Heraclitus. They tell me you are dead.

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They brought me better news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wet. As I remembered how often you and I had

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Tad the sun when talking and send him down the sky. And now that are lying, my dear old Karen

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guessed a handful of gray ashes. Long, long ago at rest. Still. Other pleasant voice is, hi, Nightingale's awake. For death.

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He take it all away. But then he cannot take. I'll end with one short poem by Siegfried Sassoon,

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the modern English poet whose war poems from the First World War, dealing realistically with war for the first time brought him fame.

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But I'm not going to read one of those realistic poems. This time I'm going to read an extended poem called everyone's saying.

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Everyone suddenly burst out singing. And I was filled with such delight as prison beds must find in freedom winging wildly across

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the white orchards and dark green fields. On, on and out of sight. Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted and beauty came like the setting sun.

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My heart was shaken or tears and horror drifted away. Oh, but everyone was a bid and the song was wordless.

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The singing will never be done. I find, I have a little more time to actually read two beautiful EPA grams

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by Walter Savage Landor. The first call this pass ruined island, Helen layers. Our ancestors rises from the shades.

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This calls them for his verse that gives a model youth to MOHO made soon shall oblivion, deepening veil,

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hide all the people hills you see, the gay, the proud, while others hail. These many summers. You and me.

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And last day his epigram called finance. I strove with none for non was with my stri nature I loved. And next to nature,

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I warmed both hands before the fire of lie. It sinks and I'm ready to depart.