posted
Hi again, people. I love literature. Hey, we all love, I guess. I started this thread so we could all share poems. Guess many of us like poetry. So, I ask you to write (or copy/paste) one or two of your favorite poems (I wouldn’t mind if someone want to post more than two, hehehe) and, maybe, talk a little about them, or the author.
Since I started the thread, here are my two cents. These two sonnets are from the PORTUGUESE poet Fernando Pessoa. Although he was born in Lisbon (Lisboa), he was raised in Durbain, South Africa, until late-teens, so English was almost his first language.
His best works are in portuguese, but he wrote a lot in english, when he was young. Unfortunatelly, since most here do not speak portuguese, I cannot transcript some of my favorite ones, from him. So, here are two (Imho) of Fernando Pessoa’s best english poems (written in 1918, already in Portugal).
I
Whether we write or speak of do but look We are ever unapparent. What we are Cannot be transfused into word or book. Our soul from us is infinitely far.
However much we give our thoughts the will To be our soul and gesture it abroad, Our hearts are incommunicable still. In what we show ourselves we are ignored.
The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged By any skill of thought or trick of seeming. Unto our very selves we are abridged
When we would utter to our thought our being. We are our dreams of ourselves souls by gleams, And each to each other dreams of others’ dreams.
VIII
How many masks wear we, and undermasks, Upon our countenance of soul, and when, If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks, Knows it the last mask off and the face plain?
The true mask feels no inside to the mask But looks out of the mask by co-masked eyes. Whatever consciousness begins the task The task’s accepted use to sleepness ties.
Like a child frighted by its mirrored faces, Our souls, that children are, being thought-losing, Foist otherness upon their seen grimaces
And get a whole world on their forgot causing; And, when a thought would unmask our soul’s masking, Itself goest not unmasked to the unmasking.
Oh, well...some people here can read portuguese. So, I will post two small ones, also from Fernando Pessoa.
Pobre velha música! Não sei por que agrado, Enche-se de lágrimas Meu olhar parado.
Recordo outro ouvir-te. Não sei se te ouvi Nessa minha infância Que me lembra em ti.
Com que ânsia tão raiva Quero aquele outrora! E eu era feliz? Não sei: Fui-o outrora agora.
AUTOPSICOGRAFIA
O Poeta é um fingidor. Finge tão completamente Que chega a fingir que é dor A dor que deveras sente.
E os que lêem o que escreve, Na dor lida sentem bem Não as duas que ele teve, Mas só a que eles não têm.
E assim nas calhas de roda Gira, a entreter a razão, Esse comboio de roda Que se chama o coração.
Hope you enjoyed! Post some! I love to read new poems!
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posted
Can't resist. I have this poem in my locker.
I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read, Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed, And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
Lord Byron My favorite love poem, at least the first half. The second half I don't like as much.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) Kubla Khan Or, a Vision in a Dream. A Fragment."
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.
This has always been one of my favorites. The story goes that Coleridge dreamed the poem almost completely. Upon awakening he hurriedly jotted it down--then was interupted. "A person on business from Porlock" interrupted him and he was never able to recapture more than "some eight or ten scattered lines and images." link [edit:Ryuko, I think it was absinthe or laudenum, not sure. From the link:" In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne [pain-killer] had been prescribed, from the effects of which he [Coleridge] fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in 'Purchas's Pilgrimage': "Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall."
Pixie, I like that riddle poem a lot. I doubt I would've guessed the answer. Eduardo, you might add "****SPOILER WARNING-RIDDLE ANSWER** " to your answer post. It's what we do at Hatrack to avoid spoiling or giving away plots of movies or books, or in this case a puzzle, for people that don't want to know. You can also put "spoiler" in the title of a thread if you want to dicuss a plot in detail. In this case I don't care, but someone gave away the ending to Matrix 2 without a spoiler warning and I was mad as I haven't seen that yet. Watchmen rule! That is the best comic. I forgot Ozymandias was a character in it. I just dug it up by chance today when I was cleaning my apartment./edit]
posted
"'Twas in heaven pronounced, and 'twas muttered in hell, An echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven usunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. 'Twas allotted to man with this earliest breath, Attends him at birth and awaits him at death. Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth. In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost on the prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarch is crowned. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower, Ah... breathe on it softly; it dies in an hour."
~Catherine M. Fanshawe, "A Riddle"
I've never been able to figure this riddle out, but the possibilities each line and each combination thereof presents are just tantalizing enough to make this a favorite regardless. ...To me, at least.
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posted
::laughs:: So I see. Though... ::pouts:: That spoils it . It does explain why I could never get more than 2/3 of the poem to agree with my answers, though.
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Mormo - The story I heard about Kubla Khan was that the author was trippin' out on the ganj before he wrote the poem... Or maybe it was opium, I can't remember.
As for me, I love Robert Frost poetry. Here are a couple of my faves...
BEREFT
Where had I heard this wind before Change like this to a deeper roar? What would it take my standing there for, Holding open a restive door, Looking down hill to a frothy shore? Summer was past and day was past. Somber clouds in the west were massed. Out in the porch's sagging floor, leaves got up in a coil and hissed, Blindly struck at my knee and missed. Something sinister in the tone Told me my secret must be known: Word I was in the house alone Somehow must have gotten abroad, Word I was in my life alone, Word I had no one left but God.
IN A DISUSED GRAVE YARD
The living come with grassy tread To read the gravestones on the hill; The graveyard draws the living still, But never anymore the dead. The verses in it say and say: "The ones who living come today To read the stones and go away Tomorrow dead will come to stay." So sure of death the marbles rhyme, Yet can't help marking all the time How no one dead will seem to come. What is it men are shrinking from? It would be easy to be clever And tell the stones: Men hate to die And have stopped dying now forever. I think they would believe the lie.
THE ROSE FAMILY
The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But the theory now goes That the apple's a rose, And the pear is, and so's The plum, I suppose. The dear only know What will next prove a rose. You, of course, are a rose-- But were always a rose.
DEVOTION
The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to the ocean-- Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition.
^_^ I love Robert Frost.
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Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower, But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf, So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
~Robert Frost, "Nothing Gold Can Stay"
On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road run by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early, In among the bearded barley Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly; Down to tower'd Camelot; And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy The Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two. She hath no loyal Knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot; Or when the Moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed. "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, burning bright, Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining. Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And around about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance -- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right -- The leaves upon her falling light -- Thro' the noises of the night, She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame, And around the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot; But Lancelot mused a little space He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."
~Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "The Lady of Shalott"
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My favorite two poets are Frost and Poe. The reason being that Frost is the master of symbolism. The layers of meaning in his works are incredible. Poe is the technical master of poetry. His meter creates a mood, as does his diction, and descriptions.
My favorite poem of all time is probably The Raven. It's very popular because I think it is the best work of American poetry.
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When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And feel that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
~John Keats, "When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be"
Uu! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow, Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless-- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-- We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
~William Wordsworth, "The Tables Turned"
I
It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?
The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din.'
He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye-- The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will.
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.
'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top.
The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon--' The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy.
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.
And now the Storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along.
With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled.
And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-- The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound!
At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name.
It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through!
And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'
'God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!-- Why look'st thou so?'--'With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross.'
II
The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea.
And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo!
And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow!
Nor dim nor red like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist.
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.
Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea!
All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon.
Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink.
The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea.
About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white.
And some in dreams assur'ed were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow.
And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot.
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.
III
There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky.
At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered.
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail!
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all.
See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel!
The western wave was all a-flame. The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun.
And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face.
Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres?
Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a DEATH? and are there two? Is DEATH that woman's mate?
Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold.
The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; 'The game is done! I've won! I've won!' Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark.
We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip-- Till clomb above the eastern bar The horn'ed Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip.
One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye.
Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one.
The souls did from their bodies fly,-- They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow!
IV
'I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand.
I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown.'-- Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! This body dropt not down.
Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.
The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I.
I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay
I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust.
I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet.
The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they: The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away.
An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights saw that curse, And yet I could not die.
The moving Moon went up the sky, And no where did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside--
Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charm'ed water burnt alway A still and awful red.
Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes.
Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, Then coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire.
O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.
The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.
V
Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul.
The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained.
My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank.
I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light--almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a bless'ed ghost.
And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere.
The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about! And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between.
And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge; And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge.
The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide.
The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan.
They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise.
The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up-blew; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools-- We were a ghastly crew.
The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me.
'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!' Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest:
For when it dawned--they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed.
Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one.
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!
And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute.
It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the Ship, Moved onward from beneath.
Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid: and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also.
The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean: But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motion-- Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion.
Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound.
How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air.
'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross.
The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.'
The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.'
VI
First Voice
'But tell me, tell me! speak again, They soft response renewing-- What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing?'
Second Voice
'Still as a slave before his lord, The ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast--
If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him.'
First Voice
'But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?'
Second Voice 'The air is cut away before, And closes from behind.
Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated.'
I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather: 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high; The dead men stood together.
All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter.
The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray.
And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen--
Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.
But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade.
It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring-- It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming.
Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-- On me alone it blew.
Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree?
We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray-- O let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway.
The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay, the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon.
The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady, weathercock.
And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came.
A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turned my eyes upon the deck-- Oh, Christ! what saw I there!
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood.
This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly, sight! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light;
This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart-- No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart.
But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer; My head was turned perforce away And I saw a boat appear.
The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast.
I saw a third-I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul he'll wash away The Albatross's blood.
VII
THIS Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree.
He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-- He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump.
The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 'Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?'
'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said-- 'And they answered not our cheer! The planks looked warped! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were
Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young.'
'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look-- (The Pilot made reply) I am a-feared'--'Push on, push on!' Said the Hermit cheerily.
The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard.
Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dead: It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead.
Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat.
Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound.
I moved my lips--the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit.
I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. 'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.'
And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand.
'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' The Hermit crossed his brow. 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say-- What manner of man art thou?
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free.
Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns.
I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.
What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer!
O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seem'ed there to be.
O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!--
To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends And youths and maidens gay!
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.
The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door.
He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.
~Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"
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I love that poem. What's interesting is I love Romantic poetry, but what I write is very Classical. Both good, but different.
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JaneX, I like "The Lady of Shallott" very much! Do you know that a canadian singer called Loreena Mckennitt turned it into the lyrics of a very beautiful song?
If you are curious, search for her name or the album, called "The Visit".
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I recently bought Good Poems, compiled by Garrison Keillor. It's got everything essential, and a good mix of everything else. I'm a big fan.
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So everyone's favorite poets are the Romantics -- Keats, Shelley, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Byron -- with a smattering of Frost and the occasional random entry?
Not that I differ. This poem by Byron's a great favorite of mine, though I can't really explain why. It's not the best I've read, nor particularly deep. But it's always struck a note with me. A wild and deep strain.
MY SOUL IS DARK by Lord Byron
My soul is dark -- Oh! quickly string The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear, That sound shall charm it forth again: If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
But bid the strain be wild and deep, Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nursed, And ached in sleepless silence, long; And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, And break at once -- or yield to song.
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I want to die while you love me, While yet you hold me fair, While laughter lies upon my lips, And lights are in my hair. -Georgia Douglas Johnson
I've lived to bury my desires, And see my dreams corrode with rust; Now all that's left are fruitless fires That burn my empty heart to dust. -Aleksandr Pushkin
The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say. -J.R.R. Tolkien
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity. -Percy Bysshe Shelley "Adonais"
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I'm a fan of the romantics as well, though I think Hugo is my favorite:
*************************
Saison des semailles le soir La chanson des rues et des bois
C'est le moment crépusculaire J'admire, assis sous un portail, Ce reste de jour dont s'éclaire La dernière heure de travail. Dans les terres de nuit baignées, Je contemple, ému, les haillons D'un vieillard qui jette à poignées La moisson future aux sillons.
Sa haute silhouette noire Domine les profonds labours, On sent à quel point il doit croire A la fuite utile des jours, Il marche dans la plaine immense, Va, vient, lance la graine au loin Rouvre sa main et recommence, Et je médite, obscur témoin,
Pendant que, déployant ses voiles, L'ombre où se mêle une rumeur, Semble élargie jusqu'aux étoiles Le geste auguste du semeur.
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Anything by Poe, because of its sheer awesomeness, and Rhoald Dahl, because he makes me giggle.
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Here dead lie we because we did not choose To live and shame the land from which we sprung. Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.
Posts: 968 | Registered: Sep 2003
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I adore the romantics too. I'm a 19th century schmaltz goddess. But, here's some more modern stuff that I've grown to really love as well: *************************************
I will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers i will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness in the sleeping curves of my body shall enter fingers of smooth mastery with chasteness of sea girls will i complete the mystery of my flesh i will rise After a thousand years lipping flowers And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
--E.E. Cummings (the UBB ruins the visual imagery of this poem and left justifies all the lines.) ************ i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth day of life and love and wings:and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any--lifted from the no of all nothing--human merely being doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
--E.E. Cummings ************
if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but it will be a heaven of blackred roses
my father will be(deep like a rose tall like a rose)
standing near my
(swaying over her silent) with eyes which are really petals and see
nothing with the face of a poet really which is a flower and not a face with hands which whisper This is my beloved my
(suddenly in sunlight
he will bow,
& the whole garden will bow)
******** Agua Nocturna
La noche de ojos de caballo que tiemblan en la noche, la noche de ojos de agua en el campo dormido, está en tus ojos de caballo que tiembla, está en tus ojos de agua secreta. Ojos de agua de sombra, ojos de agua de pozo, ojos de agua de sueño.
El silencio y la soledad, como dos pequeños animales a quienes guía la luna, beben en esos ojos, beben en esas agua.
Si abres los ojos, se abre la noche de puertas de musgo, se abre el reino secreto del agua que mana del centro de la noche.
Y si los cierras, un río te inunda por dentro, avanza, te haré oscura: la noche moja riberas en tu alma.
Octavio Paz Fra digtsamlingen Bajo tu clara sombra y otros poemas sobre España. Valencia: Ediciones Españolas, 1937
(this one is so romantic and it's just stunning in Eric Whitacre's choral setting, even though he translates it to English.) Here's the english translation:
Night with the eyes of a horse that trembles in the night, night with eyes of water in the field asleep is in your eyes, a horse that trembles is in your eyes of secret water.
Eyes of shadow-water, eyes of well-water, eyes of dream-water.
Silence and solitude, two little animals moon-led, drink in your eyes, drink in those waters.
If you open your eyes, night opens doors of musk, the secret kingdom of the water opens flowing from the center of the night.
And if you close your eyes, a river, a silent and beautiful current, fills you from within, flows forward, darkens you:
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Every year while I was in elementary school The Highwayman was read to us. For some reason, rather than growing to hate it like the rest of my classmates, it has wound up being my favorite poem. I guess I just associate it with some good memories. Amusingly enough, Loreena Mckennitt also made that into a song. She has good taste in poetry, even if so much of her music sounds the same
Of course my father would have my head if I was ever part of a discussion about poetry that didn't have a healthy does of Byron and Burns. Byron has already been well represented, so here's Burns' most famous work:
O, my luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune
As fair art thou, my bonie lass So deep in luve am I And I will luve thee still, my Dear Till a' the seas gang dry
Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear And the rocks melt wi' the sun! O I will luve thee still, my Dear While the sands o' life shall run. --My Love is Like a Red, Red, Rose
Oh man, this is reminding me of another poem Dad loved. I can't for the life of me remember how it all went. It started off:
When Adam was warden over Eden's braw garden, T' pree any fruit he had leave. But narry touch apples, they'll stick in your thraples, The Lord said to Adam and Eve.
I know it's a long shot, but if anyone knows how this goes I'd really, REALLY appreciate it.
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Tom, the poetry on your site is great. I adore the Dirge Without Music. We're singing a modern choral setting of that this year and actually recording it as part of a CD of Margaret Garwood's works. It's quite beautiful and I've really gotten to get personal with the poem (which I realize becomes a Dirge WITH Music once we sing it. Oh well. )
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I like do not go gently into that good night, but im not gonna post it here, because this page is way too long as it is, and everyone knows it so it would just take up space.
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Ooh, nice selection, Tom. I especially like the Dorothy Parker. But how can you have E.A. Robinson and NOT have "Miniver Cheevy"?
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would send him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing: He missed the medieval grace Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
And another favorite of mine:
Pretty
Why is the word pretty so underrated? In November the leaf is pretty when it falls The stream grows deep in the woods after rain And in the pretty pool the pike stalks
He stalks his prey, and this is pretty too, The prey escapes with an underwater flash But not for long, the great fish has him now The pike is a fish who always has his prey
And this is pretty. The water rat is pretty His paws are not webbed, he cannot shut his nostrils As the otter can and the beaver, he is torn between The land and water. Not torn, he does not mind.
The owl hunts in the evening and it is pretty The lake water below him rustles with ice There is frost coming from the ground, in the air mist All this is pretty, it could not be prettier.
Yes, it could always be prettier, the eye abashes It is becoming an eye that cannot see enough, Out of the wood the eye climbs. This is prettier A field in the evening, tilting up.
The field tilts to the sky. Though it is late The sky is lighter than the hill field All this looks easy but really it is extraordinary Well, it is extraordinary to be so pretty.
And it is careless, and that is always pretty The field, this owl, this pike, this pool are careless, As Nature is always careless and indifferent Who sees, who steps, means nothing, and this is pretty.
So a person can come along like a thief--pretty!-- Stealing a look, pinching the sound and feel, Lick the icicle broken from the bank And still say nothing at all, only cry pretty.
Cry pretty, pretty, pretty and you'll be able Very soon not even to cry pretty And so be delivered entirely from humanity This is prettiest of all, it is very pretty.
In the garden, lying By the brick wall in the dirt Where the sprinklers drench each night And the sun never shines I saw something black, It looked like feces of the elephant ear, Like merchandise, In plastic wrap, thrown Under the plants, repulsive as offal, Daring me to fall on it and Eat it if I really loved life.
I.
THE ALLNIGHT HAMBURGER STAND IN THE
DANGEROUS NEIGHBORHOOD
The Murder Burger is served right here. You need not wait at the gate of Heaven for unleavened death. You can be a gonner on this very corner. Mayonnaise, onions, dominance of flesh. If you wish to eat it you must feed it. "Yall come back." "You bet."
If you like that, here's some linkage for ya. Click on the book cover to read samples from the book.
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I loved you once, nor can this heart be quiet; For it would seem that love still lingers there; But do not you be further troubled by it; I would in no wise hurt you, oh, my dear. I loved you without hope, a mute offender; What jealous pangs, what shy despairs I knew! A love as deep as this, as true, as tender, God grant another may yet offer you.
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Come to the edge. We might fall. Come to the edge. It's too high. Come to the edge! And they came, And he pushed, And they flew. -Christopher Logue (from memory, so I might have a few words wrong)
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Not to rain on your parade, but there are copyright issues involved in posting poems wholesale. A lot of the works that have been posted are in the public domain, but others aren't. Just sayin'.
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Rivka is right, people. It's preety common posting one or two entire poems (I beg you to always mention the author, though - oh, but you already do that ).
I like this thread a lot. :-)
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Hey, Poe fans...here is a favorite one! "The Raven", From E.A.P. Most of you know it, already, but it is always fun to read it!
I am really a sucker for Poe...
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door- Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;- Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"- Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never- nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted- On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore- Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted- nevermore!
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posted
Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach" hasn't been mentioned, has it? I've always loved it:
The sea is calm to-night, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits;-on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, Listen! You hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. But now I can only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true To one another! For the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.
William Butler Yates' "The Second Coming" is another one that has always captivated me:
TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of i{Spiritus Mundi}
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
There is a particular poem by Sappho that I'm looking for, and will post when I find it, but so far Google hasn't been as helpful as I'd like.
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Rudyard Kipling's "If" (from memory, and more than 'just' a poem
If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, yet make allowance for their doubting too If you can wait and not be tired by waiting Or being lied about, don't deal in lies Or being hated, don't give way to hating Yet not look too good, nor talk to wise
If you can dream and not make dreams your master If you can think and not make thoughts your aim If you can meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those two imposters just the same If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken, twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools If you can bear to see the things you gave your life to, broken, and stoop to build them up again with worn out tools
If you can make one heap of all your winnings, and risk at one game of pitch and toss, and lose, and start again at your beginnings, and never breath a word about your loss If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew, to serve your turn long after they are gone, and so hold on, when there is nothing left in you, except the will that says 'hold on'!
If you can walk with crowds and keep you virtue Or talk with kings, nor lose the common touch If neither foe nor loving friend can hurt you If all men count with you, yet none to much If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds worth of distance run Then yours is the earth, and everything that's in it, and which is more, you'll be a man, my son
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posted
I must admit - I don't have enough of an attention span to read a poem with more than 4 stanzas.
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THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; 5 And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; 10 And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs— Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings. -- Gerard Manley Hopkins
Yes, it's a standard favorite of many, but for good reason -- best Christian poem ever.
Fra Lippo Lippi. This is longer than four stanzas, Annie, but you should read it -- it's about art and religion and it's funny.
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posted
Hmm... once again we need more Canadian content...
There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The arctic trails have secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The northern lights have seen queer sights But the queerest they ever did see, Was that night on the marge of Lake Labarge I cremated Sam McGee.
-The First stanze of "The Cremation of Sam McGee" by Robert W. Service
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posted
Wait, the dude who wrote "The Cremation of Sam McGee" is Canadian? But Sam McGee's from Tennessee.
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posted
Anybody ever read any of Robinson Jeffers' work? There are individual lines in his poems that I like, but any time I've ever read an entire poem of his, I've kind of felt like smacking him on his misanthropic little head.
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posted
Same McGee is indeed from Tenesse, where the cotton blooms and blows. But the author... ain't. Actually, the author was born in England, but spent most of his adult life in Canada, was with the Canadian military during World War I and so on. We're claiming him. But he did spend his twilight years in the French Riviara and died in Monte Carlo. So who knows what nationality he really is?
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posted
I've always been fond of this poem by JRR Tolkein
The fat cat on the mat may seem to dream of nice mice which suffice for him, or cream. But he, free, maybe, walks in thought unbowed, proud, where loud roared and fought his kin, lean and slim, who deap in den in the east feasted on beasts, and tender men. The giant lion with iron claw in paw, and huge ruthless tooth in gory jaw, The pard, dark starred, fleet upon feet, which oft soft from aloft leaps on his meat, where woods loom in gloom. Far though they be, fierce and free, and tamed is he, But fat cat on the mat, kept as a pet, he does not forget.
I am also fond of William Blake
Tyger, Tyger, buring bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame they fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps of skies, Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings did he aspire? What the hand, dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain, In what furnace burnt thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears and watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee?
Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Another good Blake poem, the Clod and the Pebble:
Love seeketh not Itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care; But for another gives its ease, And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.
So sang a little Clod of Clay, Trodden with the cattles feet; But a Pebble of the brook, Warbles out these meters meet.
Love seekest only Self to please To bind another to Its Delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a Hell, in Heaven's despite.
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. It does explain why I could never get more than 2/3 of the poem to agree with my answers, though.
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