scampo
Steve Campsall
Hi Mick and Tanny. Good to hear from you both. Hope all is well with you and yours!
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Birds and poetry (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter christineredgate
- Start date
Hi Mick and Tanny. Good to hear from you both. Hope all is well with you and yours!
Hi Christine-I'm glad you liked it.She is such an interesting character.A total recluse who wrote over 1700 poems , practically none of which were published in her lifetime. Now she is ranked alongside Walt Whitman.
Her hermit-like existence must have honed that intense personal imagery.
It's interesting that Andrew could find a personal recollection triggered.
I think she must be like that-clear as crystal to some-totally opaque for others-it just depends on the vision she had in mind & whether it chimes with the reader.
I like them very much-can't resist another!
' There came a wind like a bugle'
There came a wind like a bugle;
It quivered through the grass,
And a green chill upon the heat
So ominous did pass
We barred the windows and the doors
As from an emerald ghost;
The doom's electric moccasin
That very instant passed.
On a strange mob of panting trees,
And fences fled away,
And rivers where the houses ran
The living looked that day.
The bell within the steeple wild
The flying tidings whirled.
How much can come
And much can go,
And yet abide the world!
Emily Dickinson
Merlin & Andrew your talk of West Cornwall evokes thoughts of there. We had to leave Cornwall a year ago, & I miss it a lot.
Your right Andrew-West Penwith is a special place with roots in our deep history-enjoy it in May.
Bad luck on the Glossy Ibis Merlin-I have been drooling over pictures of them -they were on a Reserve I volunteer wardened on the Lizard!-hope your poems appear soon.
Colin
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Thanks,Colin,another excellent poem.Love the words,"Wind blowing like a bugle through the grass".
scampo
Steve Campsall
A difficult poem, Christine, for sure. I often struggle to enjoy Dickinson - always have, yet she's the out-and-out favourite of an American friend. I hunted around the Internet for more on this poem but to little avail. What I did find, though, was this somewhat similar and equally lovely poem. I hope you, Colin and others like it!
Bring me the sunset in a cup
Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning's flagons up,
And say how many dew;
Tell me how far the morning leaps,
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the breadths of blue!
Write me how many notes there be
In the new robin's ecstasy
Among astonished boughs;
How many trips the tortoise makes,
How many cups the bee partakes, —
The debauchee of dews!
Also, who laid the rainbow's piers,
Also, who leads the docile spheres
By withes of supple blue?
Whose fingers string the stalactite,
Who counts the wampum of the night,
To see that none is due?
Who built this little Alban house
And shut the windows down so close
My spirit cannot see?
Who'll let me out some gala day,
With implements to fly away,
Passing pomposity?
Emily Dickinson
Steve – thank you for posting Wordsworth’s Ode on Intimations of Immortality. Despite its reputation, I never studied it closely and so tended to regard it much as you did originally. I have now read it several times and can see what a deep and powerful poem it is and what fundamental truths it conveys.
Colin – Emily Dickinson is not an easy poet to understand and I sometimes feel I want a key to her mind, and then possibly a torch! That said, I have enjoyed the poems posted so far by you and Steve, even if I haven’t understood them fully. I think ‘Bring me the Sunset in a Cup’ is terrific. Here are three more short ones by her (her quirky dashes and capitals included). The first two I understand, the third one I don’t (I’d be grateful for any illumination).
I’m Nobody
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd banish us —you know!
How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one's name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!
The Robin
The Robin is the One
That interrupts the Morn
With hurried—few—express Reports
When March is scarcely on—
The Robin is the One
That overflows the Noon
With her cherubic quantity—
An April but begun—
The Robin is the One
That speechless from her Nest
Submits that Home—and Certainty
And Sanctity, are best.
At Half past Three
At Half past Three, a single Bird
Unto a silent Sky
Propounded but a single term
Of cautious melody.
At Half past Four, Experiment
Had subjugated test,
And lo, Her silver Principle
Supplanted all the rest.
At Half past Seven, Element
Nor Implement was seen—
And Place was where the Presence was,
Circumference between.
Emily Dickinson
Andrew
Colin – Emily Dickinson is not an easy poet to understand and I sometimes feel I want a key to her mind, and then possibly a torch! That said, I have enjoyed the poems posted so far by you and Steve, even if I haven’t understood them fully. I think ‘Bring me the Sunset in a Cup’ is terrific. Here are three more short ones by her (her quirky dashes and capitals included). The first two I understand, the third one I don’t (I’d be grateful for any illumination).
I’m Nobody
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd banish us —you know!
How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one's name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!
The Robin
The Robin is the One
That interrupts the Morn
With hurried—few—express Reports
When March is scarcely on—
The Robin is the One
That overflows the Noon
With her cherubic quantity—
An April but begun—
The Robin is the One
That speechless from her Nest
Submits that Home—and Certainty
And Sanctity, are best.
At Half past Three
At Half past Three, a single Bird
Unto a silent Sky
Propounded but a single term
Of cautious melody.
At Half past Four, Experiment
Had subjugated test,
And lo, Her silver Principle
Supplanted all the rest.
At Half past Seven, Element
Nor Implement was seen—
And Place was where the Presence was,
Circumference between.
Emily Dickinson
Andrew
Three nice ED poems Andrew.
"Circumference" is a special word in ED's poems-a Google on it & ED together will produce interesting material. It includes ideas of "the journey" together with "separation" and "awe" & "desire".
She uses it centrally in this poem which is about the continuity through time of the influence of poets.
The Poets light but Lamps —
Themselves — go out —
The Wicks they stimulate —
If vital Light
Inhere as do the Suns —
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference —
Emily Dickinson
I wouldn't attempt an interpretation of At Half past Three !
Colin
"Circumference" is a special word in ED's poems-a Google on it & ED together will produce interesting material. It includes ideas of "the journey" together with "separation" and "awe" & "desire".
She uses it centrally in this poem which is about the continuity through time of the influence of poets.
The Poets light but Lamps —
Themselves — go out —
The Wicks they stimulate —
If vital Light
Inhere as do the Suns —
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference —
Emily Dickinson
I wouldn't attempt an interpretation of At Half past Three !
Colin
Colin, Andrew & Steve,
Good poems from Emily Dickinson, I just stumbled across this one from her called
Wild Nights - Wild Nights
Wild Nights - Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile - the Winds
To a Heart in port
Done with the Compass
Done with the chart
Rowing in Eden
Ah, the Sea
Might I but moor - Tonight
In Thee!
I am not too sure what to make of this poem, (well perhaps I do?)
Merlin
Good poems from Emily Dickinson, I just stumbled across this one from her called
Wild Nights - Wild Nights
Wild Nights - Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile - the Winds
To a Heart in port
Done with the Compass
Done with the chart
Rowing in Eden
Ah, the Sea
Might I but moor - Tonight
In Thee!
I am not too sure what to make of this poem, (well perhaps I do?)
Merlin
Nerine
Well-known member
Some good stuff posted here recently, thanks everyone. Sorry I haven't found time to contribute. The Emily Dickinson poetry is interesting although I find much of it hard to understand. Merlin That "Wild Nights" one is exciting, a bit daring !!
Thanks to all the contributors and I'll try and find something soon - I'm off to my favourite haunt in Brittany for several days first.
Cheers
Nerine
Thanks to all the contributors and I'll try and find something soon - I'm off to my favourite haunt in Brittany for several days first.
Cheers
Nerine
Many thanks for that information, Colin, very interesting. However, whilst I can begin to understand her personalised meaning of ‘circumference’ in ‘The Poets light but Lamps’, I am still hard-pressed to make any sense of it in ‘At Half past Three’. I am reassured that you have difficulty in interpreting that poem as well! ED was certainly an intriguing woman who produced some extraordinary poetry.
As for ‘Wild Nights’, Merlin, it is certainly enigmatic and capable of different interpretations, but at the same time wistful and beautiful.
This is from another American woman poet, but of a different, softer, hue. Mary Oliver has had a couple of poems posted here but not I think this one, which I rather like.
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Mary Oliver
Good to hear from you, Nerine. Have a good weekend in Brittany.
Andrew
scampo
Steve Campsall
I'm not getting very far in increasing my appreciation of Dickinson - not for lack of trying. If there's a key, it's well hidden from me!
But, en route, I came across this beauty. I hope others like it as much as I have. I found it oddly moving. I haven't found out about the "thin men of Haddam" yet!
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
Wallace Stevens
But, en route, I came across this beauty. I hope others like it as much as I have. I found it oddly moving. I haven't found out about the "thin men of Haddam" yet!
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
Wallace Stevens
scampo
Steve Campsall
I have to say thanks to Colin for posting Dickinson as I've had a wonderful time reading other poets on the way. The Internet is so wonderful in the way it allows reference and cross-reference at such speed and with such individuality and ease.
Here are two poets writing on the subject of poetry. Sadly, the formatting and layout of Moore's poem is likely to be lost in this posting and with it will go a little of the extraordinary beauty of her poem. First, though, Dylan Thomas:
Now for Marianne Moore's beautifully quirky and ironic take on the same subject:
Poetry
I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless
wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse
that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician—
nor is it valid
to discriminate against “business documents and
school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make
a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
“literalists of
the imagination”—above
insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, “imaginary gardens with real toads in them,”
shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.
Marianne Moore
Here are two poets writing on the subject of poetry. Sadly, the formatting and layout of Moore's poem is likely to be lost in this posting and with it will go a little of the extraordinary beauty of her poem. First, though, Dylan Thomas:
Notes on the Art of Poetry
I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,,,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,, ,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,,,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,, ,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.
Dylan Thomas
Now for Marianne Moore's beautifully quirky and ironic take on the same subject:
Poetry
I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless
wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse
that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician—
nor is it valid
to discriminate against “business documents and
school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make
a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
“literalists of
the imagination”—above
insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, “imaginary gardens with real toads in them,”
shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.
Marianne Moore
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Merlin-loved "Wild Nights"-wonder who it was about?!
Andrew "Wild Geese" is a very nice poem.
Steve-Notes on the Art of Poetry is a new one on me from Dylan Thomas-it seems to sum up his sheer joy at the sound of words doesn't it?
On your general them of Poets on Poetry I quite like this -a more diffident approach than Dylan Thomas! -
Words
Out of us all
That make rhymes
Will you choose
Sometimes -
As the winds use
A crack in a wall
Or a drain,
Their joy or their pain
To whistle through -
Choose me,
You English words?
I know you:
You are light as dreams,
Tough as oak,
Precious as gold,
As poppies and corn,
Or an old cloak:
Sweet as our birds
To the ear,
As the burnet rose
In the heat
Of Midsummer:
Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:
Strange and sweet
Equally,
And familiar,
To the eye,
As the dearest faces
That a man knows,
And as lost homes are:
But though older far
Than oldest yew, -
As our hills are, old, -
Worn new
Again and again:
Young as our streams
After rain:
And as dear
As the earth which you prove
That we love.
Make me content
With some sweetness
From Wales
Whose nightingales
Have no wings, -
From Wiltshire and Kent
And Herefordshire, -
And the villages there, -
From the names, and the things
No less.
Let me sometimes dance
With you,
Or climb
Or stand perchance
In ecstasy,
Fixed and free
In a rhyme,
As poets do.
Edward Thomas
_________________
Colin
Andrew "Wild Geese" is a very nice poem.
Steve-Notes on the Art of Poetry is a new one on me from Dylan Thomas-it seems to sum up his sheer joy at the sound of words doesn't it?
On your general them of Poets on Poetry I quite like this -a more diffident approach than Dylan Thomas! -
Words
Out of us all
That make rhymes
Will you choose
Sometimes -
As the winds use
A crack in a wall
Or a drain,
Their joy or their pain
To whistle through -
Choose me,
You English words?
I know you:
You are light as dreams,
Tough as oak,
Precious as gold,
As poppies and corn,
Or an old cloak:
Sweet as our birds
To the ear,
As the burnet rose
In the heat
Of Midsummer:
Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:
Strange and sweet
Equally,
And familiar,
To the eye,
As the dearest faces
That a man knows,
And as lost homes are:
But though older far
Than oldest yew, -
As our hills are, old, -
Worn new
Again and again:
Young as our streams
After rain:
And as dear
As the earth which you prove
That we love.
Make me content
With some sweetness
From Wales
Whose nightingales
Have no wings, -
From Wiltshire and Kent
And Herefordshire, -
And the villages there, -
From the names, and the things
No less.
Let me sometimes dance
With you,
Or climb
Or stand perchance
In ecstasy,
Fixed and free
In a rhyme,
As poets do.
Edward Thomas
_________________
Colin
Me too Steve.
I've been watching some Morse re-runs-it was a series to which I was addicted.The music was wonderful but I don't remember any poetry.
So to see an episode in which John Thaw recited this from AE Housman was very moving.
How clear, how lovely bright,
How beautiful to sight
Those beams of morning play;
How heaven laughs out with glee
Where, like a bird set free,
Up from the eastern sea
Soars the delightful day.
To-day I shall be strong,
No more shall yield to wrong,
Shall squander life no more;
Days lost, I know not how,
I shall retrieve them now;
Now I shall keep the vow
I never kept before.
Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found,
How hopeless under ground
Falls the remorseful day
AE Housman
_______________________
Colin
I've been watching some Morse re-runs-it was a series to which I was addicted.The music was wonderful but I don't remember any poetry.
So to see an episode in which John Thaw recited this from AE Housman was very moving.
How clear, how lovely bright,
How beautiful to sight
Those beams of morning play;
How heaven laughs out with glee
Where, like a bird set free,
Up from the eastern sea
Soars the delightful day.
To-day I shall be strong,
No more shall yield to wrong,
Shall squander life no more;
Days lost, I know not how,
I shall retrieve them now;
Now I shall keep the vow
I never kept before.
Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found,
How hopeless under ground
Falls the remorseful day
AE Housman
_______________________
Colin
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Great poetry as usual, I must admit that Edward Thomas just lights a spark??
AE Housman died on April 30th 1936 and has many 'War poems' which seem timeless, after just listening to the news maybe this confirms that we really have learnt very little?
John Dryden died on May 1st 1700 so I have included what could be considered his most well known poem? It might be me but this poem could have easily been written by W.H.Davies???
Happy the Man
Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
John Dryden
regards
Merlin
AE Housman died on April 30th 1936 and has many 'War poems' which seem timeless, after just listening to the news maybe this confirms that we really have learnt very little?
John Dryden died on May 1st 1700 so I have included what could be considered his most well known poem? It might be me but this poem could have easily been written by W.H.Davies???
Happy the Man
Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
John Dryden
regards
Merlin
Excellent poems from Housman and Dryden. Merlin, good point about ‘Happy the Man’ and W H Davies. It seems to sum up WHD's attitude perfectly.
Continuing the Dryden theme, here is an excerpt from Milton’s L’Allegro (the happy person), together with one from his companion/contrasting poem, Il Penseroso (the thoughtful person) (both incidentally written in the year Dryden was born, 1631). On-thread too: the former has the lark and the cock (happy birds), the latter the nightingale (thoughtful, melancholy bird)!!
from L’ALLEGRO (ll 25-68)
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and wreathèd Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as ye go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled Dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet-briar or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine;
While the cock with lively din
Scatters the rear of Darkness thin;
And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before:
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerily rouse the slumbering Morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Sometime walking, not unseen,
By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o’er the furrowed land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
John Milton
from IL PENSEROSO (ll 31-72)
Come pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thy self to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring,
Ay round about Jove’s altar sing.
And add to these retirèd Leisure,
That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;
But, first and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,
The Cherub Contemplation,
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th'accustom'd oak;
- Sweet Bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee Chauntress oft the woods among,
I woo, to hear thy even-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green.
To behold the wandring Moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the Heaven’s wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
John Milton
Continuing the Dryden theme, here is an excerpt from Milton’s L’Allegro (the happy person), together with one from his companion/contrasting poem, Il Penseroso (the thoughtful person) (both incidentally written in the year Dryden was born, 1631). On-thread too: the former has the lark and the cock (happy birds), the latter the nightingale (thoughtful, melancholy bird)!!
from L’ALLEGRO (ll 25-68)
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and wreathèd Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as ye go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled Dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet-briar or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine;
While the cock with lively din
Scatters the rear of Darkness thin;
And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before:
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerily rouse the slumbering Morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Sometime walking, not unseen,
By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o’er the furrowed land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
John Milton
from IL PENSEROSO (ll 31-72)
Come pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thy self to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring,
Ay round about Jove’s altar sing.
And add to these retirèd Leisure,
That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;
But, first and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,
The Cherub Contemplation,
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th'accustom'd oak;
- Sweet Bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee Chauntress oft the woods among,
I woo, to hear thy even-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green.
To behold the wandring Moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the Heaven’s wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
John Milton
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Andrew,
two good poems, I have in the past overlooked Milton for the only reason that I know someone that can recite L'Allegro in its entirety and almost makes a living from it. Whereas I personally could not recite any of my own poems totally, perhaps that in itself confirms their memorability???
best regards
Merlin
two good poems, I have in the past overlooked Milton for the only reason that I know someone that can recite L'Allegro in its entirety and almost makes a living from it. Whereas I personally could not recite any of my own poems totally, perhaps that in itself confirms their memorability???
best regards
Merlin
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