Frost at Midnight - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 Frost at Midnight

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud, -and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My playmate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Ode on the Death of a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfish - Thomas Gray

And now for something rather different......a humorous poem!

Ode on the Death of a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfish

Twas on a lofty vase's side,

Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purred applause.

Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to every watery god,
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard;
A favorite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters, gold.

Sonnet 1 - Sir Philip Sidney

In this sonnet, the narrator describes the uselessness of study and mental dedication in his attempts to write romantic poetry for his lady love.  Instead, he says, he must simply write from the heart.  The irony -- doubtless intentional -- is that not only is Sidney the quintessential artist in his sonnets, which are polished to perfection, but he also employs logic extensively in service of his point!

Astrophil and Stella: Sonnet 1

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,

That the dear she might take some pleasure of my pain,

Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,

Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe:

Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,

Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;

Invention, Nature's child, fled stepdame Study's blows;

And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.

Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:

"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."

Ozymandias - Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ozymandias

I met a traveller 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 on 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.

The Fair Singer - Andrew Marvell

A "courtly compliment" poem in praise of a lady who is doubly charming: she's both gorgeous and a good singer!

The Fair Singer

To make a final conquest of all me,
Love did compose so sweet an enemy,
In whom both beauties to my death agree,
Joining themselves in fatal harmony;
That while she with her eyes my heart does bind,
She with her voice might captivate my mind.

I could have fled from one but singly fair:
My disentangled soul itself might save,
Breaking the curlèd trammels of her hair.
But how should I avoid to be her slave,
Whose subtle art invisibly can wreathe
My fetters of the very air I breathe?

It had been easy fighting in some plain,
Where victory might hang in equal choice,
But all resistance against her is vain,
Who has th' advantage both of eyes and voice,
And all my forces needs must be undone,
She having gainèd both the wind and sun.

Song by John Donne

Song

Sweetest love, I do not go
   For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
   A fitter love for me;
      But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest,
   Thus by feigned deaths to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,
   And yet is here today;
He hath no desire nor sense,
   Nor half so short a way:
      Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
   More wings and spurs than he.

O how feeble is man's power,
   That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
   Nor a lost hour recall!
      But come bad chance,
And we join t' it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
   Itself o'er us t' advance.

When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
   But sigh'st my soul away;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
   My life's blood doth decay.
      It cannot be
That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste;
   Thou art the best of me.

Let not they divining heart
   Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take they part,
   And may thy fears fulfill;
      But think that we
Are but turned aside to sleep;
They who one another keep
   Alive, ne'er parted be.

The Eagle - Alfred, Lord Tennyson

A short, picturesque "fragment" by Tennyson.

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Acquainted with the Night - Robert Frost

Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,

O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

Sonnet 30 - William Shakespeare

It's time for another Shakespeare sonnet.  :)  I enjoy looking at the imagery in this one because it is so technical -- using judicial and especially financial words and metaphors -- and yet explores a topic which one would expect to be more emotional (sadness of life and the solace a friend provides).  Thus the poet expresses himself uniquely and cleverly.  Look how many financial words he uses here -- canceled, expense, tell over (add/count up), account, pay/paid, as well as other words which can have financial connotations in context, such as loss and waste. 

Sonnet 30

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.

Parting, without a Sequel - John Crowe Ransom

Parting, without a Sequel

She has finished and sealed the letter
At last, which he so richly has deserved,
With characters venomous and hatefully curved,
And nothing could be better.

But even as she gave it
Saying to the blue-capped functioner of doom,
"Into his hands," she hoped the leering groom
Might somewhere lose and leave it.

Then all the blood
Forsook the face.  She was too pale for tears,
Observing the ruin of her younger years.
She went and stood

Under her father's vaunting oak
Who kept his peace in wind and sun, and glistened
Stoical in the rain; to whom she listened
If he spoke.

And now the agitation of the rain
Rasped his sere leaves, and he talked low and gentle
Reproaching the wan daughter by the lintel;
Ceasing and beginning again.

Away went the messenger's bicycle,
His serpent's track went up the hill forever,
And all the time she stood there hot as fever
And cold as any icicle.

Shiloh: A Requiem (April 1862) - Herman Melville

A different type of war poem...and a very effective one, I think.

Shiloh
A Requiem (April 1862)

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
   The swallows fly low
Over the field in clouded days,
   The forest-field of Shiloh --
Over the field where April rain
Solaced the parched one stretched in pain
Through the pause of night
That followed the Sunday fight
   Around the church of Shiloh --
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
      And natural prayer
   Of dying foemen mingled there --
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve --
   Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
   But now they lie low,
While over them the swallows skim,
   And all is hushed at Shiloh.

A Song for St. Cecilia's Day - John Dryden

No, it's not St. Cecilia's Day today, but I didn't want to wait till November to post this one.  :)  It's a poem in celebration of music, and sections 3-7 are especially awesome in their sound-effects as Dryden evokes the sounds of various musical instruments.  In the first stanza, he describes the role music played in the world's creation; in the last one, he talks about its role in earth's final days.


A Song for St. Cecilia's Day

Stanza 1

From harmony, from Heavenly harmony

               This universal frame began.

       When Nature underneath a heap

               Of jarring atoms lay,

       And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,

               Arise ye more than dead.

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,

       In order to their stations leap,

               And music's power obey.

From harmony, from Heavenly harmony

               This universal frame began:

               From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,

       The diapason closing full in man.

Stanza 2

What passion cannot music raise and quell!

                When Jubal struck the corded shell,

         His listening brethren stood around

         And wondering, on their faces fell

         To worship that celestial sound:

Less than a god they thought there could not dwell

                Within the hollow of that shell

                That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion cannot music raise and quell!

Stanza 3

         The trumpet's loud clangor

                Excites us to arms

         With shrill notes of anger

                        And mortal alarms.

         The double double double beat

                Of the thund'ring drum

         Cries, "Hark the foes come;

Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat."

Stanza 4

         The soft complaining flute

         In dying notes discovers

         The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Stanza 5

         Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs, and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains and height of passion,

         For the fair, disdainful dame.

Stanza 6

But oh! what art can teach

         What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their Heavenly ways

         To mend the choirs above.

Stanza 7

Orpheus could lead the savage race;

And trees unrooted left their place;

                Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher;

         When to her organ, vocal breath was given,

An angel heard, and straight appeared

                Mistaking earth for Heaven.

GRAND CHORUS

As from the power of sacred lays

         The spheres began to move,

And sung the great Creator's praise

         To all the blest above;

So when the last and dreadful hour

   This crumbling pageant shall devour,

The trumpet shall be heard on high,

         The dead shall live, the living die,

         And music shall untune the sky.

To Celia - Ben Jonson

This love lyric is especially known for its strikingly beautiful opening line, but the whole thing is quite pretty.

To Celia

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
   And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
   And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
   Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
   I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
   Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
   It could not wither'd be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
   And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows and smells, I swear
   Not of itself, but thee!

The Soldier - Rupert Brooke

Rupert Brooke is one of the less bitter of the World War I poets -- his poetry has a certain sorrow to it, but tends to lack the harshness of many of his comrades.  There is certainly a place for harsher war poetry (and I plan to share some of it here) -- one could argue that it is more authentic and meaningful -- but Brooke deserves respect for the beauty of his work as well.  This one -- structured as a sonnet -- conveys a rather wistful patriotism.

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love - Christopher Marlowe

I'm giving this one to my 10-year-old students this week, so I thought I'd post it here.  (Yes, my girls are up for the challenge this year!)  It's one of the most well-known pastoral poems in the English language, and though it has a certain, well, immaturity to it, it's still a fun, if fluffy, read. 

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.