Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem "God’s Grandeur" is far more powerful than William Wordsworth’s pondering and wandering on the banks of the Wye because Hopkins did not turn away from the dark reality...
In England for a family...
In poetry, I want startling new visions and a new way to look at the world aslant. I want a spark or surge of emotion that sneaks up on me and catches me, in the surprising turn of a final couplet or an intimate insight that disturbs...
White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
Truth, beauty, and goodness are the terms by which we understand the whole of reality and the terms that give coordinates to all of human life. And so, if you want to live well, you need to know what truth, goodness, and beauty are...
You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease,
Within this region I subsist,
Whose spirits falter in the mist,
And languish for the purple seas.
It is the land that freemen till,
That sober-suited Freedom chose,
The land, where girt with friends or foes
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such...
I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with...
Poets stand on the cusp of a new opening to a renewal of the Spirit in language, to a renewal of the infinite resonance of words, so that we may hope to infuse new depths into literary productions without at the same time losing our connection with Tradition...
I looked up from my writing,
And gave a start to see,
As if rapt in my inditing,
The moon's full gaze on me.
Her meditative misty head
Was spectral in its air,
And I involuntarily said,
'What are you doing there?'
Hope permeates God’s creation, our natural world and the world of nature, as concrete images and as an enduring cycle, a complete and unrelenting season in itself...
Hope is not a finite thing as Emily Dickinson well...
"Occasioned by General Washington's Arrival in Philadelphia, On the Way to his Residence in Virginia"
The great, unequal conflict past,
The Briton banish’d from our shore,
Peace, heav’n-descended, comes at last,
And hostile nations rage no more;
From fields of death the weary...
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
The Author's outcry against Octavianus Caesar Augustus as he contemplated Schleissen's marble effigy of Marcus Tullius Cicero. Extemporaneous poem.
He was an ingrate, more a barbarian,
Marcus, then even the lictor, when he left you
beneath some lictor's ignominious blow.
Octavianus was almost more...