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Favorite Poems thread!

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RationalBiker

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Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

“Life is but an empty dream!”

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And thing are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

“Dust thou art, to dust returnest,”

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each tomorrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle;

Be a hero in the strife!

Thrust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act – act in the living Present!

Heart within and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

A Psalm of Life

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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And also...

By Lord Byron:

Song of Saul Before His Last Battle

Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword

Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,

Heed not the corse, though a King’s in your path:

Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,

Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,

Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!

Mine be the doom which they dared to meet.

Farewell to others, bur never we part,

Heir to my Royalty – Son of my heart!

Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,

Or kingly the death that awaits us to-day!

And,

By the Waters of Babylon...

In the valley of waters we wept on the day

When the host of the Stranger made Salem his prey;

And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,

And our hearts were so full of the land far away!

The song they demanded in vain – it lay still,

In our souls as the wind that hath died in the hill –

They called for the harp – but our blood they shall spill

Ere our right hands shall teach them tone of their skill.

All stringlessly hung in the willow’s sad tree,

As dead as her dead-leaf, those mute harps must be:

Our hands may be fettered – our tears still are free

For our God – and our Glory – and Zion, Oh Thee!

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Since we're on Byron, what follows is my favorite Byron poem because it is so short and yet so powerful (from memory):

The Picture above me:

Dear object of defeated care,

Though not of love and thee bereft,

To reconcile me with despair,

Thine image and my tears are left.

'Tis said with sorrow time can cope

But this I fear can ne'er be true,

For by the death blow of my hope,

My memory eternal grew.

--Lord Byron

--------

Americo.

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  • 2 weeks later...

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

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Here is a poem for spaceShipOne

Independent

Not with the aid of government

Was SpaceShipOne so sharply sent,

Nor did its heroes pray;

Capitalistic, atheistic,

Firing Mastery all the way.

And one for Martha Stewart.

What you are is one above the crowd,

A woman sole self-made, virtued, proud,

Who made top grade and passed the test

Of your own standard, your own best;

A human being who loves true doing---

Mind on, hands on, all you're pursuing;

Thinking, seeking, reaching, following through.

Production has a pronoun and it is YOU.

And we who worship the firm-lipped mission

of Pride, as it manufactures its lightning vision,

We honor you for girding us with such grace---

To have sight of life's lover of her marketplace,

Your workplace, right place, office of high worth,

Crafting room, kitchen, man-made garden of earth.

Oh, in spite of the envious in the selfless crowd,

Look level, and never let your good proud head be bowed.

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  • 1 month later...
The Destruction of Sennacherib

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Lord Byron

I just read this aloud. All I will say is, "wow!" The rhythm is quite beautiful and exciting. It is ironic, I have a big anthology of American Beloved Poetry. In this anthology, in my print, there is a printers error, where there is a gap that does not match the table of contents, right after this poem that lasts for dozens of pages.

Americo.

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Lochinvar

O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the hero came late:

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entere'd the Netherby Hall,

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)

"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; --

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide --

And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up,

He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.

She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, --

"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a gailiard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bride-maidens whispered, "'twere better by far

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,

But the lost bride of Netherby never did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye ever heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Sir Walter Scott

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Thanks FreeCapitalist for the Scott poem. The story was such a precious spirit. And I love the rhythm; it makes me want to dance. Here is a poem by Byron in a similar rhythm.

Stanzas For Music (May, 1814)-By Lord Byron

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,

There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame:

But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart,

The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,

Were those hours--can their joy or their bitterness cease?

We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain,--

We will part, we will fly to--unite it again!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!

Forgive me, adored one!--forsake, if thou wilt;--

But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,

And MAN shall not break it--whatever THOU mayst.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,

This soul, in its bitterst blackness, shall be;

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,

With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,

Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;

And the heartless may wonder at all I resign--

Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to MINE.

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At the risk of flogging a dead horse, I recommend J.R.R. Tolkien for poetry. There are a few in LOTR plus the book 'The Adventures of Tom Bombadil' which is part of 'Tales from the Perilous Realm' is excellent.

All very cheering and heart-warming! :)  B)  <_< ( I love that emoticon).

:D Since you mentioned it...

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken:

The crownless again shall be king.

J.R.R. Tolkien via Bilbo Baggins NOT Arwen :o

and of course:

Seek for the sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Tolkien

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Here is a great poem for atheists! My friend read this today and I really liked it.

Stevie Smith - Our Bog is Dood

Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood,

They lisped in accents mild,

But when I asked them to explain

They grew a little wild.

How do you know your Bog is dood

My darling little child?

We know because we wish it so

That is enough, they cried,

And straight within each infant eye

Stood up the flame of pride,

And if you do not think it so

You shall be crucified.

Then tell me, darling little ones,

What's dood, suppose Bog is?

Just what we think, the answer came,

Just what we think it is.

They bowed their heads. Our Bog is ours

And we are wholly his.

But when they raised them up again

They had forgotten me

Each one upon each other glared

In pride and misery

For what was dood, and what their Bog

They never could agree.

Oh sweet it was to leave them then,

And sweeter not to see,

And sweetest of all to walk alone

Beside the encroaching sea,

The sea that soon should drown them all,

That never yet drowned me.

>Spoiler<

If you didn't quite get it, replace "Bog" with "God" and "dood" with "good." You can [see] Stevie regards all religion, and faith itself, as arbitrary. It also touches on how faith can never be supported by anything but threats.

[Edits]

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Alon, I noticed you posted a historical poem by Lord Byron. His descriptions are very accurate, as far as I know about the battle of Salamis (stanza 4). I really like his poems about history, and I know he had a fascination with Greece.

Lord Byron

The Isles of Greece

THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,

Where grew the arts of war and peace,

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!

Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,

Have found the fame your shores refuse:

Their place of birth alone is mute

To sounds which echo further west

Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.

The mountains look on Marathon—

And Marathon looks on the sea;

And musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free;

For standing on the Persians' grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;

And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations;—all were his!

He counted them at break of day—

And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou,

My country? On thy voiceless shore

The heroic lay is tuneless now—

The heroic bosom beats no more!

And must thy lyre, so long divine,

Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something in the dearth of fame,

Though link'd among a fetter'd race,

To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face;

For what is left the poet here?

For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?

Must we but blush?—Our fathers bled.

Earth! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead!

Of the three hundred grant but three,

To make a new Thermopylae!

What, silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;—the voices of the dead

Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, 'Let one living head,

But one, arise,—we come, we come!'

'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain—in vain: strike other chords;

Fill high the cup with Samian wine!

Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine:

Hark! rising to the ignoble call—

How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?

Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?

You have the letters Cadmus gave—

Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

We will not think of themes like these!

It made Anacreon's song divine:

He served—but served Polycrates—

A tyrant; but our masters then

Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend;

That tyrant was Miltiades!

O that the present hour would lend

Another despot of the kind!

Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,

Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore;

And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,

The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks—

They have a king who buys and sells;

In native swords and native ranks

The only hope of courage dwells:

But Turkish force and Latin fraud

Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

Our virgins dance beneath the shade—

I see their glorious black eyes shine;

But gazing on each glowing maid,

My own the burning tear-drop laves,

To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,

Where nothing, save the waves and I,

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;

There, swan-like, let me sing and die:

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine—

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

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Although drinking is not the essence of life, Byron's execution on this wine song is brilliant. J.G.

FILL THE GOBLET, A SONG

Fill the goblet again! for I never before

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;

Let us drink!--who would not?--since, through life's

varied round,

In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;

I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;

I have loved!--who has not?--but what heart can

declare

That pleasure existed while passion was there?

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,

And dreams that affection can never take wing,

I had friends?--who has not?--but what tongue will

avow,

That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,

Friendship shifts with the sunbeam--thou never canst

change;

Thou grow'st old--who does not?--but on earth what

appears,

Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,

Should a rival bow down to our idol below,

We are jealous!--who's not?--thou hast no such alloy;

For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

Then the season of youth and its vanities past,

For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;

There we find--do we not?--in the flow of the soul,

That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

When the box of Pandora was opened on earth,

And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,

Hope was left,--was she not?--but the goblet we kiss,

And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.

Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,

The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:

We must die--who shall not?--May our sins be for-

given,

And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.

By Lord Byron!

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I'm not a poetry aficionado. I prefer novels. But I am a pilot, and I love arrogance, and I think this poem gets it...at the very least it captures the imagery of flight. You've probably read it, but it deserves to be mentioned.

"High Flight" by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew -

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

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  • 2 weeks later...

Invictus

William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me

Black as the Pit from pole to pole

I thank Whatever gods may be

for my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeoning of chance

My head is bloody but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms the horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;

I am the captain of my soul.

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Free Capitalist, it was a pleasure to read "Lochinvar" again---one of my all time favorites---with its brave protagonist, calm and assured, his daring action and high success. The poem, with its drama, varied voices and quick change of pace in the next to last stanza, is, like Alfred Noyes' "The Highwayman', both inspiring and great fun to read aloud. "Lochinvar" lives up to the dictum in Spenser's "The Faery Queen" of "Be bold, be bold, everywhere be bold!" Sir Walter Scott does a fine job of presenting just the necessary details to create a fully satisfying story.

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Americonorman, The "stanzas" under "Words for Pictures" are separate expressions for pictures I found in an old children's illustrated history of America. The pictures related to work just interested me more than others.

Yes, about looking at great or large things in nature, I never had the feeling of being small. As a boy I exulted in thunderstorms; I felt they were a joyous expression of me, of my energy.

As for Byron, I've never taken to him, and I especially don't like "The Destruction of sennacherib". Vanquishing one's foes via mystical "force" is so unheroic.

As for the use of rhythm in the expression of poetry I love the Master-----Swinburne. Here are the opening stanzas of his "A Marching Song" from his second book of poems, "Songs Before Sunrise".

A Marching Song by Charles Algernon Swinburne

We mix from many lands,

We march for very far;

In hearts and lips and hands

Our staffs and weapons are;

The light we walk in darkens sun and moon and star.

It doth not flame and wane

With years and spheres that roll;

Storm cannot shake nor stain

The strength that makes it whole,

The fire that molds and moves it of the sovereign soul.

We are they that have to cope

With time till time retire;

We live on hopeless hope,

We feed on tears and fire;

Time, foot by foot, gives back before our sheer desire.

From the edge of harsh derision,

From discord and defeat,

From doubt and lame division,

We pluck the fruit and eat;

And the mouth finds it bitter, and the spirit sweet.

We strive with time at wrestling

Till time be on our side

And hope, our plumeless nestling,

A full-fledged eaglet ride

Down the loud length of storm its windward wings divide.

We are girt with our belief,

Clothed with our will and crowned;

Hope, fear, delight, and grief,

Before our will give ground;

Their calls are in our ears as shadows of dead sound.

All but the heart forsakes us,

All fails us but the will;

Keen treason tracks and takes us

In pits for blood to fill;

Friend falls from friend, and faith for faith lays wait to kill.

Out under moon and stars

And shafts of the urgent sun

Whose face on prison bars

and mountainheads is one,

Our march is everlasting till time's march be done.

Wither we know, and whence,

And dare not care where through,

Desires that urge the sense,

Fears changing old with new,

Perils and pains beset the ways we press into.

Earth gives us thorns to tread,

And all her thorns are trod;

Through lands burnt black and red

We pass with feet unshod;

Whence we would be man shall not keep us, nor man's God.

Through the great desert beasts

Howl at our backs by night,

And thunder-forging priests

Blow their dead bale-fires bright,

And on their broken anvils beat out bolts for fight.

Inside their sacred smithies,

Though hot the hammer rings,

Their steel links snap like withies,

Their chains like twisted strings;

Their surest fetters are as plighted words of kings.

O nations undivided,

O single people and free,

We dreamers, we derided,

We mad blind men that see,

We bear ye witness ere ye come that ye shall be.

For sustained flight of rhythm, exalted tone and meaning, Swinburne is unmatchable.

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Americonorman, The "stanzas" under "Words for Pictures" are separate expressions for pictures I found in an old children's illustrated history of America.  The pictures related to work just interested me more than others.

    Yes, about looking at great or large things in nature, I never had the feeling of being small.  As a boy I exulted in thunderstorms; I felt they were a joyous expression of me, of my energy.

    As for Byron, I've never taken to him, and I especially don't like "The Destruction of sennacherib".  Vanquishing one's foes via mystical "force" is so unheroic.

    As for the use of rhythm in the expression of poetry I love the Master-----Swinburne.  Here are the opening stanzas of his "A Marching Song" from his second book of poems, "Songs Before Sunrise".

 

Yes, Byron has his flaws. Rand detests the Byonic sense of life. However, I do understand Byron. Have you ever checked out his Ode To Napoleon Buonaparte? This quite good structurally AND thematically. When it comes to these "great romantics" what interests me mainly is the rhythm and ingenuity. Many poets copy each other's rhythm but when I find something new, I am very interested, in terms of structure--because obviously I can fill in the philosophy--actually only very recently.

Americo.

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Here is a poem which I love for its noble expression.

It is by Shelley, first published posthumously by his wife in 1824.

Hymn of Apollo

The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie,

Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries

From the broad moonlight of the sky,

Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes,

Waken me when their Mother, the gray Dawn,

Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone.

Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome,

I walk over the mountains and the waves,

Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam;

My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves

Are filled with my bright presence, and the air

Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare.

The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill

Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day;

All men who do or even imagine ill

Fly me, and from the glory of my ray

Good minds and open actions take new might,

Until diminished by the reign of Night.

I feed the clouds, the rainbows and the flowers

With their aethereal colours; the moon's globe

And the pure stars in their eternal bowers

Are cinctured with my power as with a robe;

Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine

Are portions of one power, which is mine.

I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven,

Then with unwilling steps I wander down

Into the clouds of the Atlantic even;

For grief that I depart they weep and frown:

What look is more delightful than the smile

With which I soothe them from the western isle?

I am the eye with which the Universe

Beholds itself and knows itself divine;

All harmony of instrument or verse,

All prophecy, all medicine is mine,

All light of art or nature; to my song

Victory and praise in its own right belong.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Hi all,

Just registered on this site. I love poetry and enjoyed reading those poems you've posted, especially the original poetry. One of my favorite poems is "Evolution" by Langdon Smith. It seems to be somewhat on topic for this forum so here it is. What do you think?

Evolution

Langdon Smith

When you were a Tadpole and I was a Fish,

In the Paleozoic time,

And side by side on the ebbing tide,

We sprawled through the ooze and slime,

Or skittered with many a caudal flip

Through the depths of the Cambrian fen--

My heart was rife with the joy of life,

For I loved you even then.

Mindless we lived, mindless we loved,

And mindless at last we died;

And deep in the rift of a Caradoc drift

We slumbered side by side.

The world turned on in the lathe of time,

The hot sands heaved amain,

Till we caught our breath from the womb of death,

and crept into life again.

We were Amphibians, scaled and tailed,

And drab as a dead man's hand.

We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees

Or trailed through the mud and sand,

Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet,

Writing a language dumb,

With never a spark in the empty dark

To hint at a life to come.

Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,

And happy we died once more.

Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold

Of a Neocomian shore.

The eons came and the eons fled,

And the sleep that wrapped us fast

Was riven away in a newer day,

And the night of death was past.

Then light and swift through the jungle trees

We swung in our airy flights,

Or breathed the balms of the fronded palms

In the hush of the moonless nights.

And oh, what beautiful years were these

When our hearts clung each to each;

When life was filled and senses thrilled

In the first faint dawn of speech!

Thus life by life, and love by love,

We passed through, the cycles strange,

And breath by breath, and death by death,

We followed the chain of change.

Till there came a time in the law of life

When over the nursing sod

The shadows broke, and soul awoke

In a strange, dim dream of God.

I was thewed like an Aurocks bull,

And tusked like the great Cave-Bear,

And you, my sweet, from head to feet,

Were gowned in your glorious hair.

Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,

When the night fell o'er the plain,

And the moon hung red o'er the river bed,

We mumbled the bones of the slain.

I flaked a flint to a cutting edge,

And shaped it with brutish craft;

I broke a shank from the woodland dank,

And fitted it, head to haft.

Then I hid me close in the reedy tarn,

Where the Mammoth came to drink - -

Through brawn and bone I drave the stone,

and slew him upon the brink.

Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,

Loud answered our kith and kin;

From west and east to the crimson feast

The clan came trooping in.

O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof,

We fought and clawed and tore,

And check by jowl, with many a growl,

We talked the marvel o'er.

I carved that fight on a reindeer bone

With rude and hairy hand;

I pictured his fall on the cavern wall

That men might understand.

For we lived by blood and the right of might,

Ere human laws were drawn,

And the Age of Sin did not begin

Till our brutal tusks were gone.

And that was a million years ago,

In a time that no man knew;

Yet here tonight in the mellow light,

We sit at Delmonico's.

Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,

Your hair is as dark as jet,

Your years are few, your life is new,

You soul untried, and yet - -

Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay,

And the scarp of Purbeck flags;

We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones,

And deep in the Coralline crags.

Our love is old, and our lives are old,

And death shall come amain.

Should it come to-day, what man may say

We shall not live again?

God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds

And furnished them wings to fly;

He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,

And I know that it shall not die;

Though cities have sprung above the graves

Where the crook-boned men made war,

And the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves

Where the mummied mammoths are.

Then, as we linger at luncheon here,

O'er many a dainty dish,

Let us drink anew to the time when you

Were a Tadpole and I was a Fish.

Langdon Smith (1858-1908)

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artimus, welcome. Are you a lover of the works of Ayn Rand? And, do you yourself write poetry?

Here is my immediate response to Mr. Smith's "Evolution". The poem is written in a lively rhythm, well-structured throughout, and the descriptive words and phrases are excellent. It's just too bad Mr. Smith didn't evolve up to the level of being able to glorify man. He caves in to religion, and does not identify the "god" above God----Reason, as the cause of such an achievement as Delmonicos, let alone the greatness of New York.

Now, I realize he did not have the benefit of Objectivism, but he did have the Renaissance behind him, and the Enlightenment. I can see , however, that this poem would be something of a cheerful brightness in one's sight if one was escaping a guilt-laden religious upbringing. In poetry, for me, that blazing torch was Swinburne. Do you know his work at all? First, I should ask, Do you have a favorite poet?

Well, assuming you are here mainly to learn more about Objectivism, I wish you Man-speed!

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arimus, looking at "Evolution" a little more closely, I see that Mr. Smith's error is in regarding man and his achievements as a natural process independent of human volition. What are your thoughts? What do you like about the poem? Of the poems on this thread is there one you like especially? And why? Anything you don't like?

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Rober Browning is certainly one of my favorite poets. That he was madly in love with another poet is a fascination to me and one day I would like to read their story. My favorite poem of his, though I don't understand it entirely is, LOVE AMONG THE RUINS because I can sing it very very passionately, and with an almost operatic voice.

But the one that follows is quite neat in structure. It is almost jazzy and certainly singable, and even danceable. But it is sad, as the title suggests. I must say I don't get it exactly. But if it is a woman's dying words, then there is a benevolence in it, which is even more touching than the sadness.

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD

Let's contend no more, Love,

Strive nor weep:

All be as before, Love,

-Only sleep!

What so wild as words are?

I and thou

In debate, as birds are,

Hawk on bough!

See the creature stalking

While we speak!

Hush and hide the talking,

Cheek on cheek!

What so false as truth is,

False to thee?

Where the serpent's tooth is,

Shun the tree-

Where the apple reddens

Never pry--

Lest we lose our Edens,

Eve and I.

Be a god and hold me

With a charm!

Be a man and fold me

With thine arm!

Teach me, only teach, Love!

As I ought.

I will speak thy speech, Love,

Think thy thought--

Meet, if thou require it,

Both demands,

Laying flesh and spirit

In thy hands.

That shall be tomorrow,

Not tonight:

I must bury sorrow

Out of sight:

--Must a little weep, Love,

(Foolish me!)

And so fall asleep, Love,

Loved by thee.

Robert Browning.

First of all, every other line of every stanza has an indentation. I don't know exactly what this poem means. For her to choose to be with Browning was a struggle for her, though she did love him, as is depicted in Songs From The Portuguese. So this poem can apply to the death of the old Elizabeth, on the eve when she will finally taste Robert, and tomorrow will be a different day and a new Elizabeth. And yet she died before Robert, so maybe this can apply to that. Brian Faulkner, can you help me out here?

Americo.

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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