#ClassicPoetry

#ClassicPoetry – #RobertFrost – #TheRoadNotTaken

/ Marcia Meara / 54 Comments

 

Time for another quick jaunt through the world of Classic Poetry. Robert Frost has always been another of my favorites, since being introduced to his work more than 68 years ago, when I was twelve. I love him just as much today as I did then, though I’m not sure whether that simply means I had excellent taste at age twelve, or my taste has never developed any farther. Hmmm. 

Either way, I think I’ll be sharing a few of Frost’s poems in the weeks ahead, just because … BEAUTIFUL!! (And meaningful, too.) Hope yo u enjoy today’s selection.

The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


Robert Frost 1874 – 1963

Robert Frost was born in San Francisco to journalist William Prescott Frost Jr. and Isabelle Moodie.] His father was a descendant of Nicholas Frost of Tiverton, Devon, England, who had sailed to New Hampshire in 1634 on the Wolfrana, and his mother was a Scottish immigrant.

Frost was also a descendant of Samuel Appleton, one of the early English settlers of Ipswich, Massachusetts, and Rev. George Phillips, one of the early English settlers of Watertown, Massachusetts.

Frost’s father was a teacher and later an editor of the San Francisco Evening Bulletin (which later merged with the San Francisco Examiner), and an unsuccessful candidate for city tax collector. After his death on May 5, 1885, the family moved across the country to Lawrence, Massachusetts, under the patronage of Robert’s grandfather William Frost Sr., who was an overseer at a New England mill. Frost graduated from Lawrence High School in 1892. Frost’s mother joined the Swedenborgian church and had him baptized in it, but he left it as an adult.

Although known for his later association with rural life, Frost grew up in the city, and he published his first poem in his high school’s magazine. He attended Dartmouth College for two months, long enough to be accepted into the Theta Delta Chi fraternity. Frost returned home to teach and to work at various jobs, including helping his mother teach her class of unruly boys, delivering newspapers, and working in a factory maintaining carbon arc lamps. He said that he did not enjoy these jobs, feeling that his true calling was to write poetry.

#ClassicPoetry – #JamesWhitcombRiley – “Granny”

/ Marcia Meara / 57 Comments

Thought it was time for me to start getting back to some of my regular features from days gone by. Figured Monday was a good day to start, and Classic Poetry has always run on a Monday, so … here we go. Another classic poem by one of my all-time favorites, James Whitcomb Riley. I know some folks aren’t fond of the dialect, but for me, it’s perfect, and really makes the poem. Hope you like this one. (As someone who is called Granny on a very regular basis, I couldn’t resist it! Happy reading!

Granny
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY (1859 – 1916)

Granny’s come to our house,
And ho! my lawzy-daisy!
All the childern round the place
    Is ist a-runnin’ crazy!
Fetched a cake fer little Jake,
    And fetched a pie fer Nanny
And fetched a pear fer all the pack
    That runs to kiss their Granny!

Lucy Ellen’s in her lap,
    And Wade and Silas Walker
Both’s a-ridin’ on her foot,
    And ’Pollos on the rocker;
And Marthy’s twins, from Aunt Marinn’s,
    And little Orphant Annie,
All’s a-eatin’ gingerbread
    And giggle-un at Granny!

Tells us all the fairy tales
    Ever thought er wundered—
And ’bundance o’ other stories—
    Bet she knows a hunderd!—
Bob’s the one fer “Whittington,”
    And “Golden Locks” fer Fanny!
Hear ’em laugh and clap their hands,
    Listenin’ at Granny!

“Jack the Giant-Killer” ’s good;
    And “Bean-Stalk” ’s another!—
So’s the one of “Cinderell’”
    And her old godmother;—
That-un’s best of all the rest—
    Bestest one of any,—
Where the mices scampers home
    Like we runs to Granny!

Granny’s come to our house,
    Ho! my lawzy-daisy!
All the childern round the place
    Is ist a-runnin’ crazy!
Fetched a cake fer little Jake,
    And fetched a pie fer Nanny,
And fetched a pear fer all the pack
    That runs to kiss their Granny!

James Whitcomb Riley (October 7, 1849 – July 22, 1916) was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. During his lifetime he was known as the “Hoosier Poet” and “Children’s Poet” for his dialect works and his children’s poetry. His poems tend to be humorous or sentimental. Of the approximately 1,000 poems Riley wrote, the majority are in dialect. His famous works include “Little Orphant Annie” and “The Raggedy Man”.

Riley began his career writing verses as a sign maker and submitting poetry to newspapers. Thanks in part to poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s endorsement, he eventually earned successive jobs at Indiana newspaper publishers during the late 1870s. He gradually rose to prominence during the 1880s through his poetry reading tours. He traveled a touring circuit first in the Midwest, and then nationally, appearing either alone or with other famous talents. During this period Riley’s long-term addiction to alcohol began to affect his performing abilities, and he suffered financially as a result. However, once he extricated himself from a series of poorly negotiated contracts that sought to limit his earnings, he began to accumulate wealth and eventually became a financial success.

By the 1890s, Riley had become known as a bestselling author. His children’s poems were compiled into a book illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. Titled Rhymes of Childhood, it was his most popular and sold millions of copies. As a poet, Riley achieved an uncommon level of fame during his lifetime. He was honored with annual Riley Day celebrations around the United States and was regularly called on to perform readings at national civic events. He continued to write and hold occasional poetry readings until a stroke paralyzed his right arm in 1910.

Riley’s chief legacy was his influence in fostering the creation of a Midwestern cultural identity and his contributions to the Golden Age of Indiana Literature. With other writers of his era, he helped create a caricature of Midwesterners and formed a literary community that produced works rivaling the established eastern literati. There are many memorials dedicated to Riley, including the James Whitcomb Riley Hospital for Children.

#ClassicPoetry – #ChristmasBells – #HenryWadsworthLongfellow

/ Marcia Meara / 44 Comments

 

Haven’t shared a classic poem in some time, so I thought I’d better make up for that by sharing one today. Since the season is upon us, I figured I’d go with a beautiful Christmas poem. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

Christmas Bells
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807 – 1882)

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
    And wild and sweet
    The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along
    The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
    A voice, a chime,
    A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
    And with the sound
    The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
    And made forlorn
    The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
    “For hate is strong,
    And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
    The Wrong shall fail,
    The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine—then still part of Massachusetts—on February 27, 1807, the second son in a family of eight children. His mother, Zilpah Wadsworth, was the daughter of a Revolutionary War hero. His father, Stephen Longfellow, was a prominent Portland lawyer and later a member of Congress.

More About Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: America's No. 1 Literary ...

Hope you enjoyed this beautiful poem by Longfellow.
Here’s wishing you a Truly Wonderful Christmas!

#ClassicPoetry – #EdnaSt.VincentMillay – #LoveIsNotAll –

/ Marcia Meara / 24 Comments

 

Haven’t shared any poetry in some time, and realized I needed to rectify that situation. With that in mind, here’s today’s offering from Edna St. Vincent Millay. Hope you enjoy it! 😀

Love is Not All (Sonnet XXX)
Edna St. Vincent Millay – 1892-1950

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;

Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.

It well may be. I do not think I would.

Edna St. Vincent Millay
February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950

Throughout much of her career, Pulitzer Prize-winner Edna St. Vincent Millay was one of the most successful and respected poets in America. She is noted for both her dramatic works, including Aria da capo, The Lamp and the Bell, and the libretto composed for an opera, The King’s Henchman, and for such lyric verses as “Renascence” and the poems found in the collections A Few Figs From Thistles, Second April, and The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in 1923. Like her contemporary Robert Frost, Millay was one of the most skillful writers of sonnets in the twentieth century, and also like Frost, she was able to combine modernist attitudes with traditional forms creating a unique American poetry. But Millay’s popularity as a poet had at least as much to do with her person: she was known for her riveting readings and performances, her progressive political stances, frank portrayal of both hetero and homosexuality, and, above all, her embodiment and description of new kinds of female experience and expression. “Edna St. Vincent Millay,” notes her biographer Nancy Milford, “became the herald of the New Woman.”

Hope you enjoyed this one!

#Classic Poetry – #JamesWhitcombRiley – #TheDaysGoneBy

/ Marcia Meara / 44 Comments

Time once again for another sample of Classic Poetry. I hope you enjoy this one by James Whitcomb Riley. It always strikes a chord with me. Happy reading!  😀

The Days Gone By
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY (1859 – 1916)

O the days gone by! O the days gone by!
The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through the rye;
The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the quail
As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale;
When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in the sky,
And my happy heart brimmed over in the days gone by.

In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped
By the honey-suckle’s tangles where the water-lilies dipped,
And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the brink
Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink,
And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant’s wayward cry
And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by.

O the days gone by! O the days gone by!
The music of the laughing lip, the luster of the eye;
The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin’s magic ring—
The simple, soul-reposing, glad belief in everything,
When life was like a story, holding neither sob nor sigh,
In the golden olden glory of the days gone by.

James Whitcomb Riley (October 7, 1849 – July 22, 1916) was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. During his lifetime he was known as the “Hoosier Poet” and “Children’s Poet” for his dialect works and his children’s poetry. His poems tend to be humorous or sentimental. Of the approximately 1,000 poems Riley wrote, the majority are in dialect. His famous works include “Little Orphant Annie” and “The Raggedy Man”.

Riley began his career writing verses as a sign maker and submitting poetry to newspapers. Thanks in part to poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s endorsement, he eventually earned successive jobs at Indiana newspaper publishers during the late 1870s. He gradually rose to prominence during the 1880s through his poetry reading tours. He traveled a touring circuit first in the Midwest, and then nationally, appearing either alone or with other famous talents. During this period Riley’s long-term addiction to alcohol began to affect his performing abilities, and he suffered financially as a result. However, once he extricated himself from a series of poorly negotiated contracts that sought to limit his earnings, he began to accumulate wealth and eventually became a financial success.

By the 1890s, Riley had become known as a bestselling author. His children’s poems were compiled into a book illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. Titled Rhymes of Childhood, it was his most popular and sold millions of copies. As a poet, Riley achieved an uncommon level of fame during his lifetime. He was honored with annual Riley Day celebrations around the United States and was regularly called on to perform readings at national civic events. He continued to write and hold occasional poetry readings until a stroke paralyzed his right arm in 1910.

Riley’s chief legacy was his influence in fostering the creation of a Midwestern cultural identity and his contributions to the Golden Age of Indiana Literature. With other writers of his era, he helped create a caricature of Midwesterners and formed a literary community that produced works rivaling the established eastern literati. There are many memorials dedicated to Riley, including the James Whitcomb Riley Hospital for Children.

Hope you enjoyed reading another classic poem by
James Whitcomb Riley, who’s always been a favorite of mine.
His poems are a delight to read aloud!

#ClassicPoetry – #RobertBrowning – #OhToBeInEngland

/ Marcia Meara / 44 Comments

Since I shared a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning last time, I thought it only fair to feature her husband this time around. With that in mind, here is one of Robert Browning’s most often quoted poems. Hope you enjoy it!

Home Thoughts From Abroad
Oh to Be in England
Robert Browning ( 1812 – 1889)

Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower—
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Robert Browning (7 May 1812 – 12 December 1889) was an English poet and playwright whose dramatic monologues put him high among the Victorian poets. He was noted for irony, characterization, dark humour, social commentary, historical settings and challenging vocabulary and syntax.

His early long poems Pauline (1833) and Paracelsus (1835) were acclaimed, but his reputation dwindled for a time – his 1840 poem Sordello was seen as wilfully obscure – and took over a decade to recover, by which time he had moved from Shelleyan forms to a more personal style. In 1846 he married fellow poet Elizabeth Barrett and moved to Italy. By her death in 1861 he had published the collection Men and Women (1855). His Dramatis Personae (1864) and book-length epic poem The Ring and the Book (1868–1869) made him a leading poet. By his death in 1889 he was seen as a sage and philosopher-poet who had fed into Victorian social and political discourse. Societies for studying his work survived in Britain and the US into the 20th century.

Hope you enjoyed meeting Elizabeth’s other half,
a leading poet in his own right, though I lean a bit towards
the sonnets of his wife, myself, being
a diehard romantic and all.

#ClassicPoetry – #ElizabethBarrettBrowning – #HowDoILoveThee?

/ Marcia Meara / 50 Comments

Since Granny recently shared a short quote from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I thought it would be fun to share a longer one, namely one of her best known poems. Hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I enjoyed reading it once again, myself!

How Do I Love Thee?
(Sonnet 43)
Elizabeth Barrett Browning  (1806 – 1861)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (née Moulton-Barrett; March 6, 1806 –  June 29, 1861) was an English poet of the Victorian era, popular in Britain and the United States during her lifetime.

Born in County Durham, the eldest of 12 children, Elizabeth Barrett wrote poetry from the age of eleven. Her mother’s collection of her poems forms one of the largest extant collections of juvenilia by any English writer. At 15, she became ill, suffering intense head and spinal pain for the rest of her life. Later in life, she also developed lung problems, possibly tuberculosis. She took laudanum for the pain from an early age, which is likely to have contributed to her frail health.

And there you have a truly romantic sonnet from
one of the great poets of long ago.
Hope you enjoyed it!

#ClassicPoetry – #John Donne – #NoManIsAnIsland

/ Marcia Meara / 39 Comments

Taking a look at another of my very favorite poems today. This one is less about lyrical poetry and more about contemplation of humanity. It always made me stop and think, and I hope it will either bring back memories of your own school studies or introduce you to something you may not have read before. Either way, it’s a bit more profound than what I’ve shared to date, but it never hurts to stop now and then for a moment of contemplation, right? 

NOTE: Because this is actually an excerpt from  an essay, it has been presented as a poem in various formats over the centuries. This is my favorite, as far as line breaks are concerned, and I certainly prefer the version with today’s English, as opposed to the way it was spoken in the fifteen and sixteen hundreds.

No Man Is an Island
John Donne – 1571 – 1631

No man is an island entire of itself;
Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less,
As well as if a promontory were,
As well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were;
Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.

John Donne

John Donne was an English poet, scholar, soldier and secretary born into a recusant family, who later became a cleric in the Church of England.[2] Under royal patronage, he was made Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral in London (1621–1631). He is considered the preeminent representative of the metaphysical poets. His poetical works are noted for their metaphorical and sensual style and include sonnets, love poems, religious poems, Latin translations, epigrams, elegies, songs and satires. He is also known for his sermons.

Donne’s style is characterized by abrupt openings and various paradoxes, ironies and dislocations. These features, along with his frequent dramatic or everyday speech rhythms, his tense syntax and his tough eloquence, were both a reaction against the smoothness of conventional Elizabethan poetry and an adaptation into English of European baroque and mannerist techniques. His early career was marked by poetry that bore immense knowledge of English society. Another important theme in Donne’s poetry is the idea of true religion, something that he spent much time considering and about which he often theorised. He wrote secular poems as well as erotic and love poems. He is particularly famous for his mastery of metaphysical conceits.

And there you have today’s Classic Poetry offering.
Hope this one made you stop to ponder the reality
that all humanity is connected.

#ClassicPoetry featuring #AmyLowell

/ Marcia Meara / 49 Comments

One of my favorite poets from the days of yore is Amy Lowell. She had a lovely way with words, and eventually, I will share my favorite of her poems, “Patterns.” Today, however, here’s something a little shorter for you. Hope you enjoy it!

The Garden by Moonlight
Amy Lowell – 1874-1925

A black cat among roses,
Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon,
The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock.
The garden is very still,
It is dazed with moonlight,
Contented with perfume,
Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies.
Firefly lights open and vanish
High as the tip buds of the golden glow
Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet.
Moon-shimmer on leaves and trellises,
Moon-spikes shafting through the snowball bush.
Only the little faces of the ladies’ delight are alert and staring,
Only the cat, padding between the roses,
Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern
As water is broken by the falling of a leaf.
Then you come,
And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.
Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?
They knew my mother,
But who belonging to me will they know
When I am gone.

Amy Lowell was born on February 9, 1874, in Boston, Massachusetts, the daughter of Augustus Lowell and Katherine Bigelow Lowell. A member of the Brahmin Lowell family, her siblings included the astronomer Percival Lowell, the educator and legal scholar Abbott Lawrence Lowell, and Elizabeth Lowell Putnam, an early activist for prenatal care.

Amy Lowell was a poet, performer, editor, and translator who devoted her life to the cause of modern poetry. “God made me a business woman,” Lowell is reported to have quipped, “and I made myself a poet.” During a career that spanned just over a dozen years, she wrote and published over 650 poems, yet scholars cite Lowell’s tireless efforts to awaken American readers to contemporary trends in poetry as her more influential contribution to literary history. She is best remembered for bringing the Imagism of Ezra Pound and H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) to the attention of Americans, but her work has many facets. A flamboyant woman whose behavior belied her upbringing in a proper and prestigious New England family, she flouted convention with her proto-feminist poetry and unabashedly public persona. “Poet, propagandist, lecturer, translator, biographer, critic … her verve is almost as remarkable as her verse,” opined poet Louis Untermeyer in his 1923 work American Poetry since 1900.

And there you have an offering from one
of my favorite classic poets.
Hope you enjoyed it!

#ClassicPoetry – Featuring #WilliamWordsworth

/ Marcia Meara / 46 Comments


Today, I’m sharing a poem I dearly loved when I was in Junior High, and I find it still enchants me as much as it did way back then. Hope you’ll enjoy it!

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
William Wordsworth – 1770-1850

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:—
A Poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth was one of the founders of English Romanticism and one of  its most central figures and important intellects. He is remembered as a poet of spiritual and epistemological speculation, a poet concerned with the human relationship to nature and a fierce advocate of using the vocabulary and speech patterns of common people in poetry. The son of John and Ann Cookson Wordsworth, William Wordsworth was born on April 7, 1770 in Cockermouth, Cumberland, located in the Lake District of England: an area that would become closely associated with Wordsworth for over two centuries after his death. He began writing poetry as a young boy in grammar school, and before graduating from college he went on a walking tour of Europe, which deepened his love for nature and his sympathy for the common man: both major themes in his poetry. Wordsworth is best known for Lyrical Ballads, co-written with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and The Prelude, a Romantic epic poem chronicling the “growth of a poet’s mind.”

And there you have today’s Classic Poetry offering.
I hope you enjoyed it!