Classic Poetry ~ "Memory " by Anne Brontë

 Anne Brontë, 1820-1849

Anne Brontë, the youngest of the three sisters featured here, was also both novelist and poet. She lived most of her life with her family, leaving her hometown for two years of boarding school followed by 6 years as a governess. When she was 25 she returned home to focus on writing. After producing a volume of poetry in collaboration with Charlotte and Emily, she quickly wrote two novels, Agnes Grey and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Unlike her more famous sisters, Anne eschewed romantics and wrote in a realistic, often ironic, style. She died at the age of 29.

Memory

Brightly the sun of summer shone,
Green fields and waving woods upon,
And soft winds wandered by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
Allured the gazer's eye.
But what were all these charms to me,
When one sweet breath of memory
Came gently wafting by?
I closed my eyes against the day,
And called my willing soul away,
From earth, and air, and sky;

That I might simply fancy there
One little flower -- a primrose fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
A source of strange delight.

Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee,
Oh, still thy tribute bring!
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
The glory of the spring.

Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight blue bell,
My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy still,
The buttercup's bright goblet fill
With all thy former power.

For ever hang thy dreamy spell
Round mountain star and heather bell,
And do not pass away
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,
And whisper when the wild winds blow,
Or rippling waters play.

Is childhood, then, so all divine?
Or Memory, is the glory thine,
That haloes thus the past?
Not all divine; its pangs of grief,
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,)
Are bitter while they last.

Nor is the glory all thine own,
For on our earliest joys alone
That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine
Can make our later pleasures shine,
Though long ago they passed.

Acton 

Classic Poetry ~ "Warning and Reply" by Emily Brontë

Emily Brontë, 1818-1848

A few weeks back we featured Charlotte Brontë here in Classic Poetry, and referenced her sisters Anne and Emily. As you may remember, all three women achieved impressive literary heights before they died in their thirties. And yes... poor pun was intended, because Emily, an oft-published poet called both independent and opinionated, is most remembered for her novel Wuthering Heights. Having attended to five members of her immediate family through illness and death, Emily often wrote of these topics. Warning and Reply is one such dedicated piece.

Warning and Reply

In the earth--the earth--thou shalt be laid,

A grey stone standing over thee;

Black mould beneath thee spread,

And black mould to cover thee.

"Well--there is rest there,

So fast come thy prophecy;

The time when my sunny hair

Shall with grass roots entwined be."

But cold--cold is that resting-place,

Shut out from joy and liberty,

And all who loved thy living face

Will shrink from it shudderingly,

"Not so. HERE the world is chill,

And sworn friends fall from me:

But THERE--they will own me still,

And prize my memory."

Farewell, then, all that love,

All that deep sympathy:

Sleep on: Heaven laughs above,

Earth never misses thee.

Turf-sod and tombstone drear

Part human company;

One heart breaks only--here,

But that heart was worthy thee!

Classic Poetry ~ "The Owl and The Pussycat" by Edward Lear

Edward Lear, 1812-1888

When considering the classics, we often maintain a stoic or serious attitude. Today’s post deviates. Our Poets United family boasts a number of light-hearted poets, and it is in their honor that I offer up Edward Lear.

Lear was an artist, illustrator, author and poet who has been referred to as the father of literary nonsense. The twentieth of twenty-one children, Lear was ill during most of his childhood in Middlesex, England, and cultivated drawing and writing skills during convalescence. He utilized those talents, supporting himself as an illustrator and travel writer while seeing much of the world before ultimately settling in San Remo, Italy. Although he proposed marriage more than once (to the same woman nearly 5 decades his junior), he never wed nor had children. 

I’ve selfishly chosen to share “The Owl and The Pussycat” after fondly reflecting back on commutes to and from work when my eldest child, then only two, recited it to me from her carseat. I hope it provides you with a bit of joy as well.

I

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

    In a beautiful pea green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

    Wrapped up in a five pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

    And sang to a small guitar,

'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,

      What a beautiful Pussy you are,

          You are,

          You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

II

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!

    How charmingly sweet you sing!

O let us be married! too long we have tarried:

    But what shall we do for a ring?'

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

    To the land where the Bong-tree grows

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood

    With a ring at the end of his nose,

          His nose,

          His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

III

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

    Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'

So they took it away, and were married next day

    By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

    Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

    They danced by the light of the moon,

          The moon,

          The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

Classic Poetry ~ " Life " by Charlotte Brontë

Charlotte Brontë, 1816-1855

Best known for her novels (most notably Jane Eyre, first published under the pseudonym Currer Bell); Charlotte  Brontë was also a published poet who, along with her sisters Anne and Emily, contributed to two collections. All three young women achieved significant literary success before dying in their thirties, Emily and Anne of tuberculosis in 1848 and '49, respectively; Charlotte and her unborn child of typhus in 1855. In both poetry and fiction, Brontë was most successful when she broke new ground by presenting a distinctly female first-person perspective to a public readership. 

LIFE

LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?

Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly!

What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!

Classic Poetry ~ "Meeting at Night " by Robert Browning

                           Robert Browning

                                 1812–1889

Meeting at Night

The grey sea and the long black land;

And the yellow half-moon large and low;

And the startled little waves that leap

In fiery ringlets from their sleep,

As I gain the cove with pushing prow,

And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;

Three fields to cross till a farm appears;

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch

And blue spurt of a lighted match,

And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,

Than the two hearts beating each to each!

Robert Browning, born in England in 1812, was not formally educated. He learned, instead, at home from his father’s 6,000-book library. For most of his writing career Browning was considered a failure among his peers, who unfavorably compared him to his wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. This standing changed late in his life when he developed and expanded on his use of dramatic monologue and lengthy poems. Today, he is most commonly known as one-half of a romantic poet duo. His most widely read work is Men and Women, a collection of dramatic monologues dedicated to his wife.

Classic Poetry ~ "Annabel Lee" by Edgar Allan Poe

As a child and early teen, I was enamored with Edgar Allan Poe. His dark, brooding works intrigued and entertained me. His more romantic and lyrical pieces sang in my mind when I read them. I was a dreamer and creator who loved words early on; and Edgar Allan Poe unknowingly encouraged me to write, to play, to express myself and create. His work was a gift to me. And I share his "Annabel Lee" as a gift to you, fellow poets, writers, dreamers and schemers. 

Image courtesy of the Edgar Allan Poe Society

Edgar Allan Poe, 1809 - 1849

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

   In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

   By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

   I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

   My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

   And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

   Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

   Of those who were older than we—

   Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

   Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

   In her sepulchre there by the sea—

   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Classic Poetry ~ "Sun and Shadow" by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Oliver Wendall Holmes, 1809 - 1894 

Fun facts about Oliver Wendall Holmes:

1- His childhood teachers found him to be too talkative and were displeased by his reading stories during class time.

2- After performing poorly in law school, Holmes began writing poetry for pleasure and was almost immediately published.

3- Having given up the law, Holmes switched to medicine, attending school in Boston and Paris. 

4- During the first year of his medical practice he continued to write, winning prizes and contests for both his essays and his poetry.

5- Holmes is one of the Fireside Poets, together with William Cullen Bryant, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James Russell Lowell and John Greenleaf Whittier.

And now, a poem:

Sun and Shadow

As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green,
To the billows of foam-crested blue,
Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen,
Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue:
Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray
As the chaff in the stroke of the flail;
Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her way,
The sun gleaming bright on her sail.

Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,--
Of breakers that whiten and roar;
How little he cares, if in shadow or sun
They see him who gaze from the shore!
He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef,
To the rock that is under his lee,
As he drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf,
O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea.

Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted caves
Where life and its ventures are laid,
The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves
May see us in sunshine or shade;
Yet true to our course, though the shadows grow dark,
We'll trim our broad sail as before,
And stand by the rudder that governs the bark,
Nor ask how we look from the shore!

Classic Poetry ~ "Forgiveness" by John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier, 1809 - 1894

John Greenleaf Whittier, known as The Quaker Poet, The Slave Poet and The Fireside Poet, wrote from the time he was a child until he died at 85. A Quaker devoted to social causes and reform, Whittier worked for years as an editor and writer at a series of abolitionist newspapers and magazines. Additionally, he was a politician and abolitionist, opposing slavery before it became the divisive subject that resulted in civil war. Most famous for lengthy works, such as the oft-referred-to poem, Snowbound, Whittier occasionally wrote shorter pieces like Forgiveness, below.

Forgiveness

My heart was heavy, for its trust had been

Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong;
So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men,
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among
The green mounds of the village burial-place;
Where, pondering how all human love and hate
Find one sad level; and how, soon or late,
Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face,
And cold hands folded over a still heart,
Pass the green threshold of our common grave,
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart,
Awed for myself, and pitying my race,
Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave,
Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave!

After reading this anew, I cannot help but hope that each of us experiences the same epiphany.  ~Kim

Classic Poetry ~ " Nature" By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

US Postage Stamp bearing the image of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, born in Portland, Maine in 1807, became a national literary figure by the time he was 40, and a world-famous personality before his death at 75. He was a traveler, a linguist, and a romantic who identified with European traditions in literature and thought, while remaining proud of American life and history. These dissonant characteristics spurred Longfellow to experiment with new-world themes and made him ambitious for international success. For more on this American treasure go to hwlongfellow.org

Known more for lengthy sonnets, ballads and iambs, Longfellow occasionally wrote more concisely, as he did when he penned this brief and insightful sonnet, Nature.

Nature

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
  Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
  Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
  And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
  Nor wholly reassured and comforted
  By promises of others in their stead,
  Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
  Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
  Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
  Being too full of sleep to understand
  How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

Classic Poetry ~ "Sonnets from the Portuguese - XIV" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 - 1861

"How do I love thee..." are the words most of us conjure when thinking of Elizabeth Barrett Browning; but the prolific prodigy, who had four books to her credit by age twelve, wrote hundreds of love poems. Suffering from a chronic lung disease that descended upon her in her fourteenth year, as well as a spinal injury from a riding accident when she was fifteen, Elizabeth lived a life of pain and reliance upon morphine. Despite these challenges, she wrote passionately, enthusiastically and romantically, personifying the artist who must express. 

Sonnets from the Portuguese ~ XIV

IF thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love’s sake only. Do not say

“I love her for her smile—her look—her way

Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

        

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day”—

For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may

Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,—

        

A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

But love me for love’s sake, that evermore

Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.

Classic Poetry ~ "Vivien's Song " by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1809 - 1892

Alfred, Lord Tennyson is considered the greatest poet of Victorian England. He wrote poetry as a child, penning a six-thousand-line epic poem when he was twelve. He was published by age 17. At Cambridge University, which he left before receiving his degree, his early success and moods both intimidated and impressed others. This was, in all likelihood, the time of onset for what many believe was bipolar disorder, the serious mental illness which presented itself in many members of  his family.

Despite a 10-year period during which he did not write, Alfred produced numerous collections before being named Britain's Poet Laureate when he was only 41, succeeding William Wordsworth. A dedicated craftsman who meticulously honored form, diction, rhyme scheme and meter,  he wrote poetry spanning the emotional spectrum,  from uplifting buoyancy to deep despair. In Vivien's Song, he examines unfaithfulness and its effects on relationship, a topic that is lively and pertinent still.

Vivien's Song

‘IN Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,

Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers:

Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

  ‘It is the little rift within the lute,

That by and by will make the music mute,

        

And ever widening slowly silence all.

  ‘The little rift within the lover’s lute

Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit,

That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

  ‘It is not worth the keeping: let it go:

        

But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.

And trust me not at all or all in all’.

Classic Poetry - "The Rhodora" by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803 - 1882

A founder of  Transcendentalism and of a uniquely American philosophy emphasizing optimism, individuality and mysticism, Ralf Waldo Emerson was one of the most influential writers of the nineteenth century. Reams have been written about this gentle man; and he, himself, wrote voraciously. Go to rwe.org to read more.

In classic Emerson form, The Rhodora is written in Iambic pentameter with AABBCDCD end rhymes. Also characteristic of his work, the poem explores the notion of a higher entity creating all things, large and small. Emerson also notes that beauty exists whether or not people observe or appreciate it. So, how does that sync with "beauty is in the eye of the beholder"?

Rhodora (Rhododendron canadense)

The Rhodora

On being asked, whence is the flower.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.

Classic Poetry - "This Living Hand" by John Keats

John Keats, 1795 - 1821

Known most famously for "Ode on a Grecian Urn," "Isabella" and other works of similar heft and tone, John Keats occasionally penned brief, direct pieces like the one below. Unlike his more recognizable works, these shorter poems often resisted telling the whole tale.

Look at the poem's form. Note that the last line appears to be unfinished. Now read it. Do you feel as if you've been left dangling?

Great device, this. Great little bit of unrhymed iambic pentameter. Masterful!

This Living Hand

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.

Classic Poetry - "Music" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792-1822

Today I revisited the Classic Poetry post from July 14, listening to Natalie Merchant's evocative musical interpretations of poems past. Inspiring. Encouraging. So many things. I then recalled this Shelley poem and knew it had to be shared here, now.

Enjoy, fellow poets. Enjoy.


Music
 
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

   Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Classic Poetry - "An Argument" by Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore, 1779 - 1852

An Argument

I've oft been told by learned friars,
That wishing and the crime are one,
And Heaven punishes desires
As much as if the deed were done.

If wishing damns us, you and I
Are damned to all our heart's content;
Come, then, at least we may enjoy
Some pleasure for our punishment!

Based on this short verse, an anomaly for Thomas Moore, a London-trained lawyer better known as poet, singer, songwriter and entertainer, one can assume he subscribed to the "eat, drink and be merry" philosophy.

Seems to have worked for him. During an era when the average life expectancy for a white male was just under 50, this prolific producer lived to be 72 and is considered Ireland's National Bard.

Raise your glass!

Classic Poetry - "Well I Remember" by Walter Savage Landor

Walter Savage Landor (1775–1864)

As poets and writers, artists and creators, we must seek a bit of the eternal through our work. That, at least, is the theme Walter Savage Landor addresses in this brief yet profound poem.


WELL I remember how you smiled
To see me write your name upon
The soft sea-sand—‘O! what a child!
You think you’re writing upon stone!’
 
I have since written what no tide
Shall ever wash away, what men
Unborn shall read o’er ocean wide
And find Ianthe’s name again.

 

Classic Poetry ~ A Twist

Natalie Merchant

In the TED presentation below, Natalie Merchant sings from her album, Leave Your Sleep, a collection of songs composed around lyrics from near-forgotten 19th-century poetry.

Click. Listen. Enjoy, as these 27 minutes transport, soothe, inform and inspire. And please, fellow wordsmiths, never underestimate the longevity and significance of good poetry. Blessings!

Classic Poetry ~ "The Prelude" by William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

THE PRELUDE
or
Growth of a Poet's Mind; An Autobiographical PoemGrowth of a Poet's Mind; An Autobiographical Poem
an excerpt

Oh! yet a few short years of useful life,
And all will be complete, thy race be run,
Thy monument of glory will be raised;
Then, though (too weak to tread the ways of truth)
This age fall back to old idolatry,
Though men return to servitude as fast
As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame,
By nations, sink together, we shall still
Find solace--knowing what we have learnt to know,
Rich in true happiness if allowed to be
Faithful alike in forwarding a day
Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work
(Should Providence such grace to us vouchsafe)
Of their deliverance, surely yet to come.
Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak
A lasting inspiration, sanctified
By reason, blest by faith: what we have loved,
Others will love, and we will teach them how;
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells, above this frame of things
(Which, 'mid all revolution in the hopes
And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged)
In beauty exalted, as it is itself
Of quality and fabric more divine.


"The Prelude" epitomizes the style and subject matter of English romanticism. Begun in 1799 and revised repeatedly over Wordsworth's lifetime, this fourteen book epic poem chronicles his spiritual progression and ushered in a new genre of poetry. The poet worked on "The Prelude" throughout his life; and its final publication occurred posthumously.

I prefer brevity in my own writing and in much of what I read, but this masterpiece holds the attention and tells a tale like few others. You can read the piece in its entirety at Bartleby.com

Classic Poetry - "On a Bank of Flowers" by Robert Burns

Robert Burns
1759 - 1796


As the season heats up, how could I not post a poem highlighting classic summer love?

With "On a Bank of Flowers," Robert Burns sets a breathtaking summer scene and tells a complete tale of distant yearning, admiration, encounter and resolution in a mere four stanzas.

On a Bank of Flowers

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day,
For summer lightly drest,
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay,
With love and sleep opprest;
When Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood,
Who for her favour oft had sued;
He gaz'd, he wish'd
He fear'd, he blush'd,
And trembled where he stood.

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd,
Were seal'd in soft repose;
Her lip, still as she fragrant breath'd,
It richer dyed the rose;
The springing lilies, sweetly prest,
Wild-wanton kissed her rival breast;
He gaz'd, he wish'd,
He mear'd, he blush'd,
His bosom ill at rest.

Her robes, light-waving in the breeze,
Her tender limbs embrace;
Her lovely form, her native ease,
All harmony and grace;
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,
A faltering, ardent kiss he stole;
He gaz'd, he wish'd,
He fear'd, he blush'd,
And sigh'd his very soul.

As flies the partridge from the brake,
On fear-inspired wings,
So Nelly, starting, half-awake,
Away affrighted springs;
But Willie follow'd-as he should,
He overtook her in the wood;
He vow'd, he pray'd,
He found the maid
Forgiving all, and good.


Nelly and Willie must have lived happily ever after, don't you think?

Classic Poetry - "To See a World in a Grain of Sand" by William Blake

William Blake
1757 - 1827

To see a world in a grain of sand
and a heaven in a wild flower,
hold infinity in the palm of your hand
and eternity in an hour.

William Blake was a man after my own heart, producing a large body of work in both poetry and the visual arts. He painted with temperas and watercolors, and mastered the arts of etching and engraving. He explored the meaning of life and God and spirituality, and considered moral and social repercussions of politics and government. A romantic, a philosopher, a scholar and a mystic, Blake was the ultimate creator.