AntiRomantic.com » Poetry/Poems

Song of Myself Section 52 – Walt Whitman

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:36:08 +0000

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains
of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the
shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

Sonnet XVIII – William Shakespeare

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:33:15 +0000

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Excerpt from Walden – Henry David Thoreau

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:31:40 +0000

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear, nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to “glorify God and enjoy him forever.”

Excerpt from Ulysses – Alfred Lord Tennyson

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:30:32 +0000

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,–
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me–
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads–you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Song of Myself XVI – Walt Whitman

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:28:24 +0000

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
Stuff’d with the stuff that is coarse and stuff’d with the stuff
that is fine,
One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same
and the largest the same,
A Southerner soon as a Northerner, a planter nonchalant
and hospitable down by the Oconee I live,
A Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the
limberest joints on earth and the sternest joints on earth,
A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer-skin
leggings, a Louisianian or Georgian,
A boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier,
Badger, Buckeye;
At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or
with fishermen off Newfoundland,
At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and
tacking,
At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine,
or the Texan ranch,
Comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westerners,
(loving their big proportions,)
Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who
shake hands and welcome to drink and meat,
A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,
A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons,
Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,
A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,
Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.

I resist any thing better than my own diversity,
Breathe the air but leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place.

The Road Not Taken – Robert Frost

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:25:47 +0000

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, 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 travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The Prophet – Abraham Cowley

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:23:15 +0000

Teach me to Love? go teach thy self more wit;
I am chief Professor of it.
Teach craft to Scots, and thrift to Jews,
Teach boldness to the Stews;
In tyrants courts teach supple flattery,
Teach Jesuits, that have traveled far, to Lye.
Teach fire to burn and Winds to blow.
Teach restless Fountains how to flow,
Teach the dull earth, fixt, to abide,
Teach Woman-kind inconstancy and Pride.
See if your diligence here will useful prove;
But, pr’ithee, teach not me to love.

The God of Love, if such a thing there be,
May learn to love from me,
He who does boast that he has bin,
In every Heart since Adams sin,
I’ll lay my Life, nay Mistress on’t, that’s more;
I’ll teach him things he never knew before;
I’ll teach him a receipt to make
Words that weep, and Tears that speak,
I’ll teach him Sighs, like those in death,
At which the Souls go out too with the breath;
Still the Soul stays, yet still does from me run;
As Light and Heat does with the Sun.

‘Tis I who Love’s Columbus am; ’tis I, Who must new Worlds in it descry;
Rich Worlds, that yield of Treasure more,
than that has been known before,
And yet like his (I fear) my fate must be,
To find them out for others; not for Me.
Me Times to come, I know it, shall
Loves last and greatest prophet call.
But, ah, what’s that, if she refuse,
To hear the whole doctrines of my Muse?
If to my share the Prophets fate must come;
Hereafter fame, here Martyrdome.

O Me! O Life! – Walt Whitman

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:21:06 +0000

O Me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring-What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.
That you are here-that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:14:34 +0000

Theseus, duke of Athens, has conquered Hippolyta, the Amazon queen, and is about to wed her. Meanwhile, two lovers, Hermia and Lysander, hide in the woods when Hermia’s father demands that she marry Demetrius. Hoping to win his favour, Helena tells Demetrius of their whereabouts, and the two go to the woods in search of the fugitives. The forest is also full of fairies who have come for the duke’s wedding. After their king, Oberon, argues with his queen, Titania, he tells his servant Puck to drop magic juice into her eyes as she sleeps. The magic juice will make her love the first person she sees when she awakes. He also tells Puck to drop the juice into Demetrius’ eyes, but Puck confuses Lysander with Demetrius and as a result Lysander falls in love with Helena. So does Demetrius, when Oberon tries to correct Puck’s mistake.

In the same woods a group of artisans are rehearsing a play for the duke’s wedding. Ever playful, Puck gives one of them, Nick Bottom, an ass’s head; when Titania awakens, she falls in love with Bottom. After some general confusion and comic misunderstanding, Oberon’s magic restores Titania and the four lovers to their original states. The duke invites the two couples to join him and Hippolyta in a triple wedding. The wedding celebration features Bottom’s troupe in a comically inept performance of their play, The Most Lamentable Comedy and Most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisbe.

Oberon and Titania

Oberon and Titania are King and Queen of the Fairies. Drayton says of Oberon, “A little Cockle-shell his Shield Which he could bery bravely wield: Yet it could not be pierced: His Speare a Bent both stiff and strong, And well-neere of two inches long; The Pyle was a Horse-flyes tongue, Whose sharpness naught reversed, And put him a coat of Mail, Which was of a Fishes scale.”

In the legends of Charlemagne, Oberon was said to be the son of Caesar and the Lady of the Hidden Island. He was the father of Robin Goodfellow, who later fostered the race of mischievous sprites called Pechs or Pucks. The legend of Huon of Bordeaux told that Oberon was the King of the large, enchanted forest called Mommur. This legend described him as a dwarfish figure of about 3 feet tall who had the ability to see into the future. He also was able to create terrifying lightning storms.

Titania was the wife of Oberon, king of the fairies. She eventually took over the place as queen of the fairies in English folklore from Mab. According to the belief in Shakespeare’s age, fairies were the same as the classic nymphs, the attendants of Diana. The queen of the fairies was therefore Diana herself, called Titania by Ovid (Metamorphoses, iii. 173).

Mab

The first Queen of the fairies in British folklore was named Mab. She appears to have a sinister and a harmless side. Sometimes, she appears a haglike, broom-flying fiend, while at other times, she is a benevolent, winged sylph.

Shakespeare depicted her in almost mockingly by saying:

‘O then I see Queen Mab hath been with you
She is the fairies’ midwife; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies,
Over men’s noses as they lie asleep.
-Romeo and Juliet

While Ben Johnson says:

This is Mab, the mistress Fairy,
that doth nightly rob the dairy;
And can hurt or help the churning
As she please, without discerning.

Puck

Puck is one of the most famous English sprites. In the Midlands he is called Robin Goodfellow, and is said to be the prototype for Robin Hood. In Ireland, he is called Pech or Puck, and is the leader of the Pixies. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare transformed him from a hobgoblin into a jovial but pranksterish wanderer of the night. In a couple of other Elizabethian plays such as The Devil is an Ass by Ben Johnson, Puck is portrayed as Belzebub’s servant in hell who was send to earth to foster evil and bring about misfortune. Puck was a failure at this because he was unable to do enough evil to please Belzebub, so he turned to Oberon for help.

“Amongst the rest was a good fellow devill So called in kindness, cause he did no evill, Known by the name of Robin (as we heare) And that his eyes as big as saucers were, Who came at nights, and would make kitchens cleane And in the bed bepinch a lazy queane, Was much in Milles about the grinding meale (And sure I take it, taught the Miller steale), Among the creame bowles, and milk pans would be, And with the country wenches, who but hee.”
- The Devil is an Ass

“If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend; if you pardon, we will mend; And, as I am an honest Puck If we have unearned luck Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue We will make amends ere long; So, goodnight unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.”
- Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream

To the Virgins, Make Much of Time – Robert Herrick

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:01:18 +0000

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying,
And this same flower that smiles today,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
and while ye may, go marry;
For having lost just once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.