Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, The dreamy air is full, and overflows With tender memories of the summer-tide, And mingled voices of the doves and crows. Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase The leaves, half dead already with affright; I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight. Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair, I come, the last of all. This crown of mine Is of the holly; in my hand I bear The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine. I celebrate the birth of the Divine, And the return of the Saturnian reign;— My songs are carols sung at every shrine.
This poem is an amalgamation of truth and beauty.
There is a dearth of such pieces these days. But owing to few poets including you, the spirit and art of poetry is still alive. Of course, failures of the greatest poets are the same as those failures of the greatest mathematicians, chemists, composers, philosophers, physicists, etc. Within great creations there is much that is redeemable, much that is inspirational; and most importantly, there we cross the currents of eternity, truth and knowledge, goodness and wisdom, beauty and power.
Sarangi has done an excellent job in attempting a cataloguing of the ten greatest poems of Mr. Though Longfellow did not achieve their power or even their poetic talent, his attempt, like that of his British contemporaries Kingsley, Clough and others, is truly inspirational. Longfellow certainly was one of the major participants in the Victorian striving after narrative poetry.
I never tire of reading its 14 stanzas. Because I have read it so many times, it may be one of those seminal works that has had the most profound influence upon my own verse. As Mr. Along with his sonnet on Chaucer, the six sonnets he appended to that translation of Dante are also among my favourite short poems of Longfellow. And here we can thank Mr. Mantyk for his additional reminders as well. Of contemporary critics, the essays I most admire on Longfellow are those of Gioia, one of which I only vaguely remember that he sent me back in the days of snail mail.
He may understand Longfellow better than anyone in our present era. When I despaired of studying the richness of Romantic poetry in English, Longfellow who in some respects fell out of that period remained one of my guiding lights.
Sarangi is wise to study Longfellow early, as he will find there is so much to discover in the world of poetry, and it is good to have solid anchors in mass society. What I learned from my beginning studies of Romantic literature is that, the world of poetry is vast, so much so, no one can comprehend its enormity.
Here are some of the writers I looked at who wrote at the end of their lives, in the middle of their lives, and at the beginning of their lives, starting with poems written in and after. Disregard the asterisk notations. After more than pages, I quit, as the project seemed too formidible. Adams D. Lamb J. Moore H. Smith Allston Galt T.
Diary of Love Painful, Dark and Lonely Poems [Vivienne] on efegravecons.ml * FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Journal of Poems from during a painful . [READ ONLINE] Diary of Love Painful, Dark and Lonely Poems by Vivienne. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read .
Elliott D. Taylor J. Elliott Hillhouse, J.
Wolfe S. Browning Longfellow Whittier S. Note that at the beginning, some of the writers are predominantly late 18th century; and except for writers, like Poe, as you can see towards the end of this list, writers tend to be Victorian in England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and South Africa, or Realist in America; hence the dotted line.
People do not fit literary periods very well; yet without literary periods we would despair of even being able to talk of poets from the vantage point of this New Millennium. I wish Mr. Sarangi the best of luck in his endeavours in English literature. Having graduated from the Indira Gandhi Institute of Technology, he may be poised to advance English literature in the 21st century.
Perhaps he may even help us understand India better, a landscape of so many competing languages and traditions, much in a similar way that English poetry itself comes from so many nations and traditions as well. First of all, I extend my deep gratitude for these wonderful words — words that perhaps would have remained unsaid if I had not tried to come up with this essay. Such rich outflow of expressions from one experienced poet enriches the minds of young ones like us.
I could be boasting in some way if I say that being someone in my early twenties from the so called advanced generation , I have had not the slightest urge to study any modern or post-modern poet. When I began writing poetry, I took a great liking to the works of Longfellow, Coleridge, Blake, Shelley and Keats and maybe that was vital to feel an inner spark in me — a spark to appreciate poetry that had the rhyme and meter. This, I think is what led me to writing only poems that rhymed. They never had a strict meter, predominantly because I hail from the non English speaking world.
But the poems of Longfellow have something in them to inspire me every time. It is always surprising to most that despite being an electrical engineering graduate, I take interest in ancient poetry and literature — works of Marvell, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Yeats, Milton, Donne, Raleigh, Herbert, Drayton, Spenser, Clare, Stevenson, Arnold, Frost, Sidney and many others Yeats and Frost especially because I see in their works a glimpse of the art like in those olden days.
The sonnets that Longfellow wrote to some of the masters are inspirational, like the ones on Dante, Keats and Shakespeare below:.
http://deivana.lt/actions/crack/casus-bilgisayar-007-keylogger-serial.php Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, What soft compassion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume! The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold To the red rising moon, and loud and deep The nightingale is singing from the steep; It is midsummer, but the air is cold; Can it be death? This vision comes to me when I unfold The volume of the Poet paramount, Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone;— Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount, Placed him as Musagetes on their throne.
I never really took the time to delve too deep into Longfellow, but I had crossed his poem the day is gone, which Poe gave as a perfect example of poetry in his The Poetic Principle I believe. I think Poe was quite influenced by that kind of poem. For this reason I think that poem is so powerful as it in a sense demonstrates the true power of poetry, through its humbleness.
Like a beautiful person who does not woo us by saying or showing too much, but by the grace revealed in the smallest of gestures. Time and again, a majority of poets try to give us a glimpse of a truth, a principle, a thought — too complex and sometimes this acts against getting it across to the reader.
Like Mr. Gosselin, I, too, enjoy those smaller pieces of wisdom and nuanced feeling, those anecdotes of history in all the great fields of human endeavour. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid [expression], never produces a profound or enduring effect. There must be steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax.
You made a valid point nonetheless. Some of the images are very effective. Nothing can be better than —. The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem, on the whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful insouciance of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the sentiments, and especially for the ease of the general manner. But not so: — a natural manner is difficult only to him who should never meddle with it — to the unnatural. It is but the result of writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that the tone, in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would adopt — and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion.
This is a very valuable list and great service that Satyananda has done. I have never been a great Longfellow admirer or reader, although maybe I should read more of his work, as, like myself, he is a Quaker and his work always seems to reveal a deep ethical basis.
Beer, John, New York: Viking. It seems as if when two naked souls approach, or come anywhere near contact with each other, the one inevitably burns or scorches the other. And those dark and mysterious recesses of the mind are where some of the other poems dally - grief, obsession and madness, unspent psychic forces, as well as addressing familiar mythic figures - the Sphinx, the Sirens, the goddess Medea. That X could be an Ex. Both the danger and the responsibility of love lie in this refining of truth, which is at bottom a refining of self, for we are the sum total of the truths by which we live.
I remember when I first encountered him, aged 19, when I read the entirety of Hiawatha. Initially, it transfixed me with its rhythms and rhymes, but I also remember flagging as I got further and further into the poem, as its structure became repetitive. The problem for me with much of the poetry, though, is that although I love ethics, sometimes saying the right things can seem too simplistic — rather like rhyming in fact.
Predictable rhymes with predictable sentiments leave me feeling unsatisfied. I agree on the whole ethics part James. Yes, Mr. Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair, At the threshold, near the gates, With its menace or its prayer, Like a mendicant it waits; Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid; By the cares of yesterday Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear, Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere.
And we stand from day to day, Like the dwarfs of times gone by, Who, as Northern legends say, On their shoulders held the sky. Dear child! The ancient chimney of thy nursery!
With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune! But, lo! Thou hearest footsteps from afar!