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News > > The Canonical Texts of GotPoetry.com
Love and Sleep
Posted by on Friday, December 14, 2007 (08:30:00)
Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)
Note: To my wife, Anne, on my birthday. I will always love you. - John
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[Child of the grass]
Posted by John on Sunday, August 19, 2007 (08:40:00)
Ezra Pound (1885-1972)
Child of the grass
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For a Picture
Posted by John on Thursday, August 09, 2007 (09:25:00)
Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)
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The Eagle (a Fragment)
Posted by John on Wednesday, July 04, 2007 (06:05:00)
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
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Untitled
Posted by John on Saturday, May 26, 2007 (08:25:00)
Emily Dickinson
To die--takes just a little while--
They say it doesn't hurt--
It's only fainter--by degrees--
And then--it's out of sight--
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Epithalamion
Posted by John on Saturday, May 12, 2007 (09:25:00)
Edmund Spenser, 1597
Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne,
Whom ye thought worthy for your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But joyed in theyr praise;
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your doleful dreriment:
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside,
And having all your heads with girland crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound;
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride:
So I unto my selfe alone will sing;
The woods shall to me answer, and my eccho ring.
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Cleis
Posted by John on Saturday, April 28, 2007 (09:25:00)
Sappho
Sleep, darling
I have a small
daughter called
Cleis, who is
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A Football-Player
Posted by John on Thursday, April 19, 2007 (05:00:00)
by Edward Cracroft Lefroy (b. 1855)
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Ver Novum
Posted by John on Saturday, April 14, 2007 (09:15:00)
Ezra Pound (1885-1972)
Thou that art sweeter than all orchards' breath
And clearer than the sun gleam after rain
Thou that savest my soul's self from death
As scorpion's is, of self-inflicted pain
Thou that dost ever make demand for the best I have to give
Gentle to utmost courteously bidding only my pure-purged
spirits live:
Thou that spellest ever gold from out my dross
Mage powerful and subtly sweet
Gathering fragments that there be no loss
Behold the brighter gains lie at thy feet.
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To the Raphaelite Latinists
Posted by John on Saturday, March 31, 2007 (10:20:00)
Trans. Ezra Pound (1885-1972)
By Weston Llewmys
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The Rape of the Lock
Posted by John on Saturday, March 17, 2007 (11:00:00)
An Heroi-Comical Poem
Alexander Pope
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An Essay on Criticism
Posted by John on Saturday, March 03, 2007 (10:15:00)
Alexander Pope
'Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
Appear in Writing or in Judging ill,
But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' Offence,
To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense:
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
A Fool might once himself alone expose,
Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.
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Wedlock: A Satire
Posted by John on Saturday, February 17, 2007 (11:00:00)
Mehetabel Wright (1697-1750)
(Wr. c. 1730; pub. 1862)
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The Sphinx
Posted by John on Saturday, February 03, 2007 (10:35:00)
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
The Sphinx is drowsy,
Her wings are furled:
Her ear is heavy,
She broods on the world.
"Who'll tell me my secret,
The ages have kept?--
I awaited the seer
While they slumbered and slept:--
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Ode Inscribed to W. H. Channing
Posted by John on Saturday, January 20, 2007 (10:50:00)
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
Though loath to grieve
The evil time's sole patriot,
I cannot leave
My honied thought
For the priest's cant,
Or statesman's rant.
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Sir Gawayne and the Grene Knyght
Posted by John on Saturday, December 23, 2006 (10:10:00)
THEN the sege and the assaut watz sesed at Troye,
The borygh brittened and brent to brondeygh and askez,
The tulk that the trammes of tresoun ther wroyght
Watz tried for his tricherie, the trewest on erthe:
Hit watz Ennias the athel, and his highe kynde,
That sithen depreced prouinces, and patrounes bicome
Welneyghe of al the wele in the west iles.
Fro riche Romulus to Rome ricchis hym swythe,
With gret bobbaunce that buryghe he biges vpon fyrst,
And neuenes hit his aune nome, as hit now hat;
Tirius to Tuskan and teldes bigynnes,
Langaberde in Lumbardie lyftes vp homes,
And fer ouer the French flod Felix Brutus
On mony bonkkes ful brode Bretayn he settez
wyth wynne,
Where werre and wrake and wonder
Bi sythez hatz wont therinne,
And oft bothe blysse and blunder
Ful skete hatz skyfted synne.
Ande quen this Bretayn watz bigged bi this burn rych,
Bolde bredden therinne, baret that lofden,
In mony turned tyme tene that wroyghten.
Mo ferlyes on this folde han fallen here oft
Then in any other that I wot, syn that ilk tyme.
Bot of alle that here bult, of Bretaygne kynges,
Ay watz Arthur the hendest, as I haf herde telle.
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Bacchus
Posted by John on Saturday, December 09, 2006 (10:30:00)
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through
Under the Andes to the Cape,
Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.
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The Charge of the Light Brigade
Posted by John on Saturday, December 09, 2006 (10:10:00)
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
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We shall not cease
Posted by John on Saturday, November 25, 2006 (10:30:00)
The canonical poem by T.S. Eliot (1943)
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Dickinson Poems
Posted by John on Saturday, October 28, 2006 (08:55:00)
Emily Dickinson
14
One Sister have I in our house,
And one, a hedge away.
There's only one recorded,
But both belong to me.
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From The Prelude to the Lyrical Ballads
Posted by John on Saturday, October 14, 2006 (09:40:00)
William Wordsworth
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Work Without Hope
Posted by John on Saturday, September 16, 2006 (08:25:00)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
(composed 21st February 1825)
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Frost at Midnight
Posted by John on Saturday, September 02, 2006 (08:25:00)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud---and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
`Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
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