' Live-Poets Society ' – A Corner For Poetry

[MichaelS36]

3 hours ago, AC Benus said:

(A poem more fitting to our hopes for current times could not possibly be

You're so right.  There is so much turmoil ... I just want to turn and walk away. Just unsure which direction I should go. 

[AC Benus]

 

 

105.

It is the day when he was born,*

  A bitter day that early sank

  Behind a purple-frosty bank

Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.

 

The time admits not flowers or leaves

  To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies

  The blast of North and East, and ice

Makes daggers at the sharpened eaves,

 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns

  To yon hard crescent, as she hangs

  Above the wood which grides and clangs

Its leafless ribs and iron horns

 

Together, in the drifts that pass

  To darken on the rolling brine

  That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,

Arrange the board and brim the glass;

 

Bring in great logs and let them lie,

  To make a solid core of heat;

  Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat

Of all things ev'n as he were by;

 

We keep the day. With festal cheer,

  With books and music, surely we

  Will drink to him, whate'er he be,

And sing the songs he loved to hear.

Tennyson

 

 

* This poem is dated February 1st, 1838, which would have been Henry Hallam's 27th birthday...

 

Edited July 2, 2020 by AC Benus

[MichaelS36]

27 minutes ago, AC Benus said:

 

 

105.

It is the day when he was born,*

  A bitter day that early sank

  Behind a purple-frosty bank

Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.

 

The time admits not flowers or leaves

  To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies

  The blast of North and East, and ice

Makes daggers at the sharpened eaves,

 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns

  To yon hard crescent, as she hangs

  Above the wood which grides and clangs

Its leafless ribs and iron horns

 

Together, in the drifts that pass

  To darken on the rolling brine

  That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,

Arrange the board and brim the glass;

 

Bring in great logs and let them lie,

  To make a solid core of heat;

  Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat

Of all things ev'n as he were by;

 

We keep the day. With festal cheer,

  With books and music, surely we

  Will drink to him, whate'er he be,

And sing the songs he loved to hear.

Tennyson

 

 

* This poem is dated February 1st, 1838, which would have been Henry Hallam's 27th birthday...

 

it's wonderful ... I surely hope Hallam knew he was loved. 

[AC Benus]

 

 

106.

I will not shut me from my kind,

  And, lest I stiffen into stone,

  I will not eat my heart alone,

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind:

 

What profit lies in barren faith,

  And vacant yearning, tho' with might

  To scale the heaven's highest height,

Or dive below the wells of Death?

 

What find I in the highest place,

  But mine own phantom chanting hymns?

  And on the depths of death there swims

The reflex of a human face.

 

I'll rather take what fruit may be

  Of sorrow under human skies:

  'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise,

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 3, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

107.

Heart-affluence in discursive talk

  From household fountains never dry;

  The critic clearness of an eye,

That saw through all the Muses' walk;

 

Seraphic intellect and force

  To seize and throw the doubts of man;

  Impassioned logic, which outran

The hearer in its fiery course;

 

High nature amorous of the good,

  But touched with no ascetic gloom;

  And passion pure in snowy bloom

Through all the years of April blood;

 

A love of freedom rarely felt,

  Of freedom in her regal seat

  Of England; not the schoolboy heat,

The blind hysterics of the Celt;

 

And manhood fused with female grace

  In such a sort, the child would twine

  A trustful hand, unasked, in thine,

And find his comfort in thy face;

 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes

  Have looked on: if they looked in vain,

  My shame is greater who remain,

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 6, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

16 minutes ago, AC Benus said:

 

 

107.

Heart-affluence in discursive talk

  From household fountains never dry;

  The critic clearness of an eye,

That saw through all the Muses' walk;

 

Seraphic intellect and force

  To seize and throw the doubts of man;

  Impassioned logic, which outran

The hearer in its fiery course;

 

High nature amorous of the good,

  But touched with no ascetic gloom;

  And passion pure in snowy bloom

Through all the years of April blood;

 

A love of freedom rarely felt,

  Of freedom in her regal seat

  Of England; not the schoolboy heat,

The blind hysterics of the Celt;

 

And manhood fused with female grace

  In such a sort, the child would twine

  A trustful hand, unasked, in thine,

And find his comfort in thy face;

 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes

  Have looked on: if they looked in vain,

  My shame is greater who remain,

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise.

Tennyson

 

 

This one is really challenging to understand 

[AC Benus]

 

 

108.

Thy converse drew us with delight,

  The men of rathe and riper years:

  The feeble soul, a haunt of fears,

Forgot his weakness in thy sight.

 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung,

  The proud was half disarmed of pride,

  Nor cared the serpent at thy side

To flicker with his double tongue.

 

The stern were mild when thou wert by,

  The flippant put himself to school

  And heard thee, and the brazen fool

Was softened, and he knew not why;

 

While I, thy nearest, sat apart,

  And felt thy triumph was as mine;

  And loved them more, that they were thine,

The graceful tact, the Christian art;

 

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill,

  But mine the love that will not tire,

  And, born of love, the vague desire

That spurs an imitative will.

Tennyson

 

 

(rathe = precocious; blooming early or prolifically)

 

Edited July 7, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

109.

The churl in spirit, up or down

   Along the scale of ranks, through all,

  To him who grasps a golden ball,

By blood a king, at heart a clown;

 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil

  His want in forms for fashion's sake,

  Will let his coltish nature break

At seasons through the gilded pale:

 

For who can always act? but he,

  To whom a thousand memories call,

  Not being less but more than all

The gentleness he seemed to be,

 

Best seemed the thing he was, and joined

  Each office of the social hour

  To noble manners, as the flower

And native growth of noble mind;

 

Nor ever narrowness or spite,

  Or villain fancy fleeting by,

  Drew in the expression of an eye,

Where God and Nature met in light;

 

And thus he bore without abuse

  The grand old name of gentleman,

  Defamed by every charlatan,

And soiled with all ignoble use.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 8, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

oh, what a love poem...

 

110.

High wisdom holds my wisdom less,

  That I, who gaze with temperate eyes

  On glorious insufficiencies,

Set light by narrower perfectness.

 

But thou, who fillest all the room

  Of all my love, art reason why

  I seem to cast a careless eye

On souls, the lesser lords of doom.

 

For what wert thou? some novel power

  Sprang up for ever at a touch,

  And hope could never hope too much,

In watching thee from hour to hour,

 

Large elements in order brought,

  And tracts of calm from tempest made,

  And world-wide fluctuation swayed

In vassal tides that followed thought.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 9, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

111.

'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise;

  Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee

  Which not alone had guided me,

But served the seasons that may rise;

 

For can I doubt, who knew thee keen

  In intellect, with force and skill

  To strive, to fashion, to fulfill --

I doubt not what thou wouldst have been:

 

A life in civic action warm,

  A soul on highest mission sent,

  A potent voice of Parliament,

A pillar steadfast in the storm,

 

Should licensed boldness gather force,

  Becoming, when the time has birth,

  A lever to uplift the earth

And roll it in another course,

 

With thousand shocks that come and go,

   With agonies, with energies,

  With overthrowings, and with cries

And undulations to and fro.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 10, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

112.

Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail

  Against her beauty? May she mix

  With men and prosper! Who shall fix

Her pillars? Let her work prevail.

 

But on her forehead sits a fire:

  She sets her forward countenance

  And leaps into the future chance,

Submitting all things to desire.

 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain --

  She cannot fight the fear of death.

  What is she, cut from love and faith,

But some wild Pallas from the brain

 

Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst

  All barriers in her onward race

  For power. Let her know her place;

She is the second, not the first.

 

A higher hand must make her mild,

  If all be not in vain; and guide

  Her footsteps, moving side by side

With wisdom, like the younger child:

 

For she is earthly of the mind,

  But Wisdom heavenly of the soul.

  O, friend, who camest to thy goal

So early, leaving me behind,

 

I would the great world grew like thee,

  Who grewest not alone in power

  And knowledge, but by year and hour

In reverence and in charity.

Tennyson

 

 

 

 

 

Edited July 11, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

A master class in Blank Verse

 

[AC Benus]

 

 

113.

Now fades the last long streak of snow,

  Now burgeons every maze of quick

  About the flowering squares, and thick

By ashen roots the violets blow.

 

Now rings the woodland loud and long,

  The distance takes a lovelier hue,

  And drowned in yonder living blue

The lark becomes a sightless song.

 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,

  The flocks are whiter down the vale,

  And milkier every milky sail

On winding stream or distant sea;

 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives

  In yonder greening gleam, and fly

  The happy birds, that change their sky

To build and brood; that live their lives

 

From land to land; and in my breast

  Spring wakens too; and my regret

  Becomes an April violet,

And buds and blossoms like the rest.

Tennyson

 

*Seamew = seagull

 

Edited July 13, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

114.

Is it, then, regret for buried time

  That keenlier in sweet April wakes,

  And meets the year, and gives and takes

The colours of the crescent prime?

 

Not all: the songs, the stirring air,

  The life re-orient out of dust

  Cry through the sense to hearten trust

In that which made the world so fair.

 

Not all regret: the face will shine

  Upon me, while I muse alone;

  And that dear voice, I once have known,

Still speak to me of me and mine:

 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me

  For days of happy commune dead;

  Less yearning for the friendship fled,

Than some strong bond which is to be.

Tennyson

 

 

 

Edited July 14, 2020 by AC Benus

[Parker Owens]

16 minutes ago, AC Benus said:

 

 

114.=1>

Is it, then, regret for buried time=1>

  That keenlier in sweet April wakes,

  And meets the year, and gives and takes

The colours of the crescent prime?

 

Not all: the songs, the stirring air,

  The life re-orient out of dust

  Cry through the sense to hearten trust

In that which made the world so fair.

 

Not all regret: the face will shine

  Upon me, while I muse alone;

  And that dear voice, I once have known,

Still speak to me of me and mine:

 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me

  For days of happy commune dead;

  Less yearning for the friendship fled,

Than some strong bond which is to be.

Tennyson

 

 

 

I am so grateful for your continued posting of this. A dear cousin passed away this weekend; these words have added significance today. 

[AC Benus]

1 hour ago, Parker Owens said:

I am so grateful for your continued posting of this. A dear cousin passed away this weekend; these words have added significance today. 

Hugs for your loss

[MichaelS36]

3 hours ago, Parker Owens said:

I am so grateful for your continued posting of this. A dear cousin passed away this weekend; these words have added significance today. 

I am sorry for your loss, Parker. 

[Mikiesboy]

3 hours ago, Parker Owens said:

I am so grateful for your continued posting of this. A dear cousin passed away this weekend; these words have added significance today. 

I am sorry to hear that, Parker. xo

[AC Benus]

 

 

115.

O days and hours, your work is this

  To hold me from my proper place,

  A little while from his embrace,

For fuller gain of after bliss:

 

That out of distance might ensue

  Desire of nearness doubly sweet;

  And unto meeting when we meet,

Delight a hundredfold accrue,

 

For every grain of sand that runs,

  And every span of shade that steals,

  And every kiss of toothed wheels,

And all the courses of the suns.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 15, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

No. 115 of In Memoriam reminds me the third Ode to Behrisch 

 

from Ode the Third.

 

Death is parting;

A threefold death

Is parting without hope

Of reunion.

 

I know you’d gladly leave

This detested country,

If not for my friendship’s bond

In chains of blossoming links.

 

Tear them apart! And I'll take no action,

For no worthy mate

Keeps his fellow back a prisoner

When he can still escape.

 

The releasing concept

Of a companion's freedom

Sets too the captor free

Even from within his dungeon.

 

You leave, I stay.

Yet still rotates this great wheel

Around our calendar spokes,

Upon its smoking axis. 

 

I'll count the turning markers

With their thundering peals,

Knowing the last one will bless

To spring me loose, and be free as you. 

Goethe

 

 

Edited July 15, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

116.

Contemplate all this work of Time,

  The giant labouring in his youth;

  Nor dream of human love and truth,

As dying Nature's earth and lime;

 

But trust that those we call the dead

  Are breathers of an ampler day

  For ever nobler ends. They say,

The solid earth whereon we tread

 

In tracts of fluent heat began,

  And grew to seeming-random forms,

  The seeming prey of cyclic storms,

Till at the last arose the man;

 

Who throve and branched from clime to clime,

  The herald of a higher race,

  And of himself in higher place,

If so he type this work of time

 

Within himself, from more to more;

  Or, crowned with attributes of woe

  Like glories, move his course, and show

That life is not as idle ore,

 

But iron dug from central gloom,

  And heated hot with burning fears,

  And dipt in baths of hissing tears,

And battered with the shocks of doom

 

To shape and use. Arise and fly

  The reeling Faun, the sensual feast;

  Move upward, working out the beast,

And let the ape and tiger die.

Tennyson

 

 

 

Edited July 16, 2020 by AC Benus

[Lyssa]

On 7/15/2020 at 11:19 PM, AC Benus said:

No. 115 of In Memoriam reminds me the third Ode to Behrisch 

 

from Ode the Third.

 

Death is parting;

A threefold death

Is parting without hope

Of reunion.

 

I know you’d gladly leave

This detested country,

If not for my friendship’s bond

In chains of blossoming links.

 

Tear them apart! And I'll take no action,

For no worthy mate

Keeps his fellow back a prisoner

When he can still escape.

 

The releasing concept

Of a companion's freedom

Sets too the captor free

Even from within his dungeon.

 

You leave, I stay.

Yet still rotates this great wheel

Around our calendar spokes,

Upon its smoking axis. 

 

I'll count the turning markers

With their thundering peals,

Knowing the last one will bless

To spring me loose, and be free as you. 

Goethe

 

 

I understand what you mean. Yes, they match. I read an article a few days ago, which said, that in the time of Goethe people were much more open to speak fresh/uncommen thoughts and to listen to fresh/ uncommon thoughts (In German countries). An intersting theory, looking on these. I am not sure, if I agree with this theory completly. But I can defentily see, why it came up.

[AC Benus]

 

 

117.

Doors, where my heart was used to beat

  So quickly, not as one that weeps

  I come once more; the city sleeps;

I smell the meadow in the street;

 

I hear a chirp of birds; I see

  Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn

  A light-blue lane of early dawn,

And think of early days and thee,

 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland,

  And bright the friendship of thine eye;

  And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh

I take the pressure of thine hand.

Tennyson

 

 

 

Edited July 17, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

118.

I trust I have not wasted breath:

  I think we are not wholly brain,

  Magnetic mockeries; not in vain,

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death;

 

Not only cunning casts in clay:

  Let Science prove we are, and then

  What matters Science unto men,

At least to me? I would not stay.

 

Let him, the wiser man who springs

  Hereafter, up from childhood shape

  His action like the greater ape,

But I was born to other things.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 18, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

119.

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun

  And ready, thou, to die with him,

  Thou watchest all things ever dim

And dimmer, and a glory done:

 

The team is loosened from the wain,

  The boat is drawn upon the shore;

  Thou listenest to the closing door,

And life is darkened in the brain.

 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night,

  By thee the world's great work is heard

  Beginning, and the wakeful bird;

Behind thee comes the greater light:

 

The market boat is on the stream,

  And voices hail it from the brink;

  Thou hear'st the village hammer clink,

And see'st the moving of the team.

 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name

  For what is one, the first, the last,

  Thou, like my present and my past,

Thy place is changed; thou art the same.

Tennyson

 

 

 

Edited July 19, 2020 by AC Benus