Ode on a Grecian urn
THOU still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape	5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?	10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave	15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!	20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!	25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.	30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,	35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.	40
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!	45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Bue Funeral

Funeral Blues

by W. H. Auden (1907-1973)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with the juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and, with muffled drum,
Bring out the coffin. Let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message: "He is dead!"
Put crepe bows around the white necks of the public doves.
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my north, my south, my east and west,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can come to any good.

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

Emily Dickinson

The Weight of Sweetness by Li-Young Lee

No easy thing to bear, the weight of sweetness.
Song, wisdom, sadness, joy: sweetness
equals three of any of these gravities.
See a peach bend
the branch and strain the stem until
it snaps.
Hold the peach, try the weight, sweetness
and death so round and snug
in your palm.
And, so, there is
the weight of memory:
Windblown, a rain-soaked
bough shakes, showering
the man and the boy.
They shiver in delight,
and the father lifts from his son's cheek
one green leaf
fallen like a kiss.
The good boy hugs a bag of peaches
his father has entrusted
to him.
Now he follows
his father, who carries a bagful in each arm.
See the look on the boy's face
as his father moves
faster and farther ahead, while his own steps
flag, and his arms grow weak, as he labors
under the weight of peaches.

A Bird Came Down The Walk

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.

- Emily Dickinson

Harlem by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore—

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over—

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean-favoured and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good Morning!" and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich, yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine -- we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread,
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet in his head.

Morning Song

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

Sylvia Plath

(Painting "Mother and Child" by William Zorach)

Ah, are you digging on my grave

"Ah, are you digging on my grave
My loved one? -- planting rue?"
-- "No, yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave?
My nearest dearest kin?"
-- "Ah, no; they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.' "

"But some one digs upon my grave?
My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie."

"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say -- since I have not guessed!"
-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog, who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave . . .
Why flashed it not on me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting-place."

Thomas Hardy

Romain - Hawk Roosting - Ted Hughes

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads -

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.

Here's a little place to post your poem and illustration !

Hawk Roosting

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads -

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.

Ted Hughes

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 - March, 1918

POETRY PAPER: POST YOUR QUESTIONS AND COMMENTS HERE....

One face....In An Artist's Studio

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings..."

My favorite poem is Ozymandias by Percy Shelley.

This poem analyzes the human inferiority among time and death. The story of this traveller telling his experience to the narrator is a metaphor for man’s disadvantage against life and its course. The traveller tells “I met a traveller” (l.1) the story of a statue he saw in the desert. The inscription on the statue and the shape of the sculpture scare the reader: “Two vast and trunk less legs of stone/ Stand in the desert“(L.2), this shows how, in the past, these two legs where part of a possible great statue and men. Power could therefore, be transmitted even after the destruction of the statue itself, the reader is in fact captured and afraid of these rests of a possible monumental statue, that intrigues and incurious us.
Ozymandias, the king in honor of whom the statue was built, tries to transmit power and superiority throughout this statue, the inscription on the monument has this king’s words, which seem to be full of hubris: “"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings”. Unfortunately, all the king’s possessions were lost in with time, and the powerful Ozymandias and his statue are nothing but dust and “lifeless things”.

I was amazed by this poem, because it illustrates perfectly how man feels strong and powerful during life only for the superficial and materialistic goods possessed. As Ozymendias, we are all proud of our “works”, we are proud of them, and of what we built throughout life. But these works, after death, might remain on earth; their relative importance instead, will remain just a “wreck”. Man as Ozymendias, will therefore never be able de defeat death and time. This “king of kings” tried to remain in history, to stay alive after his death, but the course of time can only erase all his hubris and his numerous tries. Maybe not during our lives, maybe after our death, we are all on a same level, we are all dust, and our “works” remain destroyed by time on earth. This shows how miserable man is compared to everything else. Life is therefore miserable compared to death.
This poem describes well man’s position in the hierarchical rang of powers, on the bottom of this rang. Man’s desire of power and the subjective view on life illustrates as well how time destroys all the small things man cares about, things that are really small compared to the rest of nature, the universe and imagination.
Imagination plays in fact a key role in this sonnet; the poet uses a short story, with a touch of unrealistic point of view, to help the reader adopt an objective view on life. As Ozymendias, we are all meant to lose against time and death.

Ozymandias - Romain

The sonnet Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley, emits an intriguing and seducing atmosphere. It feels “far away” and mysterious. The author uses a number of different tools in order to emit this particular atmosphere throughout his sonnet. First it seems that the vocabulary plays an important part. The words “traveler”, “antique land”, “vast”, “desert”, “decay”, “colossal”, “far away” and others all contribute to the creation of this antique, warm and mysterious feeling the reader gets when reading the sonnet.

It feels as if the use of narration inside the sonnet also contributes to the creation of this particular, warm atmosphere. The fact that a character (the “traveler from an antique land”) is telling a story creates the ambiance of a story more than a sonnet. It reminds the reader in some ways of a bedtime story, maybe of an exploration expedition in Egypt, and certainly gives the sonnet a warm feel to it.

Now, more importantly, the metaphor included in the sonnet is exceptionally interesting. In great irony, the once almighty “king of kings” who once mocked his inferiors, and fed his people, is now dead along with his entire kingdom, and his statue is slowly falling apart. This goes to demonstrate that one is never truly almighty, not even the “king of kings”, and that power can only be held by a man for so long. Indeed it is shown that only nature is truly almighty, as it always prevails and always overcomes man in the end. Therefore in a way this sonnet also beautifully underlines the importance and the power of nature.

In an Artist's Studio

The Sonnet that I like the most out of this packet was : In an Artist's Studio, by Christiana Rossetti. The author talks about a man who draws non-stop a picture of a young, beautiful girl. This artist seems to be in love with this young girl.


This Sonnet talks about empty love. At a first read I though this poem was romantic. There are many indications that make it seem like it is a passionate love. To begin with the fact that, he draws her and only her, then he compares her to a “saint”etc... But then I re-read and realized that the artist was not in-love with the young girl. It is an empty love. He is not in love with the girl but of the image of the girl. We see this because he does not give her a name “the nameless girl”, because he does not make any attempt to talk to this girl, or try to find this amazing girl in the outside world he just “feeds upon her face day and night”.

"Look on my works ye mighty and despair..."

Rita Dove on "The Island Women of Paris"

My grandmother always wanted to go to Paris.  She would tell, read about Paris in
the library, she would go out and get books and she would talk about all the places you
could go to see, when you went to Paris.  My grandmother never did get a chance to get
to go to Paris, but when I went to Paris, I went there for her the first time.  When I saw
these women walking the streets of Paris who knew how to stand up under the, what shall
we say, the appreciation of a glance or a stare.  They knew how to do it.  And I thought,
my grandmother would have felt right at home here.  Looking at other people is a
municipal sport in Paris, it is not impolite to look.  The women who were looked at and
bore it with the most grace were those women from the islands—from Martinique and
Réunion.

When I have fears taht I may cease to be- John Keats

   When I have fears that I may cease to be is a sonnet written by John Keats in 1818. In this poem he expresses his recurring fear of dying without living the life that he wished to have. All the things that used to matter to him such as fame and wealth now seem to be unimportant. “When” shows that he must have thought about this feeling before. In the first quatrain, Keats shows how much he has to express. Indeed, he is both the field of grain and the harvester. The alliteration in “g” exposes the imagery of the harvest: “glean’d”, “garners”, “grain”. He wants to be remembered as a famous writer and fears to fail. In the second quatrain, his “magic hand” l. 8 represents him as a poet and his ability to transform nature into poetry: “the night’s starr’d face” l.5 and “Huge cloudy symbols” l.6. He sees beauty everywhere and is scared that he will not have the time to show it: “to trace their shadows” l.7-8. In the next quatrain, Keats turns to his fear of losing love: “fair creature of an hour” l.9, “I shall never look upon thee more” l.10. This parallels the idea of time; love doesn’t last long. For the poet, Love has two qualities. Firstly, there is the “faery power” that can change the world for the people in love, making it better. Then there is the “unreflecting love” l.12 reminding us of the illusion and imaginary aspect of this world. The exclamation sentences emphasize his desperation. By the end of the sonnet, Keats makes Fame and Love appear unimportant: “till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink” l.14. “I stand alone” l.13 towards “the wide world” l.13 emphasizes the fact that nothing else matters. “The shore” is the limit between him and the rest of the world; he distances himself. John Keats died in February 1821 at 26 years old and he is now remembered as one of the most important poets of his time.

Keat’s sonnet ‘When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be’ represents a reflection on life and death. The leading theme is fear, as he is afraid that he will not be able to complete all the tasks that he has set for himself. Indeed, he aches to leave a mark in the world with his writing. The sonnet begins with the word “When,” implying that this fear of death is an emotion that he has experienced and reflected on several times. The first two quatrains establish his fear of never being able to develop his ideas and put them onto paper for the world to see. He believes his thoughts can still evolve through learning: “my teeming brain” (l.2), which he also exposes through the imagery of harvest with an alliteration: “glean’d”, “garners” and “full ripened grain.” In fact, “I may never live to trace / Their shadows” (l.7-8) suggests that Keat is perplexed by the thought that he may never be able to fully explore the meaning of something. He then reveals his fear of losing his beloved: “I shall never look upon thee more” (l.10). The closure of the sonnet is somewhat hopeless and depressing: “[I] think/ Till Love and Fame to the nothingness do sink” (l.13-14). By using capitals, he shows what great importance love and fame are for him; without them, everything is worthless. Recognition by the public was something that was important to the author. In a way, this may be what motivated him to write. Thus, death is something that will abruptly end everything: his thoughts, his love and his fame. Although he became even more famous later on, it appears as though it has no true value for him since he is not there to experience it. The use of enjambments emphasizes his continuous distress, which will follow him until death finally comes. This apprehension of death demonstrates how he is willing to accept that death will come, as it is inevitable. Nonetheless, it seems like Keat will not accept the fact that he may die with parts of his life remaining incomplete. What can be perceived as ironic, is that John Keat died four years after writing this sonnet. As he contemplates death, instead of regretting the past, he regrets the future.

The Harlem dancer is a poem that celebrates the soul of african americans living in the north. In this poem, Claude Mckay is creating a festive atmosphere through the diction of party "applauding"(l1)"laughed"(l1)"voice"(l3) " sound"(l3) " flutes"(l3) "sang"(l5) "danced"(l5). The first word of this poem is "APPLAUDING" it brings the reader right into this party atmosphere ,and its written in capital letters which emphasize the importance of the word. The main attraction in this party is a dancer. She is being watched by the "laughing youths with young prostitutes". They are watching her " perfect, half -clothed body sway;". They are focusing on her body, she is also being "devoured" by these people. The verb devoured is usually used for animals. The people watching her are associated with animal characteristic. The dancer is the prey and they are the predators. The only one that seems to be looking on beyond her figure is the "me". He sees her differently than the other people "to [him] she seemed a proudly- swaying palm growing lovelier for passing through a storm." He is admiring her for not paying attention to the laughters of the young people there to watch her. She just keeps on dancing "gracefully". All of those that are making fun of her are looking down on her, for the exception of the poet. He is the only one that is putting her on the same level as him " i knew her self was not in that strange place". In this line the "her " and the "i" are on the same sentence because they are both black, and the rest of the spectators are white.

Sonnet Reader's Response (Shakespeare's 73rd sonnet)

Love is treated in this sonnet, but rather than being dominant, it takes a secondary role, the poet’s troubles overshadowing it.

Indeed most of the sonnet seems to be concentrating on problems and does not consider love as a solution. One of the elements that show this is the amount of lines consecrated for love. In the fourteen-line sonnet only the two last are consecrated to the theme of love. Also, when the poet finally mentions it, he only speaks of the other person’s love for him, saying “thy love,” and does not seem to reciprocate. There is almost coldness in the way love is treated.

The poem is indeed dominated not by love but by the thought of death. He speaks of it directly in the lines 8 and 11, but its power in opposition to the power of love is also highlighted in the rimes. Indeed, Shakespeare thus associates terms designating pleasant and comfortable things to elements reminding one of death, like for example in lines 2 and 4 with “hang” and “sang,” in lines 6 and 8 with “[the] sunset […] in the west” and “Death’s second self […] in rest” and finally in lines 9 and 11, associating the warmth of “fire” with the term “expire.” Thus the theme of death essentially rules the sonnet.

Sonnet on Sonnet-Writing

Here's a sonnet that I thought was interesting, because it acts as a sort of bridge between older and more modern sonnet-writing: it references Petrarch and his Laura, and the "iambic bongos" of Elizabethan sonnets, yet also doesn't necessarily abide to all the codes involved in the process (no rhymes...). It's also great to how Collins is simply describing writing a sonnet, yet at the same time does just what he is talking about in his poem. (A sort of mise en abyme?)

Sonnet - Billy Collins (1941-)

All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,
and after this one just a dozen
to launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas,
then only ten more left like rows of beans.
How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan
and insist the iambic bongos must be played
and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines,
one for every station of the cross.
But hang on here wile we make the turn
into the final six where all will be resolved,
where longing and heartache will find an end,
where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen,
take off those crazy medieval tights,
blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.

(From Sailing Around the Room: New and Selected Poems)

On a funny note (at least for me), this is what I imagined every time I thought of Gregor Samsa.

Post your sonnet responses here!!