So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor With the great black piano appassionato. I do not think I would. He listens to the whispering of leaves Rehearsing striking colors in surrender, Then notes a wheeling hawk that screams and grieves To mock the season's bold deceits of splendor; For soon enough the woods, the hawk, and he Will crowd together in the whited vault That Fall constructs each year for life's debris. I have been one acquainted with the night. Some reconcilement of remotest mind— Leaves Ormus rubyless, and Ophir chill.
I also agree with you because the father dedicated his life to his family. There are also translations of poems by Caedmon the first English poet , William Dunbar the first great Scottish poet , Walid Khazindar a Palestinian poet and Rainer Maria Rilke who wrote poems in German and French. He still reads well today, I think. The Garden Of Love by William Blake I laid me down upon a bank, Where Love lay sleeping; I heard among the rushes dank Weeping, weeping. Michelangelo said that he saw the angel in a block of marble, then freed it. As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. For it was in my heart you moved among them, And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes; And in my heart they will remember always,— They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.
He asks no questions of the snake, Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom Where lidless fishes, broad awake, Swim staring at a nightmare doom. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. They shall inherit the earth. Ann Drysdale is one of our better contemporary poets, in my opinion. He died three years after writing the poem, at age 25, after a long struggle with tuberculosis. You can find a number of his poems on the page of The HyperTexts. But such was not the case for the man the poet called father.
Urge them to completion, and with power convey final sweetness to the sagging vine. He asks no questions of the snake, Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom Where lidless fishes, broad awake, Swim staring at a nightmare doom. The first reason, why I think you are wrong is in the poem there is not enough information to prove that the father is a widow or single. Meeting at Night by Robert Browning The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. It is one to me that they come or go If I have myself and the drive of my will, And strength to climb on a summer night And watch the stars swarm over the hill. Where is the word home? My loneliness arrives ghostlike and pretentious, it seeks my soul, it is ravenous and hurting. Perhaps because he wanted to be a real artist, and when confronted with real, dynamic, living-and-breathing art of the sculptor Rodin, he realized that he had to inject the same vital and muscular elements into his poetry.
It well may be that in a difficult hour, pinned down by need and moaning for release or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. Classic, classical, nontraditional and avant garde sonnets. Here the reader can see that there is not much compassion or love from the boy to the father. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read. As an adult he seems to be looking back and regreting that he didnot understand the sacrifices of love that his father had made for him, that he couldnot perseive those actions as anything more than a fathers obligation to his family. In Cyrillic, on her hull Is lettered, Grief. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I.
Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears? Bright Star by John Keats Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever—or else swoon to death. But still the figure's trunk glows with the strange vitality of a lamp lit from within, while his composed will emanates dynamism. Then peered the indefinite unshapen dawn With vacant gloaming, sad as half-lit minds, The weak-limned hour when sick men's sighs are drained. Perhaps the most interesting thing about my personal canon is that most of the sonnets are fairly recent.
The young ones squeaked, and as I went away She found her nest again among the hay. His influence can be seen in the work of Dylan Thomas, but no one has ever duplicated his rhythms. Copyright ©1966 by Robert Hayden. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. I leaned closer to hear: Mein eyes not gut. Sonnet 147 by William Shakespeare My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by, At the right hand of majesty on high You sit, and sitting so remember yet Your tears, your agony and bloody sweat, Your cross and passion and the life you gave, Bow hither out of heaven and see and save.
When love, like a frail shell, lies broken, I keep no chip of it for token. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole, A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous. Robert Frost was well-acquainted with darkness, because members of his family wrestled with depression and insanity. Sexton won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1967, but later committed suicide via carbon monoxide poisoning.
I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. Each one whom Life exiled I named and called. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic mills? Housman If in that Syrian garden, ages slain, You sleep, and know not you are dead in vain, Nor even in dreams behold how dark and bright Ascends in smoke and fire by day and night The hate you died to quench and could but fan, Sleep well and see no morning, son of man. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.