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  1. #91
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    Going to try an experiment. I will now post a poem that was written by Edgar Allan Poe.
    And then start to compose a tribute poem, with that poem in mind and the thoughts it inspired.
    Point is to see how fast I can finish one that is by my standards good enough to pass muster.

    Poe's poem--one that is not dark....

    To The River

    by Edgar Allan Poe
    (published 1829)



    Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
    Of crystal, wandering water,
    Thou art an emblem of the glow
    Of beauty -- the unhidden heart --
    The playful maziness of art
    In old Alberto's daughter;

    But when within thy wave she looks --
    Which glistens then, and trembles --
    Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
    Her worshipper resembles;
    For in my heart, as in thy stream,
    Her image deeply lies --
    The heart which trembles at the beam
    Of her soul-searching eyes.

    ***********************************

    My tribute offering,
    Times started composing, 8:58am
    finished 9:24am
    This went far faster and came out far better than
    i ever thought it could or would.--Tyr

    O'Bright Star, Thy Bright Gleamings True Hearts See

    O'bright star! may thy gleam our sad hearts sate
    with splendor of glow, quench our dying thirsts
    Thy exquisite beauty, mankind debates
    as well, bold shining depths of thy starbursts.

    Why gift that grin, that Chesire cat-eye glow.
    As riddles we are never meant to know?

    O'bright star! will thy eternal gaze blink
    a galactic voice thy wisdom imparts
    Are thy infinite gleamings - wine to drink,
    as a soothing balm to heal broken hearts,
    Shall ever thy distant voice our souls hear
    or will we destroy Earth with hate and fear?

    May we in our pitifully sad state.
    Reach, touch thy heart's glow, to truly relate?

    Robert J. Lindley, 9/10/2020
    Sonnet, A tribute poem,
    To Poe's, poem, titled,
    "To The River"..



    ****************************

    edit- 9-12-2020



    https://www.chino.k12.ca.us/cms/lib/...20of%20Poe.pdf

    The Genius of “The Tell-Tale Heart” BY STEPHEN KING

    When I do public appearances, I’m often-no, always-asked what scares me. The answer is almost everything, from express elevators in very tall buildings to the idea of a zealot1 loose with a suitcase nuke in one of the great cities of the world. But if the question is refined to “What works of fiction have scared you?” two always leap immediately to mind: Lord of the Flies by William Golding and “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe. Most people know that Poe invented the modern detective story (Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes is in many ways the same detective as Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin), but few are aware that he also created the first work of criminal sociopathy2 in “The Tell-Tale Heart,” a story originally published in 1843. Many great crime writers of the twentieth century, from Jim Thompson and John D. MacDonald to Thomas Harris (who in Hannibal Lecter may have created the greatest sociopath of them all), are the children of Poe. The details of the story are still gruesome enough to produce nightmares (the cutting up of the victim’s body, for instance, or the old man’s one dying shriek), but the terror that lingers-and the story’s genius-lies in the superficially reasonable voice of the narrator. He is never named, and that is fitting, because we have no idea how he picked his victim, or what drove him to the crime. Oh, we know what he says: it was the old man’s gruesomely veiled eye. But of course, Jeffrey Dahmer said he wanted to create zombies, and the Son of Sam at one point claimed his dog told him to do it. We understand, I think, that psychopaths3 offer such wacky motivations because they are as helpless as the rest of us to explain their terrible acts. This is, above all, a persuasive story of lunacy, and Poe never offers any real explanations. Nor has to. The narrator’s cheerful laughter (“A tub had caught… all [the blood]-ha! ha!”) tells us all we need to know. Here is a creature who looks like a man but who really belongs to another species. That’s scary. What elevates this story beyond merely scary and into the realm of genius, though, is that Poe foresaw the darkness of generations far beyond his own. Ours, for instance. 1: zealot- fanatic, enthusiast 2: sociopathy- having antisocial behavior 3: pychopaths- persons suffering from chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behavior. B its founder, Thomas Jefferson. It had strict rules against gambling, horses, guns, tobacco and alcohol, but these rules were generally ignored. Jefferson had enacted a system of student self-government, allowing students to choose their own studies, make their own arrangements for boarding, and report all wrongdoing to the faculty. The unique system was still in chaos, and there was a high dropout rate. During his time there, Poe lost touch with Royster and also became estranged from his foster father over gambling debts. Poe claimed that Allan had not given him sufficient money to register for classes, purchase texts, and procure and furnish a dormitory. Allan did send additional money and clothes, but Poe's debts increased. Poe gave up on the university after a year, and, not feeling welcome in Richmond, especially when he learned that his sweetheart Royster had married Alexander Shelton, he traveled to Boston in April 1827, sustaining himself with odd jobs as a clerk and newspaper writer. At some point he started using the pseudonym Henri Le Rennet. Death On October 3, 1849, Poe was found on the streets of Baltimore delirious, "in great distress, and... in need of immediate assistance", according to the man who found him, Joseph W. Walker. He was taken to the Washington College Hospital, where he died on Sunday, October 7, 1849, at 5:00 in the morning. Poe was never coherent long enough to explain how he came to be in his dire condition, and, oddly, was wearing clothes that were not his own. Poe is said to have repeatedly called out the name "Reynolds" on the night before his death, though it is unclear to whom he was referring. Some sources say Poe's final words were "Lord help my poor soul." All medical records, including his death certificate, have been lost. Newspapers at the time reported Poe's death as "congestion of the brain" or "cerebral inflammation", common euphemisms for deaths from disreputable causes such as alcoholism. The actual cause of death remains a mystery; from as early as 1872, cooping was commonly believed to have been the cause, and speculation has included delirium tremens, heart disease, epilepsy, syphilis, meningeal inflammation, cholera and rabies. Griswold's "Memoir" The day Edgar Allan Poe was buried, a long obituary appeared in the New York Tribune signed "Ludwig". It was soon published throughout the country. The piece began, "Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it." "Ludwig" was soon identified as Rufus Wilmot Griswold, an editor, critic and anthologist who had borne a grudge against Poe since 1842. Griswold somehow became Poe's literary executor and attempted to destroy his enemy's reputation after his death. Rufus Griswold wrote a biographical article of Poe called "Memoir of the Author", which he included in an 1850 volume of the collected works. Griswold depicted Poe as a depraved, drunk, drug-addled madman and included Poe's letters as evidence. Many of his claims were either lies or distorted half-truths. For example, it is now known that Poe was not a drug addict. Griswold's book was denounced by those who knew Poe well, but it became a popularly accepted one. This occurred in part because it was the only full biography available and was widely reprinted and in part because readers thrilled at the thought of reading works by an "evil" man. Letters that Griswold presented as proof of this depiction of Poe were later revealed as forgeries. Literary Style and Themes Genres Poe's best known fiction works are Gothic, a genre he followed to appease the public taste. His most recurring themes deal with questions of death, including its physical signs, the effects of decomposition, concerns of premature burial, the reanimation of the dead, and mourning. Many of his works are generally considered part of the dark romanticism genre, a literary reaction to transcendentalism, which Poe strongly disliked. He referred to followers of the movement as "Frogpondians" after the pond on Boston Common and ridiculed their writings as "metaphor-run mad," lapsing into "obscurity for obscurity's sake" or "mysticism for mysticism's sake." Poe once wrote in a letter to Thomas Holley Chivers that he did not dislike Transcendentalists, "only the pretenders and sophists among them." Beyond horror, Poe also wrote satires, humor tales, and hoaxes. For comic effect, he used irony and ludicrous extravagance, often in an attempt to liberate the reader from cultural conformity. In fact, "Metzengerstein", the first story that Poe is known to have published, and his first foray into horror, was originally intended as a burlesque satirizing the popular genre. Poe also reinvented science fiction, responding in his writing to emerging technologies such as hot air balloons in "The Balloon-Hoax". Poe wrote much of his work using themes specifically catered for mass market tastes. To that end, his fiction often included elements of popular pseudosciences such as phrenology and physiognomy.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  2. #92
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    Note:
    My inspired interpretations received after reading several times
    this truly wonderful and very deep poem by Thomas Grays.
    A gift he gave to this world and one that is so widely recognized
    for its depths, truth, insight, and laments about this dark world
    and its harsh, heavy cruel blows laid upon the common man. RJL


    Inspiration, Revelation, Adaptation, With Poetic Verse

    Sonnet I

    I saw morn's soft hands stretching to touch bright moonlight
    Tis but a fleeting blink betwixt man's death and birth
    Dark unknowing is why we so oft fear the night
    In that abject blindness, fail to see life's true worth
    Alas! Such are sorrows of mankind's constant plight
    That feeds malignant swellings of darkness on earth;
    Those of ancient times, of distant long-dead yesterdays
    Will one day from that deepest of slumbers arise
    Long hidden from flown days and nights, deep weeping grays
    Reborn with no thoughts of dark cast previous lies.
    As Earth spins, sounding its constant evolving beats
    We blind to light's truth, continue our foolish acts
    Racing onward counting our coins and useless feats
    Life came from light's truth, not so-called man-made facts.

    Sonnet II

    I that thought to profit, see beyond Earthly veil
    Having never measured truest rectitude of life
    In my epic quest, the highest of mountains scale
    In youth, blind to sad flowing storms of mortal strife
    Alas! We that in our darkness refuse to see
    Oft face raging storms that seem to forever swirl
    Not realizing, Love's blessings are given free
    To counter lightning bolts world's malevolence hurls.
    I that foolishly thought to defeat that we die
    Later learned the truth our vanity denies
    We are lost because we believe that blackest lie
    That we were once roaming beasts beneath earthen skies
    By our own greatness became gods of divine might
    Free to do as we please, revel in our delights.

    Sonnet III

    In June, when wondering winds our hearts so lighten
    I have found eager bubbling brooks streaming along
    Summer's morn setting up today gaily brighten
    Nature gifting beauty, songbirds gifting sweet song
    Across flowering meadows, busy bees flying
    Life many treasures so beautifully sharing
    Time to live, not sadly ponder mortal dying
    For truest of joy depends on our loving caring
    There rests much more happiness in sincere kindness
    And sweeter breath within Love's soft-touch inspiring
    Eyes to then see, welcoming defeat of blindness
    Rather than worldly conflicts and daily sparring
    To satisfy our fleshly dreams and deep desires
    And embrace light's divine truth that never expires.

    Robert J. Lindley, 9/15, 9/16, 9/17
    Sonnet trilogy,
    ( When Blessed Gifts Are Suddenly Given To One Pleading )

    Note -- This new creation, was composed in three days of
    each day my reading of Thomas Gray's magnificent poem,
    Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, that was first
    published in 1751....

    ********


    (1.)
    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poe...try-churchyard


    Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
    BY THOMAS GRAY
    The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
    The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
    The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
    And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

    Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
    And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
    Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
    And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

    Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
    The moping owl does to the moon complain
    Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
    Molest her ancient solitary reign.

    Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
    Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
    Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
    The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

    The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
    The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
    The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
    No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

    For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
    Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
    No children run to lisp their sire's return,
    Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

    Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
    Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
    How jocund did they drive their team afield!
    How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

    Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
    Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
    Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
    The short and simple annals of the poor.

    The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
    And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
    Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

    Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
    If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
    Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
    The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

    Can storied urn or animated bust
    Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
    Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
    Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

    Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
    Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
    Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
    Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

    But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
    Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
    Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
    And froze the genial current of the soul.

    Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
    The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
    Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
    And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

    Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
    The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
    Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
    Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

    Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
    The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
    To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
    And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

    Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
    Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
    Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
    And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

    The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
    To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
    Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
    With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

    Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
    Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
    Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
    They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

    Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
    Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
    With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
    Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

    Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
    The place of fame and elegy supply:
    And many a holy text around she strews,
    That teach the rustic moralist to die.

    For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
    This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
    Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
    Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

    On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
    Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
    Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
    Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

    For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
    Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
    If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
    Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

    Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
    "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
    Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
    To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

    "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
    That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
    His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
    And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

    "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
    Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
    Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
    Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

    "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
    Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
    Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
    Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

    "The next with dirges due in sad array
    Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
    Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
    Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

    THE EPITAPH
    Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
    A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
    Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
    And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

    Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
    Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
    He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
    He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

    No farther seek his merits to disclose,
    Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
    (There they alike in trembling hope repose)
    The bosom of his Father and his God.

    ******************************************
    (2.) https://www.supersummary.com/elegy-w...hyard/summary/

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    Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard Summary


    Thanks for exploring this SuperSummary Plot Summary of “Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard” by Thomas Gray. A modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality study guides that feature detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, quotes, and essay topics.

    Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard is a Restoration Period poem by Thomas Gray. An elegy, by strict definition, is usually a lament for the dead. Gray’s version of an elegy is slightly different—he writes about the inevitability and hollowness of death in general, instead of mourning one person. At first, the poem reflects on death in a mostly detached way, as someone who is resigned to death’s outcome. Yet, the epitaph he writes for himself at the end of the poem, reflects a fear of death. Elegy is a renowned English poem, regarded as one of the best of the time, and arguably of all time. It was popular when it was first written and was reprinted many times.

    The speaker begins the poem by saying he is in a churchyard with a bell tolling for the end of the day, he uses this image as a metaphor for life and death. He describes the scenery around him, speaking of the sun setting, the church tower covered in ivy, and an owl hooting. He then focuses on the graveyard around him. He speaks of the men who are in the graves and how they were probably simple village folk. They’re dead and nothing will wake these villagers, not a rooster’s call in the morning, not twittering birds, and not the smell of the morning breeze. The speaker also laments that life’s pleasures will no longer be felt by those buried in the graveyard, especially emphasizing the joys of family life.

    The dead villagers probably were farmers, and the speaker discusses how they probably enjoyed farming. He warns that although it sounds like a simple life, no one should mock a good honest working life as these men once had. No one should mock these men because in death, these arbitrary ideas of being wealthy or high-born do not matter. Fancy grave markers will not bring someone back to life, and neither will the honor of being well born.


    The speaker then wonders about those in the graveyard who are buried in unmarked graves. He wonders if they were full of passion, or if they were potential world leaders who left the world too soon. He wonders if one was a beautiful lyre player, whose music could bring the lyre to life—literally. He laments for the poor villagers, as they were never able to learn much about the world. He uses metaphors to describe their lack of education, that knowledge as a book was never open to them, and that poverty froze their souls.

    He speaks of those in the graveyard as unsung heroes, comparing them to gems that are never found, or flowers that bloom and are never seen. He wonders if some of the residents of the graveyard could have been historically relevant, but unable to shine. One could have been a mute Milton, the author of Paradise Lost; or one could have been like John Hampden, a politician who openly opposed the policies of King Charles. Alas, the speaker mourns again that these villagers were poor and unable to make their mark on the world.

    But because they were poor, they were also innocent. They were not capable of regicide or being merciless. They were also incapable of hiding the truth, meaning they were honest with the world. The speaker notes that these people, because they were poor, will not even be remembered negatively. They lived far from cities and lived in the quiet. At least their graves are protected by simple grave markers, so people do not desecrate their burial places by accident. And the graves have enough meaning to the speaker that he will stop and reflect on their lives. The speaker wonders who leaves earth in death without wondering what they are leaving behind. Even the poor leave behind loved ones, and they need someone in their life who is pious to close their eyes upon death.

    The speaker begins to wonder about himself in relation to these graveyard inhabitants. Even if these deceased villagers were poor, at least the speaker is elegizing them now. The speaker wonders who will elegize him. Maybe it will be someone like him, a kindred spirit, who wandered into the same graveyard. Possibly some grey-haired farmer, who would remark on having seen the speaker rush through the dew covered grass to watch the sun set on the meadow. The speaker continues to think of the imagined farmer, who would remember the speaker luxuriating on the strangely grown roots of a tree, while he watched the babbling brook. Maybe the farmer would think of how the speaker wandered through the woods looking pale with scorn and sorrow. Possibly the speaker was anxious, or was a victim of unrequited love. The speaker wonders if the farmer will notice he’s gone one day, that the farmer did not see him by his favorite tree, near the meadow, or by the woods. He speaks of his own funeral dirges and finally of his own epitaph.

    In the speaker’s own epitaph, he remarks that he has died, unknown to both fame and fortune, as in he never became famous and was not well-born. But at least he was full of knowledge—he was a scholar and a poet. Yet oftentimes, the speaker could become depressed. But he was bighearted and sincere, so heaven paid him back for his good qualities by giving him a friend. His other good and bad qualities do not matter anymore, so he instructs people not to go looking for them since he hopes for a good life in heaven with God
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  3. #93
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    Blog, On-
    ( A Look At A Sad Reality, Those Worthy But Not Rewarded )
    the unsung greats that have gifted so much....

    ************************************************** **********

    Oh, That Earth Wouldst So Truly Honor Thee
    Dedicated To-
    "The Great Unknown, Unsung Poets of the
    - Past, Present And Future"

    Oh, That Earth Wouldst So Truly Honor Thee

    Oh, that earth wouldst so truly honor thee
    You write poetic verse with such deep glee
    As in glory-fruits reaped from your ink tree
    Birth gentle winds blowing through land and sea.

    Splash thee more, dear hope from your native tongue.
    And gift world beautiful verse to be sung.

    Inked pools born from candor and purest heart
    Offerings of whispers that truth imparts
    Defeating the dark which sets us apart
    To gift more, fill up love's bountiful cart.

    Splash thee more, dear hope from your native tongue.
    And gift world beautiful verse to be sung.

    Within thy soul and even thy sadness
    Counter with blessed hope this world's madness
    Shine with rhyming words, bringing on gladness
    Yet ignore world's inglorious Fadness.

    Splash thee more, dear hope from your native tongue.
    And gift world beautiful verse to be sung.

    And through thy darkest sorrows gift anew
    Heroic words that deepest dark breaks through
    Gifts empathy, care many are thus due
    For truth, darkness oft turns sky weeping blue.

    Splash thee more, dear hope from your native tongue.
    And gift world beautiful verse to be sung.

    Oh, that earth wouldst so truly honor thee
    You write poetic verse with such deep glee
    As in glory-fruit reaped from your ink tree
    Birth gentle winds blowing through land and sea.

    Robert J. Lindley, 9-22-2020
    Rhyme,
    ( A Look At A Sad Reality, Those Worthy But Not Rewarded )


    Syllables per line:
    0 10 10 10 10
    0 10 10
    0 10 10 10 10
    0 10 10
    0 10 10 10 10
    0 10 10
    0 10 10 10 10
    0 10 10
    0 10 10 10 10
    Total number of syllables:280
    Total number of words:214

    **************************************************
    https://poets.org/poem/giving-0

    On Giving
    Kahlil Gibran - 1883-1931

    Then said a rich man, Speak to us of Giving.
    And he answered:
    You give but little when you give of your possessions.
    It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
    For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?
    And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?
    And what is fear of need by need itself?
    Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?

    There are those who give little of the much which they have—and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.
    And there are those who have little and give it all.
    These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.
    There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.
    And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.
    And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;
    They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
    Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes. He smiles upon the earth.

    It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;
    And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.
    And is there aught you would withhold?
    All you have shall some day be given;
    Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors’.

    You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.”
    The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
    They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
    Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you.
    And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
    And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, or receiving?
    And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
    See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
    For in truth it is life that gives unto life—while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

    And you receivers—and you are all receivers—assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
    Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings;
    For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the freehearted earth for mother, and God for father.


    From The Prophet (Knopf, 1923). This poem is in the public domain.

    **************************************************

    Some more revelant links....
    each has important information in regards to poetry/poets..

    (1.)

    https://poets.org/poem/failing-and-flying

    Failing and Flying
    Jack Gilbert - 1925-2012

    (2.)

    https://writersrelief.com/2013/12/04...ten-good-poem/

    (3.)

    https://www.jstor.org/stable/27537650
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Adonais

    An Elegy on the Death of John Keats

    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)


    I WEEP for Adonais—he is dead! Anchor
    O, weep for Adonais! though our tears Anchor
    Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! Anchor
    And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years Anchor
    To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, 5
    And teach them thine own sorrow! Say: ‘With me Anchor
    Died Adonais; till the Future dares Anchor
    Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be Anchor
    An echo and a light unto eternity!’ Anchor

    Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, 10
    When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies Anchor
    In darkness? where was lorn Urania Anchor
    When Adonais died? With veilèd eyes, Anchor
    ’Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise Anchor
    She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, 15
    Rekindled all the fading melodies Anchor
    With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, Anchor
    He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death. Anchor

    Oh weep for Adonais—he is dead! Anchor
    Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! 20
    Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed Anchor
    Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep, Anchor
    Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; Anchor
    For he is gone, where all things wise and fair Anchor
    Descend;—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep 25
    Will yet restore him to the vital air; Anchor
    Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. Anchor

    Most musical of mourners, weep again! Anchor
    Lament anew, Urania!—He died, Anchor
    Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, 30
    Blind, old, and lonely, when his country’s pride, Anchor
    The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, Anchor
    Trampled and mocked with many a loathèd rite Anchor
    Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Anchor
    Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite 35
    Yet reigns o’er earth; the third among the sons of light. Anchor

    Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Anchor
    Not all to that bright station dared to climb; Anchor
    And happier they their happiness who knew, Anchor
    Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time 40
    In which suns perished; others more sublime, Anchor
    Struck by the envious wrath of man or god, Anchor
    Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; Anchor
    And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Anchor
    Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame’s serene abode. 45

    But now, thy youngest, dearest one has perished, Anchor
    The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Anchor
    Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished, Anchor
    And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew; Anchor
    Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 50
    Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and last, Anchor
    The bloom, whose petals nipt before they blew Anchor
    Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; Anchor
    The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast. Anchor

    To that high Capital, where kingly Death 55
    Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, Anchor
    He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, Anchor
    A grave among the eternal—Come away! Anchor
    Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day Anchor
    Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still 60
    He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; Anchor
    Awake him not! surely he takes his fill Anchor
    Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. Anchor

    He will awake no more, oh, never more!— Anchor
    Within the twilight chamber spreads apace, 65
    The shadow of white Death, and at the door Anchor
    Invisible Corruption waits to trace Anchor
    His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place; Anchor
    The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe Anchor
    Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface 70
    So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law Anchor
    Of change shall o’er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. Anchor

    Oh weep for Adonais!—The quick Dreams, Anchor
    The passion-wingèd Ministers of thought, Anchor
    Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams 75
    Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught Anchor
    The love which was its music, wander not,— Anchor
    Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, Anchor
    But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot Anchor
    Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, 80
    They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again. Anchor

    And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head, Anchor
    And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries; Anchor
    ‘Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead; Anchor
    See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, 85
    Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies Anchor
    A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.’ Anchor
    Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise! Anchor
    She knew not ’twas her own; as with no stain Anchor
    She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. 90

    One from a lucid urn of starry dew Anchor
    Washed his light limbs as if embalming them; Anchor
    Another clipt her profuse locks, and threw Anchor
    The wreath upon him, like an anadem, Anchor
    Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem; 95
    Another in her wilful grief would break Anchor
    Her bow and wingèd reeds, as if to stem Anchor
    A greater loss with one which was more week; Anchor
    And dull the barbèd fire against his frozen cheek. Anchor

    Another Splendour on his mouth alit, 100
    That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath Anchor
    Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, Anchor
    And pass into the panting heart beneath Anchor
    With lightning and with music: the damp death Anchor
    Quenched its caress upon his icy lips; 105
    And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath Anchor
    Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips, Anchor
    It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse. Anchor

    And others came … Desires and Adorations, Anchor
    Wingèd Persuasions and veiled Destinies, 110
    Splendours and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations Anchor
    Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies; Anchor
    And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, Anchor
    And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Anchor
    Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 115
    Came in slow pomp;—the moving pomp might seem Anchor
    Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. Anchor

    All he had loved, and moulded into thought, Anchor
    From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound, Anchor
    Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 120
    Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Anchor
    Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, Anchor
    Dimmed the ae¨rial eyes that kindle day; Anchor
    Afar the melancholy thunder moaned, Anchor
    Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, 125
    And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. Anchor

    Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, Anchor
    And feeds her grief with his remembered lay, Anchor
    And will no more reply to winds or fountains, Anchor
    Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray, 130
    Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day; Anchor
    Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Anchor
    Than those for whose disdain she pined away Anchor
    Into a shadow of all sounds:—a drear Anchor
    Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. 135

    Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Anchor
    Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, Anchor
    Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown Anchor
    For whom should she have waked the sullen year? Anchor
    To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear 140
    Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both Anchor
    Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere Anchor
    Amid the faint companions of their youth, Anchor
    With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth. Anchor

    Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale, 145
    Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain; Anchor
    Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale Anchor
    Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s domain Anchor
    Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain, Anchor
    Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, 150
    As Albion wails for thee; the curse of Cain Anchor
    Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast, Anchor
    And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest! Anchor

    Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone, Anchor
    But grief returns with the revolving year; 155
    The airs and streams renew their joyous tone: Anchor
    The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; Anchor
    Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons’ bier; Anchor
    The amorous birds now pair in every brake, Anchor
    And build their mossy homes in field and brere; 160
    And the green lizard, and the golden snake, Anchor
    Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake. Anchor

    Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean Anchor
    A quickening life from the Earth’s heart has burst Anchor
    As it has ever done, with change and motion, 165
    From the great morning of the world when first Anchor
    God dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed Anchor
    The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light; Anchor
    All baser things pant with life’s sacred thirst; Anchor
    Diffuse themselves; and spend in love’s delight, 170
    The beauty and the joy of their renewèd might. Anchor

    The leprous corpse touched by this spirit tender Anchor
    Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; Anchor
    Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour Anchor
    Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death 175
    And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath; Anchor
    Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows Anchor
    Be as a sword consumed before the sheath Anchor
    By sightless lightning?—the intense atom glows Anchor
    A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose. 180

    Alas! that all we loved of him should be Anchor
    But for our grief, as if it had not been, Anchor
    And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! Anchor
    Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene Anchor
    The actors or spectators? Great and mean 185
    Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow. Anchor
    As long as skies are blue, and fields are green, Anchor
    Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Anchor
    Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. Anchor

    He will awake no more, oh, never more! 190
    ‘Wake thou,’ cried Misery, ‘childless Mother, rise Anchor
    Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart’s core, Anchor
    A wound more fierce than his, with tears and sighs.’ Anchor
    And all the Dreams that watched Urania’s eyes, Anchor
    And all the Echoes whom their sister’s song 195
    Had held in holy silence, cried: ‘Arise!’ Anchor
    Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, Anchor
    From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung. Anchor

    She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs Anchor
    Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 200
    The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, Anchor
    Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, Anchor
    Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear Anchor
    So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania; Anchor
    So saddened round her like an atmosphere 205
    Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way Anchor
    Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. Anchor

    Out of her secret Paradise she sped, Anchor
    Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel, Anchor
    And human hearts, which to her airy tread 210
    Yielding not, wounded the invisible Anchor
    Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell: Anchor
    And barbèd tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they Anchor
    Rent the soft Form they never could repel, Anchor
    Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, 215
    Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way. Anchor

    In the death-chamber for a moment Death, Anchor
    Shamed by the presence of that living Might, Anchor
    Blushed to annihilation, and the breath Anchor
    Revisited those lips, and Life’s pale light 220
    Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight. Anchor
    ‘Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless, Anchor
    As silent lightning leaves the starless night! Anchor
    Leave me not!’ cried Urania: her distress Anchor
    Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress. 225

    ‘Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again; Anchor
    Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live; Anchor
    And in my heartless breast and burning brain Anchor
    That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive, Anchor
    With food of saddest memory kept alive, 230
    Now thou art dead, as dead, as if it were a part Anchor
    Of thee, my Adonais! I would give Anchor
    All that I am to be as thou now art! Anchor
    But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart! Anchor
    poem PARTIAL-cut off here...


    ************************************

    https://www.bartleby.com/41/522.html

    ************************************************

    This Truth, All Must Find Dear Hope They Embrace


    This Earth, this accumulation of life
    a great mass of air, water, rock, and soil
    a dark world, where danger cuts like a knife
    man gets bread and water by daily toil.

    O' but those pleasures of heart-sweet dreams cast.
    Calm, peaceful sea, ship sailing at full mast.

    This World, its beauty that rivals its dark
    a great mass of people, buildings and cars
    a cauldron of darkness violently stark
    all made from explosions of long-dead stars.

    O' but those pleasures of heart-sweet dreams cast.
    Calm, peaceful sea, ship sailing at full mast.

    This Life, its joys, heartaches, and epic pains
    a mystery, a climb, race against time
    a harvest of precious golden grains
    romance, verses born of sweet rhythmic rhyme.

    O' but those pleasures of heart-sweet dreams cast.
    Calm, peaceful sea, ship sailing at full mast.

    This Truth, all must find dear hope they embrace
    a revelation, a desire, love
    a newfound world of divinely sent grace
    giftings of manna from Heaven above.

    O' but those pleasures of heart-sweet dreams cast.
    Calm, peaceful sea, ship sailing at full mast.

    Robert J. Lindley, 10-14-2020
    Rhyme( When The Days Have Flown, Into That Mystical Mist )
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Blog, Recently Written Words, Hoping To Revive My Poetic Spirit
    Blog Posted:7/4/2022 4:38:00 AM


    Blog, Recently Written Words, Hoping To Revive My Poetic Spirit......

    ***********

    Nature's Scenes Cannot Be Outdone



    Make a wish upon a dewdrop

    Let searching heart decide

    Nature's touch, its art never stops

    Gazing at its bountiful crops

    Life give us all, a thrilling ride

    Feed heart and do not hide.



    Stroll across land glistening bright

    Ponder radiant sun

    With heavenly beauty in sight

    Washed away are surging blight

    Nature's scenes cannot be outdone

    Sure, life can be such fun.



    As hours fly by, sunset arrives

    'fore night's surging deep dark

    Cast worries away to survive

    'tis so great just to be alive

    On tranquil seas vow to embark

    Dawn brings its morning larks.



    Be jubilant, beauty's heart shows

    As treasures fade away

    Shall we admire what Nature grows

    As Nature its falling gems sows

    Hope brings dancing dreams into play

    True faith has won its way.



    Robert J. Lindley,



    Note:

    This poem was composed for the contest.

    I simply forgot to enter it.



    ********


    Note: 1

    Submit a newly-written poem consisting of three or four stanzas and six lines per stanza using the following rhyme scheme and syllable count:



    Rhyme scheme: ABAABB CDCCDD EFEEFF GHGGHH

    Syllable count in each stanza: 868886

    Poem title: Your choice.

    Subject theme: Dewdrops. Use the included image for inspiration.



    Note: 2

    Old age and stress does not bode well for the great memory that I once had and that enabled me cope well with a very hard life encountered in my youth.


    ******

    Long Before, New Slung Ink Has Wetted And Dried



    Long before, new slung ink has wetted and dried

    Even before the radiant sun has earth refried

    Mortal soul feels the love of Heaven far above

    Bringing relief from "dastardly world's push and shove"

    And on that reality, a believer may

    Choose to write and splash poetic verses at play

    Yes, truth and happy heart are primary key

    Poetry is eager sky sharing newborn sea.



    Long before, soul sets to its faithful truth express

    There resides within a poet that eagerness

    To sing a song and lively dance to versed tune

    Describe moonlit glory, finding romance in June

    And in sharing, another star just may be born

    To help a victim and give hope to the forlorn

    Yes, truth and happy heart are primary key

    Poetry is eager sky sharing newborn sea.



    Long before, glorious spirit's deep felt song sings

    Are deep falling raindrops that newborn flowers bring

    To weeping world, vacate its sorrows and great woes

    Just as Nature's flings beauty in its casting snows

    And with flung ink, gift others a happier ride

    A poet wades in to surging tides set aside

    Yes, truth and happy heart are primary key

    Poetry is eager sky sharing newborn sea.



    Robert J. Lindley, 6-28-2022

    Rhyme, ( Heart and Soul, why a poet so faithfully writes )


    Note:

    Early this morn, my muse this old sleepyhead woke

    3 AM crying out wake I command of thee

    I have some verses and brother they are no joke

    Rise ye now, do as I say - these gifts are free.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Default Nonsense Robt.... Don't put yourself Down...Great stuff as always. (ref 2)

    You are still a young man. Look at me. 75 and still typing 60wpm. Long way from BIDEN-DECADENCE.


    Quote Originally Posted by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot View Post
    Blog, Recently Written Words, Hoping To Revive My Poetic Spirit
    Blog Posted:7/4/2022 4:38:00 AM


    Blog, Recently Written Words, Hoping To Revive My Poetic Spirit......

    ***********

    Nature's Scenes Cannot Be Outdone



    Make a wish upon a dewdrop

    Let searching heart decide

    Nature's touch, its art never stops

    Gazing at its bountiful crops

    Life give us all, a thrilling ride

    Feed heart and do not hide.



    Stroll across land glistening bright

    Ponder radiant sun

    With heavenly beauty in sight

    Washed away are surging blight

    Nature's scenes cannot be outdone

    Sure, life can be such fun.



    As hours fly by, sunset arrives

    'fore night's surging deep dark

    Cast worries away to survive

    'tis so great just to be alive

    On tranquil seas vow to embark

    Dawn brings its morning larks.



    Be jubilant, beauty's heart shows

    As treasures fade away

    Shall we admire what Nature grows

    As Nature its falling gems sows

    Hope brings dancing dreams into play

    True faith has won its way.



    Robert J. Lindley,



    Note:

    This poem was composed for the contest.

    I simply forgot to enter it.



    ********


    Note: 1

    Submit a newly-written poem consisting of three or four stanzas and six lines per stanza using the following rhyme scheme and syllable count:



    Rhyme scheme: ABAABB CDCCDD EFEEFF GHGGHH

    Syllable count in each stanza: 868886

    Poem title: Your choice.

    Subject theme: Dewdrops. Use the included image for inspiration.



    Note: 2

    Old age and stress does not bode well for the great memory that I once had and that enabled me cope well with a very hard life encountered in my youth.


    ******

    Long Before, New Slung Ink Has Wetted And Dried



    Long before, new slung ink has wetted and dried

    Even before the radiant sun has earth refried

    Mortal soul feels the love of Heaven far above

    Bringing relief from "dastardly world's push and shove"

    And on that reality, a believer may

    Choose to write and splash poetic verses at play

    Yes, truth and happy heart are primary key

    Poetry is eager sky sharing newborn sea.



    Long before, soul sets to its faithful truth express

    There resides within a poet that eagerness

    To sing a song and lively dance to versed tune

    Describe moonlit glory, finding romance in June

    And in sharing, another star just may be born

    To help a victim and give hope to the forlorn

    Yes, truth and happy heart are primary key

    Poetry is eager sky sharing newborn sea.



    Long before, glorious spirit's deep felt song sings

    Are deep falling raindrops that newborn flowers bring

    To weeping world, vacate its sorrows and great woes

    Just as Nature's flings beauty in its casting snows

    And with flung ink, gift others a happier ride

    A poet wades in to surging tides set aside

    Yes, truth and happy heart are primary key

    Poetry is eager sky sharing newborn sea.



    Robert J. Lindley, 6-28-2022

    Rhyme, ( Heart and Soul, why a poet so faithfully writes )


    Note:

    Early this morn, my muse this old sleepyhead woke

    3 AM crying out wake I command of thee

    I have some verses and brother they are no joke

    Rise ye now, do as I say - these gifts are free.
    I may be older than most. I may say things not everybody will like.
    But despite all of that. I will never lower myself to the level of Liars, Haters, Cheats, and Hypocrites.
    Philippians 4:13 I Can Do All Things Through Christ Who Strengthens Me:

  7. Thanks Tyr-Ziu Saxnot thanked this post
    Likes Tyr-Ziu Saxnot liked this post
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    Quote Originally Posted by icansayit View Post
    You are still a young man. Look at me. 75 and still typing 60wpm. Long way from BIDEN-DECADENCE.
    My friend, your words ring true.
    At age 68, I am not that old unless my spirit gives up and yields to time and its actions.
    Heart and Soul can to some extent counter Time and its decays. God bless.. --Tyr
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Alfred Noyes






    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/alfred-noyes 1880 – 1958
    Born to Alfred and Amelia Adams Noyes on September 16, 1880, Alfred Noyes grew up in Wolverhampton, England. His father, a grocer and a teacher, taught Noyes Latin and Greek. Noyes attended Exeter College, Oxford, but left before he earned a degree. At the age of twenty-one he published his first collection of poems, The Loom Years (1902), which received praise from respected poets such as William Butler Yeats and George Meredith.

    Between 1903 and 1908, Noyes published five volumes of poetry including The Forest of Wild Thyme (1905) and The Flower of Old Japan and Other Poems (1907). In his early work, Noyes claimed he was seeking to "follow the careless and happy feet of children back into the kingdom of those dreams which...are the sole reality worth living and dying for; those beautiful dreams, or those fantastic jests." His books were widely reviewed and were published both in Britain and the United States. Among his best-known poems from this time are "The Highwayman" and "Drake." "Drake," which appeared serially in Blackwood's Magazine, was a two-hundred page epic about life at sea. Both in style and subject, the poem shows a clear influence of Romantic poets such as Tennyson and Wordsworth.

    In 1907, Noyes married Garnett Daniels. They had three children. His increasing popularity allowed the family to live off royalty checks. In 1914, Noyes accepted a teaching position at Princeton University, where he taught English Literature until 1923. He was a noted critic of modernist writers, particularly James Joyce. Likewise, his work at this time was criticized by some for its refusal to embrace the modernist movement.

    In 1922 he began an epic called The Torch Bearers, which was published in three volumes (Watchers of the Sky, 1922; The Book of Earth, 1925; and The Last Voyage, 1930). The book arose out of his visit to a telescope located at Mount Wilson, California and attempted to reconcile his views of science with religion. His wife died in 1926 and Noyes turned increasingly to Catholicism and religious themes in his later books, particularly The Unknown God (1934) and If Judgment Comes (1941). During the World War II, Noyes lived in Canada and America and was a strong advocate of the Allied effort. In 1949, he returned to Britain. As a result of increasing blindness, Noyes dictated all of his subsequent work. His autobiography, Two Worlds for Memory, was published in 1953. Alfred Noyes died on June 25, 1958, and was buried on Isle of Wight.

    Alfred Noyes
    School/Movements
    Romanticism
    Related Poets
    John Keats
    William Wordsworth


    W. B. Yeats
    Walt Whitman
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    YEAR TITLE
    1906 The Highwayman

    **********************************************
    Alfred Noyes
    1880–1958
    Image of Alfred Noyes
    Hum Historical / Alamy Stock Photo
    Extraordinarily prolific and decidedly popular among the reading public, Alfred Noyes enjoyed a full-fledged career as a writer and as an intellectual when few people of the era could depend solely on the writing craft to forge a comfortable living. Especially fond of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, William Wordsworth, Geoffrey Chaucer, and William Shakespeare, and adopting much of their style and content, Noyes most often exhibited a style infused with Romanticism and ballad-like simplicity, and his subject matter was usually optimistic and inspired by the natural beauties of the world. Noyes revered the polite formality of traditional English verse and despised the haphazardness and comparative literary disrespect of the modernist movement of the 20th century—especially the work of James Joyce—but some critics chastised his resistance to change and literary evolution.

    Despite the fact that critics regarded Noyes as more of a businessman capable of selling his artistic wares than a serious, talented poet, there is no disputing Noyes’s devotion to the written word. Born in 1880, Noyes was the son of a man who had sacrificed a higher education so that his younger brother could attend university. Noyes’s father never abandoned his love of learning, and young Noyes was the beneficiary of his father’s unrequited intellectual pursuits and ideals. His father taught Noyes Latin and Greek, and his academic nurturing secured him a place at Oxford University in 1898, though he left before earning his degree. Nonetheless, his first collection of poetry, The Loom of Years (1902), was published when he was only 21 years old, and received compliments from esteemed poets such as George Meredith and William Butler Yeats. Noyes married Garnett Daniels in 1907, and the couple lived off his royalty checks. That same year they visited the United States for the first time, and were entertained by such impressive company as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s daughters and Ralph Waldo Emerson’s sons. Noyes enjoyed notable relationships throughout his life, apparently drinking tea with Theodore Roosevelt in 1919 just hours before his death and meeting privately with premier Benito Mussolini in 1939, just before the start of World War II.

    By the age of 30, Noyes had firmly established himself as the most commercially popular poet of his time. According to Margaret B. McDowell in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, he had “produced his first biography, William Morris (1908), and had collected his poems in eight full-length books. ... They were widely reviewed and several were published in both Britain and the United States. ... Thousands of readers bought Noyes’s books of poems, cherished them, and even memorized parts of them.” McDowell cited a comment from a review in a 1907 issue of the Atlantic Monthly that summed up Noyes’s appeal: “There is a proficiency in the workmanship that, coupled with Mr. Noyes’ humorous tenderness in approaching his theme, all but disarms criticism.” However, as the Modernist movement commenced, critics would get harsher and harsher in their reviews of Noyes’s work.

    Three different works consistently vie for the claim of being Noyes’s best-known or most-celebrated endeavor. The first is Drake: An English Epic (1906–08), which achieved most of its exposure because of its serialization in Blackwood’s Magazine. Drake was an ambitious work—a 12-book, 200-page epic in blank verse—that poeticized life at sea, a common theme among English prose and poetry and frequently a favorite of Noyes’s.

    Another one of Noyes’s frequently referenced work is “The Highwayman,” an atypically somber, violent poem described by Diane Roback and Richard Donahue in Publishers Weekly as being “about a beautiful woman who dies (with her breast ‘shattered ... drenched with her own red blood’) to save her lover, who is, in turn, shot down ‘like a dog on the highway.’” McDowell quoted Noyes as professing to have written “The Highwayman” in two days when he was 24, “the age when I was genuinely excited by that kind of romantic story.”

    The third most-frequently cited work is a three-volume work called The Torch-Bearers (1922, 1925, and 1930), which was inspired after a visit in 1917 to a new telescope being installed at Mount Wilson, California. This trilogy was Noyes’s attempt to reconcile science and religion, as it pays homage to progress in astronomy, biology, and other scientific advancements, as well as the theological and philosophical development of the human race. McDowell described the third volume, The Last Voyage, as reflecting “the intensity of Noyes’s theological search for one’s destiny after life on earth and his increased preoccupation with religion following the death of Garnett,” his first wife, who died in 1926. After her death, Noyes joined the Catholic Church, a transition that greatly influenced his later work.

    William Lyon Phelps, writing in The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century, referred to Noyes as “one of the most melodious of modern writers, with a witchery in words that at its best is irresistible. ... [H]e has the imagination of the inspired poet, giving him creative power to reveal anew the majesty of the untamed sea, and the mystery of the stars.” His embodiment of lyrical simplicity and classic familiarity masking as chaste intellectualism was the reason his work was appreciated and adored by the masses. Phelps said, “Alfred Noyes understands the heart of a child,” and likened some of his prettier works to “a kind of singing Alice-in-Wonderland.” Because some of his work—particularly “Flower of Old Japan” and “Forest of Wild Thyme”—sought to regard the world through the eyes of a child, Noyes felt he had to qualify his efforts. According to Phelps’s essay, Noyes asked that his youthful poems “not be taken merely as fairy-tales, but as an attempt to follow the careless and happy feet of children back into the kingdom of those dreams which ... are the sole reality worth living and dying for; those beautiful dreams, or those fantastic jests ... for which mankind has endured so many triumphant martyrdoms that even amidst the rush and roar of modern materialism they cannot be quite forgotten.”

    Noyes’s autobiography, Two Worlds for Memory, was published in 1953. He died on the Isle of Wight on June 25, 1958.

    POEMS BY ALFRED NOYES
    At Dawn
    The Barrel-Organ
    The Highwayman
    See All Poems by Alfred Noyes
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    MORE ABOUT THIS POET
    Region:
    At Dawn
    The Barrel-Organ
    The Highwayman
    The Hill-Flowers
    Immortal Sails
    Niobe
    The Old Meeting House
    On The Western Fr
    ************************************************** ********

    The Highwayman
    Rating: ★4.5



    PART ONE

    I

    THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    And the highwayman came riding—
    Riding—riding—
    The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

    II

    He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
    They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
    His pistol butts a-twinkle,
    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

    III

    Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
    And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
    He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
    Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

    IV

    And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
    Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
    But he loved the landlord's daughter,
    The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
    Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

    V

    'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
    But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
    Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
    Then look for me by moonlight,
    Watch for me by moonlight,
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.'

    VI

    He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
    But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
    As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
    And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
    (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
    Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.



    PART TWO

    I

    He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
    And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
    When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
    A red-coat troop came marching—
    Marching—marching—
    King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

    II

    They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
    But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
    Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
    There was death at every window;
    And hell at one dark window;
    For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

    III

    They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
    They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
    'Now, keep good watch! ' and they kissed her.
    She heard the dead man say—
    Look for me by moonlight;
    Watch for me by moonlight;
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

    IV

    She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
    She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
    They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
    Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
    Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
    The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

    V

    The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
    Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
    She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
    For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
    Blank and bare in the moonlight;
    And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

    VI

    Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
    Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
    Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
    The highwayman came riding,
    Riding, riding!
    The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

    VII

    Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
    Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
    Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
    Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
    Her musket shattered the moonlight,
    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

    VIII

    He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
    Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
    Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
    How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
    Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

    IX

    Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
    With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
    Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
    When they shot him down on the highway,
    Down like a dog on the highway,
    And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

    X

    And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
    When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    A highwayman comes riding—
    Riding—riding—
    A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

    XI

    Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
    He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
    He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
    Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

    **************************************************
    A Prayer In Time Of War
    Rating: ★2.9


    Autoplay

    The war will change many things in art and life, and among them, it is to be hoped, many of our own ideas as to what is, and what is not, "intellectual."

    Thou, whose deep ways are in the sea,
    Whose footsteps are not known,
    To-night a world that turned from Thee
    Is waiting -- at Thy Throne.

    The towering Babels that we raised
    Where scoffing sophists brawl,
    The little Antichrists we praised --
    The night is on them all.

    The fool hath said . . . The fool hath said . ..
    And we, who deemed him wise,
    We who believed that Thou wast dead,
    How should we seek Thine eyes?

    How should we seek to Thee for power
    Who scorned Thee yesterday?
    How should we kneel, in this dread hour?
    Lord, teach us how to pray!

    Grant us the single heart, once more,
    That mocks no sacred thing,
    The Sword of Truth our fathers wore
    When Thou wast Lord and King.

    Let darkness unto darkness tell
    Our deep unspoken prayer,
    For, while our souls in darkness dwell,
    We know that Thou art there.
    ************************************************** ***
    The Admiral's Ghost
    Rating: ★3.7


    Autoplay

    I tell you a tale to-night
    Which a seaman told to me,
    With eyes that gleamed in the lanthorn light
    And a voice as low as the sea.

    You could almost hear the stars
    Twinkling up in the sky,
    And the old wind woke and moaned in the spars
    And the same old waves went by.

    Singing the same old song
    As ages and ages ago,
    While he froze my blood in that deep-sea night
    With the things he seemed to know.

    A bare foot pattered on deck;
    Ropes creaked; then-all grew still,
    And he pointed his finger straight in my face
    And growled, as a sea-dog will.

    'Do 'ee know who Nelson was?
    That pore little shrivelled form
    With the patch on his eye and the pinned-up sleeve
    And a soul like a North Sea storm?

    'Ask of the Devonshire men!
    They know, and they'll tell you true;
    He wasn't the pore little chawed-up chap
    That Hardy thought he knew.

    'He wasn't the man you think!
    His patch was a dern disguise!
    For he knew that they'd find him out, d'you see,
    If they looked him in both his eyes.

    'He was twice as big as he seemed;
    But his clothes were cunningly made.
    He'd both of his hairy arms alright!
    The sleeve was a trick of the trade.

    'You've heard of sperrits, no doubt;
    Well there's more in the matter than that!
    But he wasn't the patch and he wasn't the sleeve,
    And he wasn't the laced cocked-hat.

    'Nelson was just-a Ghost!
    You may laugh! But the Devonshire men
    They knew that he'd come when England called,
    And they know that he'll come again.

    'I'll tell you the way it was
    (For none of the landsmen know) ,
    And to tell it you right, you must go a-starn
    Two hundred years or so.

    * * * * * * *

    'The waves were lapping and slapping
    The same as they are today;
    And Drake lay dying aboard his ship
    In Nobre Dios Bay.

    'The scent of foreign flowers
    Came floating all around;
    'But I'd give my soul for the smell o' the pitch, '
    Says he, 'in Plymouth Sound.

    ''What shall I do, ' he says,
    'When the guns begin to roar,
    An' England wants me, and me not there
    To shatter 'er fores once more? '

    '(You've heard what he said, maybe,
    But I'll mark you the p'ints again;
    For I want you to box your compass right
    And get my story plain.)

    ' 'You must take my drum', he says,
    'To the old sea-wall at home;
    And if ever you strike that drum, ' he says,
    'Why, strike me blind, I'll come!

    ''If England needs me, dead
    Or living, I'll rise that day!
    I'll rise from the darkness under the sea
    Ten thousand miles away.'

    'That's what he said; and he died;
    An' his pirates, listenin' roun'
    With their crimson doublets and jewelled swords
    That flashed as the sun went down.

    'They sewed him up in his shroud
    With a round-shot top and toe,
    To sink him under the salt-sharp sea
    Where all good seamen go.

    'They lowered him down in the deep,
    And there in the sunset light
    They boomed a broadside over his grave,
    As meaning to say 'Good night.'

    'They sailed away in the dark
    To the dear little isle they knew;
    And they hung his drum by the old sea-wall
    The same as he told them to.

    * * * * * * *

    'Two hundred years went by,
    And the guns began to roar,
    And England was fighting hard for her life,
    As ever she fought of yore.

    ''It's only my dead that count, '
    She said, as she says today;
    'It isn't the ships and it isn't the guns
    'Ull sweep Trafalgar's Bay.'

    'D'you guess who Nelson was?
    You may laugh, but it's true as true!
    There was more in that pore little chawed-up chap
    Than ever his best friend knew.

    'The foe was creepin' close,
    In the dark, to our white-cliffed isle;
    They were ready to leap at England's throat,
    When-O, you may smile, you may smile;

    'But-ask of the Devenshire men;
    For they heard in the dead of night
    The roll of a drum, and they saw him pass
    On a ship all shining white.

    'He stretched out his dead cold face
    And he sailed in the grand old way!
    The fishes had taken an eye and his arm,
    But he swept Trafalgar's Bay.

    'Nelson-was Francis Drake!
    O, what matters the uniform,
    Or the patch on your eye or your pinned-up sleeve,
    If your soul's like a North Sea storm? '

    Alfred Noyes

    ************************************************

    A Loom Of Years
    Rating: ★2.9


    Autoplay

    In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
    In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
    Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
    I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

    The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mould
    To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:
    Light and scent and music die and are born again
    In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world of pain.

    The hound, the fawn, and the hawk, and the doves that croon and coo,
    We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp threads us through,
    One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes and fears
    As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

    The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
    Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of music close,
    Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars,
    Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars.

    Has the soul gone out in the Darkness? Is the dust sealed from sight?
    Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro’ the warp of the night!
    Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears,
    As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

    O, woven in one wide Loom thro’ the throbbing weft of the whole,
    One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
    Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling, the bird in its hour to die,
    The heart in its muffled anguish, the sea in its mournful cry,

    One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon
    One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon
    One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of the spheres,
    We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

    Alfred Noyes

    ************************************************

    In my youth I studied this great poet. As he was truly a poetic genius. I think it would improve anybody's poetry to study this fantastic poet same as it does Byron, Keats and Shelley.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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