From my most recent poetry blog......

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

This new blog honoring Edgar Allan Poe , went to the --HOT-- LEVEL faster than any previous blog I have presented at my home poetry site.
Took it only a couple hours to go --HOT...
I could not be more pleased. --Tyr

[icansayit]

How much more rewarding can it be to have such a talented POET so close?

Congrats Robert (TYR). Well done.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

How much more rewarding can it be to have such a talented POET so close?

Congrats Robert (TYR). Well done.

Thank you my friend.
But reality is that fewer and fewer Americans are liking and understanding enough to appreciate poetry.
And that is from the deep decay within the American education system.
Especially so, in its liberal reduction in the teachings of Literature, etc..
With the sad added reality that modern poetry has been deliberately morphed into a lesser state by the so-called progressives /critics that simply abhor the classical, golden poets of old- because they can not touch the level those famous men and women created/wrote at......
Yet another example wherein liberalism destroyed what it could never hope to match or excel at...--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

To my all of my many friends and fellow poets:
Blog Posted:11/6/2021 12:04:00 PM

To my all of my many friends and fellow poets:

Finally my wife is home from the hospital. Awaiting further medical treatment and a future bone marrow transplant. I want to thank all that have given their prayers and best wished on her recovery and my recent troubles for that great kindness and act of giving! This ordeal has been a grievous process to endure and those prayers and many well wishes such a wonderful gift! I am indeed blessed by having such kind friends and my gratitude can not be properly expressed in words. May God bless you , one and all.

This my first writings after my abscence, is indeed a treasured gift to be able to return to inking poetry and my deepest thoughts to share....

I believe such would never again occur but for the kindness of my many friends here. God bless.... I may be quite slow to get back into the race but bear with me.. The first step is this blog and hopefully the rest shall come as time begins to heal this old, tired soul...



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

'O That Morn's Reprieve Would But Stay, Ever The Live Long Day



As night devours its diminishing, stonewalling deep black-veils

And dawn whilst cascading forth vanquishes previous haze

Golden rays emerge to set roses to gift sweet, sweet smells

With presents from Nature's true beauty to counter world's craze



'O that morn's reprieve would but stay, ever the live long day.

With Hope, Life and Love, never again to be cast away.



If such rewarded treasure were to be man's constant gift

With such deep bounty that such love could never ones soul leave

Gone would be life's many vagaries and world's wicked shifts

And those heaping sorrows that come to set souls to so grieve.



'O that morn's reprieve would but stay, ever the live long day.

With Hope, Life and Love, never again to be cast away.



Thus plead I, soul in abject darkness that grieves each deep blow

With pierced and aching heart invaded by devouring pains

Beg dearest relief that seeds happiness to again grow

And from this dark void, emerge as whole from these sad remains!



'O that morn's reprieve would but stay, ever the live long day.

With Hope, Life and Love, never again to be cast away.



'O that Prayer and Love would this evil abyss destroy.

Reunited, my darling and I dance with sweetest joy.



Robert J. Lindley, 11-02-2021

Romanticism

( Born from the cherished promises that Hope gifts )



~~~~~~



'Neath Magic Waters Was Where Heart Belongs




From hazy image of the tallow light,

lapping waters cast forth a welcome glow

she would come, her moonlit song cried it so

to cast away dark world's hideous blight.



Through beastly wilderness I trekked far,

to this enchanted lake barely alive

into these murky depths this soul must dive

whilst having no fear of crossing the bar.



The promise, joyous treasured release

to be found in that realm far, far below

away from torment of deep falling blows

into world wherein evil horrors cease.



As her sweet siren song came to its end

Love's urgent pull become so very strong

'neath magic waters was where heart belongs

resting forever with my faithful friend.



With my one last look at heaven above

down, down to the gleaming bottom I sank

for this gift all the while giving my thanks

I departed this realm seeking true love.



From hazy image of the tallow light,

lapping waters cast forth a welcome glow

she would come, her moonlit song cried it so

to cast away dark world's hideous blight.



Robert J. Lindley, 11-03-2021

Rhyme



Note:

For three days now my darling wife has been home, out of that dreary hospital.

I have again found the power to wield my poetic and hopeful pen.

~~~~~~~~~



When Heart Beats To Make Its Mark



When there was pitch black dark

a solitary light spoke,

"poetry is alive in me!"



When there was grief, deep and stark

a single cry bellowed,

"poetry rests in my heart!"



Where sky meets streaming skylark

a yearning plea asked,

"can poetry survive?"



When heart beats to make its mark

a soul begged its release,

" will poetry sing in tune?"



Where great poetry lights the park

a heavenly voice boomed,

"poetry will set you free!"



Robert J. Lindley, 11-04-2021

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Blog- On The Brighter Side Of Life, Heaven, Faith, Poetry And Song - Robert Lindley's Blog


Home Past Blogs Poems Photos Fav Poems Fav Poets
Blog- On The Brighter Side Of Life, Heaven, Faith, Poetry And Song
Blog Posted:4/14/2020 6:47:00 AM
Blog- On The Brighter Side Of Life, Heaven, Faith, Poetry And Song


Beauty There, Sweeter Than Morn's Softest Calls

Lad, Heaven's bounty is treasure weighted
Its only entrance, gold and pearl gated
Angels guarding all that paradise gifts
Light, Love, Truth, Faith that so deeply uplifts.

Yes lad, all there is dearest and divine
Love so pure, gifted from Trinity's vine
Music that heart and soul forever hears
Voices singing that brings forth happy tears.

Believe lad, your faith is your salvation
Do not embrace this world's imitation
Walk a straight path, fear not your earthen death
His sacrifice, tells Heaven give new breath.

Know this my lad, from there lost soul was saved
From world's Dark that is wickedly depraved
Eternity and peace within its halls
Beauty there, sweeter than morn's softest calls.

Robert J. Lindley, 4-14-2020
Rhyme, ( When Truth And Faith Gift Heavenly Bliss )

Note- On the brighter side of life.........

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




(1.) youtube video link



(2.) youtube video link



(3.) youtube video link



(4.)

https://interestingliterature.com/20...-about-heaven/

LITERATURE
10 of the Best Poems about Heaven
What are the most heavenly poems in all of literature? Selected by Dr Oliver Tearle

Who deserves a place in heaven? And what is heaven like? Contemplating the former question and imagining an answer to the latter has occupied many a poet’s mind down the ages. Here are ten of the very best poems about heaven…

Dante, The Divine Comedy. Composed in the early fourteenth century, Dante’s Divine Comedy is a trilogy of poems charting the poet’s journey from hell (Inferno) through Purgatory (Purgatorio) to heaven (Paradiso), guided by his fellow poet, Virgil. Featuring lakes of filth and farting demons, it’s much more fun than its theological subject might suggest, and it influenced a whole raft of later poets, especially T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. It’s even been called the ‘fifth Gospel’, so clearly and effectively does Dante detail the medieval view of Christianity. Specifically, the final part of the trilogy, Paradiso, is of particular interest here, where the poet is guided by his muse, Beatrice, to heaven.



Edmund Spenser, from Amoretti. This poem, beginning ‘Oft when my spirit doth spread her bolder wings’, is part of Spenser’s sonnet sequence Amoretti. In summary, Spenser says that when he wishes to think of higher things, his mind is bogged down by thoughts of mortality; but he comes to the conclusion that the way to ensure happiness is to find heaven among earthly things.

Robert Herrick, ‘To Heaven’. What does it mean to be worthy of a place in heaven? Herrick (1591-1674), one of the most popular of the Cavalier poets, wrote this very short and pithy poem about heaven, in which he asks that the sinful be given mercy and allowed in. If he himself is not granted entry, he will ‘force the gate’…

Henry Vaughan, ‘The Retreat’. Henry Vaughan (1622-95) was a Welsh Metaphysical Poet, although his name is not quite so familiar as, say, Andrew Marvell. His poem ‘The Retreat’ (sometimes the original spelling, ‘The Retreate’, is preserved) is about the loss of heavenly innocence experienced during childhood, and a desire to regain this lost state of ‘angel infancy’.


Emily Dickinson, ‘“Heaven” – is what I cannot reach!’ One of a number of poems Emily Dickinson wrote about heaven, this poem is about how paradise is always just out of reach, like an apple hanging just a little too high up on the tree. It is an ‘interdicted land’ – one, perhaps, we are not meant to find yet…

Gerard Manley Hopkins, ‘Heaven-Haven’. The Jesuit poet Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-89), who was a contemporary of Tennyson and Browning although his work seems to anticipate the modernists in its daring experimentation and unusual imagery, wrote this short eight-line meditation on heaven, which he envisions as a place where ‘no storms come’.

W. B. Yeats, ‘He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven’. The gist of this poem, one of Yeats’s most popular poems, is straightforward: if I were a rich man, I’d give you the world and all its treasures. If I were a god, I could take the heavenly sky and make a blanket out of it for you. But I’m only a poor man, and obviously the idea of making the sky into a blanket is silly and out of the question, so all I have of any worth are my dreams. And dreams are delicate and vulnerable – hence ‘Tread softly’.


D. H. Lawrence, ‘New Heaven and Earth’. This 1917 poem is noteworthy because it is a longer modernist poem that responds to the First World War, and so prefigures a much more famous modernist poem, T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. The poem’s speaker tells of his disillusionment with this world and its modern warfare and inventions and of his sense of release at having found a ‘new world’. But the poem has as much in common with Wilfred Owen’s poems highlighting the horrors of war as it has with Eliot’s later modernist poem.

Rupert Brooke, ‘Heaven’. Heaven was much on Brooke’s mind when he ended ‘The Soldier’ with its image of ‘hearts at peace, under an English heaven’. But this earlier poem, composed in 1913 before the outbreak of the War, is altogether more playful, even satirical, than the war sonnets. ‘Heaven’ uses fish to make a comment on human piety, and specifically the reasons mankind offers for a belief in something more than one’s immediate surroundings (e.g. an afterlife – hence the title of the poem). Witty and well-constructed, ‘Heaven’ is an overlooked poem in Brooke’s oeuvre, but we think it’s one of his best.

T. S. Eliot, ‘The Hippopotamus’. The premise of this poem is a comparison between the large African mammal and the Roman Catholic Church, which culminates with the hippopotamus being lifted up to heaven, surrounded by a choir of angels. Who is worthy of reaching heaven: someone who professes godliness but practises greed? Or the humble but ignorant hippo?


Discover more classic poetry with these birthday poems, these scary Gothic poems, these religious poems, these poems about various jobs, and these great beach poems. For more classic poetry, we recommend The Oxford Book of English Verse – perhaps the best poetry anthology on the market (we offer our pick of the best poetry anthologies here).

The author of this article, Dr Oliver Tearle, is a literary critic and lecturer in English at Loughborough University. He is the author of, among others, The Secret Library: A Book-Lovers’ Journey Through Curiosities of History and The Great War, The Waste Land and the Modernist Long Poem.
************************************************** *

(1.)
Winter Heavens
by George Meredith
Sharp is the night, but stars with frost alive
Leap off the rim of earth across the dome.
It is a night to make the heavens our home
More than the nest whereto apace we strive.
Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive,
In swarms outrushing from the golden comb.
They waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam:
The living throb in me, the dead revive.
Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath,
Life glistens on the river of the death.
It folds us, flesh and dust; and have we knelt,
Or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs
Of radiance, the radiance enrings:
And this is the soul's haven to have felt.

(2.)
"Heavenly Father" -- take to thee
by Emily Dickinson

"Heavenly Father" -- take to thee
The supreme iniquity
Fashioned by thy candid Hand
In a moment contraband --
Though to trust us -- seems to us
More respectful -- "We are Dust" --
We apologize to thee
For thine own Duplicity --

(3.)
Holy Sonnet VI: This Is My Play's Last Scene, Here Heavens Appoint
by John Donne

This is my play's last scene, here heavens appoint
My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race
Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace,
My span's last inch, my minute's latest point,
And gluttonous death, will instantly unjoint
My body and soul, and I shall sleep a space;
But my ever-waking part shall see that face,
Whose fear already shakes my every joint:
Then, as my soul, t' heaven her first seat, takes flight,
And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell,
So fall my sins that all may have their right
(To where they're bred, and would press me) to hell.
Impute me righteous, thus purged of evil,
For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Blog- An experiment in attempting to stir my muse this morning...
Blog Posted:9/10/2020 7:38:00 AM
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 riddle 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"..

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

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.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

New Blog

The Influence Of Greek Mythology Upon Poetry And Modern World



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



Polus D'orumagdos Ororei And The Way Of Victory



Grave deeply, as the storm-gods clamor round

Here lieth a mortal whom the thundering sound

Of heroes maddened, one whose heart took fire

At their slow march about the headland pyre,

Chanting their sorrows in the noblest tongue

Earth ever knew, one who had been - among

The sailors in the living ships of old,

Tugged at the oars with them, and felt the cold

Of wintry night-seas heaving over the prow

In the shadows of the moon ; and now

HE hath no fear of any death,

For he hath seen men pitifully die

A thousand ways, and patiently awaiteth

Whatever reckoning shalt draweth nigh.

Robert J. Lindley, 7-24-2020

******

The Way Of Victory



I longed for wandering by those islands

Where ever blue rapturous sunlight beams ;

Sought a mountain home, for sleep and silence

And gold-crested star-winds throughout my dreams ;

In deep tumult, thunder of rolling tides,

Far below uplands where Holy rest abides,

He sent victory, where pilgrim road leads

Through murmuring crowds, through cities' rash mobs,

Through reality, human thoughts and deeds,

Through smoke, dust, agony, -red sodden ways

Where reapers harvest and toil dauntless days,

Sea of sorrows grip, death-winds moaning past

Soul resplendent, triumphant to the last.

Robert J. Lindley, 7-17- 2020

********





The Artistry of the Homeric Simile

Scott, William C. (William Clyde), 1937-

Dartmouth College Library



Hanover, NH 03755, USA



© 2009 by William C. Scott



https://www.dartmouth.edu/library/di...ing/scott2009/





William C. Scott



The Artistry

of the

Homeric Simile



Dartmouth College Library

&

Dartmouth College Press

Hanover, New Hampshire





Published by

University Press of New England

Hanover and London



Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data



Scott, William C. (William Clyde), 1937–

The artistry of the Homeric simile / William C. Scott.

p. cm.



Includes bibliographical references and index.



ISBN 978-1-58465-797-2 (pbk.: alk. paper)



DOI: 10.1349/ddlp.769



1. Homer—Literary style. 2. Greek language—Figures

of speech. 3. Oral-formulaic analysis. 4. Oral tradition—

Greece. 5. Rhetoric, Ancient. 6. Simile. I. Title.



PA4177.S5S28 2009



883'.01—dc22 2009016159



Preface

The similes in Homer are treasure troves. They describe scenes of Greek life that are not presented in their simplest form anywhere else: landscapes and seascapes; storms and calm weather; fighting among animals; aspects of civic life such as disputes, athletic contests, horse races, community entertainment, women carrying on their daily lives, and men running their farms and orchards. But the similes also show Homer dealing with his tradition. They are basic paratactic additions to the narrative showing how the Greeks found and developed parallels between two scenes, each of which elucidated and interpreted the other, and then expressed those scenes in effective poetic language.





Hanover, New Hampshire



W.C.S.



-ix-



The Artistry of the Homeric Simile

-1-





Chapter One



Similes, the Shield of Achilles,

and Other Digressions

Similes are often repeated with very little change, they

accumulate when there is no need, and they compare where

there is nothing comparable. Great art would consist in making

one large and highly appropriate simile. Homer becomes too

carried away with his own similes and forgets narrative.

M. de la Motte1



In the eighteenth book of Homer’s Iliad Hephaistos makes a new shield for Achilles.2 The description of this shield is justly famed as a small masterwork in its own right as well as being the prototype for later poets and writers who include art objects within their works.3 The most notable ancient examples are The Shield of Heracles, the shields in the central scene of Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes, the cup in Theocritus’ first Idyll, the tapestry in Catullus’ epyllion on the marriage of Peleus and Thetis (c. 64), and the shield of Aeneas in book 8 of The Aeneid. These ekphrases occupy so large a portion of each work that they are necessarily major elements in the overall design.4



Homer often describes objects and implements in the course of his narrative, even pausing in the midst of events to present a detailed picture of some article drawn from the background. Book 11 of the Iliad contains three examples. The first and second are the descriptions of the breastplate and the shield of Agamemnon embedded in his arming scene (11.19–40); the third is "Nestor’s cup" (11.632–37). The presentation of each object is sufficiently detailed that it has been possible to find fragmentary yet often rather precise remains that parallel the verbal descriptions.5 These descriptions focus sharply on physical features. While they may interrupt an action, they do so only long enough to permit a listing of the elements that would meet the eye of the observer. Such quick sketches of a person’s possessions, however, strengthen the characterization being developed in the larger passage. The

-2-

highlighting of Agamemnon’s battle gear introduces the king as a heroic personage and reinforces his status as a major warrior at the moment he begins his aristeia.6 The ornate cup that Nestor alone can lift endows him with extra strength and stature at the moment when he is going to give crucial advice to Patroclus.7



One such piece described in the poems, however, will never be successfully reproduced even with considerable effort and ingenuity, and that is the Shield of Achilles. Special problems abound: the figures are in motion and small vignettes are in the process of evolving; this shield will not hold still for a static modeling session but continues to shift and change before the eyes of the observer. Thus though several commentaries feature a basic drawing of the shield that locates the individual scenes within the surrounding border of the river Ocean, sketches of the events described in each scene are omitted.8 The conclusion is inevitable: while there may have been shields that resembled the Shield of Achilles in basic shape and complexity, this particular shield never did and never could have actually existed because it is as much a product of the poet’s imagination as the narrative itself. The people on the Shield live and breathe, events develop over time, and there is such a collection of varied subject matter that it probably could never have been arrayed in its entirety on the surface of any one weapon. In addition, the presentation of the Shield is complex. It is not only a verbal description of the contents; it also involves the medium, the process of creation, the maker and his motives, and the interpreter.9



Once it is clear that Achilles’ Shield is more a creation of the poet than of the forge, a new set of revealing parallels can be sought. These would be imaginative constructs that interrupt the ongoing narrative in order to introduce a scene developed within its own clearly bounded framework. An obvious example is the tale of Odysseus’ visit to his maternal grandfather, Autolycus, in book 19 of the Odyssey (392–466).



This story falls into three segments: the naming of the baby Odysseus, the reception of the young boy at his grandfather’s palace, and his wounding by the boar. Each confirms an element in Odysseus’ characterization that was present from an early age. Autolycus is known for…..

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

Links





Scott. C. The Artistry of the Homeric Simile - Dartmouth Collegehttps://www.dartmouth.edu › scott2009 › ocm318673021

by WC Scott · 2009 · Cited by 95 — The simile covers this moment in a different way than a factual report would: ... that testify to the resourcefulness and strength of other lions who emerge victorious over men and ... Orumagdos ororei describes both woodcutters and warriors (Aristarchus). ... The Shield of Achilles: Ends of the Iliad and Beginnings of the Polis.



https://www.bisd303.org/cms/lib3/WA0...t%20Poetry.pdf



https://www.coursera.org/learn/modpo



https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poe...iam-wordsworth



https://www.cs.mcgill.ca/~rwest/wiki...ish_poetry.htm



https://www.encyclopedia.com/literat...ral/classicism

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Blog on the very brilliant and famous Canadian poet, Bliss Carman - A Dedication…
Blog Posted:8/22/2021 9:50:00 AM
Blog on the very brilliant and famous
Canadian poet, Bliss Carman- A Dedication…

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/bliss-carman

(1.)


Bliss Carman

1861–1929

Poet and essayist (William) Bliss Carman was born in Fredericton, New Brunswick, in 1861. He earned a BA and an MA at the University of New Brunswick and studied at the University of Edinburgh and Harvard University. He settled in New Canaan, Connecticut, in 1909.



Carman’s metered, formal verse explores natural and spiritual themes. He is the author of more than 50 volumes of poetry, including Low Tide on Grand Pré (1893), Over the Wintry Threshold (1913), and Later Poems (1926), as well as four essay collections, including Talks on Poetry and Life (1926). With Lorne Pierce, he edited the anthology Our Canadian Literature: Representative Verse, English, and French (1922). Pierce also edited The Selected Poems of Bliss Carman (1954) and he is the subject of the biography Bliss Carman: Quest and Revolt (1985), by Muriel Miller.



Carman’s honors included membership in the Royal Society of Canada. Carman is buried at Forest Hill Cemetery in Fredericton. The Stanford University Archives holds a selection of his papers.


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

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bliss_Carman

Bliss Carman

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Jump to navigationJump to search

Bliss Carman

FRSC

Photo by Pirie MacDonald

Photo by Pirie MacDonald

Born William Bliss Carman

April 15, 1861

Fredericton, New Brunswick

Died June 8, 1929 (aged 68)

New Canaan, Connecticut

Resting place Fredericton, New Brunswick

Occupation poet

Language English

Nationality Canadian

Citizenship British subject

Education University of New Brunswick; University of Edinburgh; Harvard University

Genre Poetry

Literary movement Confederation Poets, The Song Fishermen

Notable works Low Tide on Grand Pré,

Songs from Vagabondia,

Sappho: 100 Lyrics

Notable awards Lorne Pierce Medal (1928)

Robert Frost Medal (1930)

FRSC

William Bliss Carman FRSC (April 15, 1861 – June 8, 1929) was a Canadian poet who lived most of his life in the United States, where he achieved international fame. He was acclaimed as Canada's poet laureate[1] during his later years.[2][3]



In Canada, Carman is classed as one of the Confederation Poets, a group which also included Charles G.D. Roberts (his cousin), Archibald Lampman, and Duncan Campbell Scott.[4] "Of the group, Carman had the surest lyric touch and achieved the widest international recognition. But unlike others, he never attempted to secure his income by novel writing, popular journalism, or non-literary employment. He remained a poet, supplementing his art with critical commentaries on literary ideas, philosophy, and aesthetics."[5]



Life

He was born William Bliss Carman in Fredericton, New Brunswick. "Bliss" was his mother's maiden name. He was the great grandson[6] of United Empire Loyalists who fled to Nova Scotia after the American Revolution, settling in New Brunswick (then part of Nova Scotia).[7] His literary roots run deep with an ancestry that includes a mother who was a descendant of Daniel Bliss of Concord, Massachusetts, the great-grandfather of Ralph Waldo Emerson. His sister, Jean, married the botanist and historian William Francis Ganong. And on his mother's side he was a first cousin to Charles (later Sir Charles) G. D. Roberts.[3]



Education and early career

Carman was educated at the Fredericton Collegiate School and the University of New Brunswick (UNB), from which he received a B.A. in 1881. At the Collegiate School he came under the influence of headmaster George Robert Parkin, who gave him a love of classical literature[8] and introduced him to the poetry of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Algernon Charles Swinburne.[9] His first published poem was in the UNB Monthly in 1879. He then spent a year at Oxford and the University of Edinburgh (1882–1883), but returned home to receive his M.A. from UNB in 1884.[10]



After the death of his father in January 1885 and his mother in February 1886,[10] Carman enrolled in Harvard University (1886–1887).[7] At Harvard he moved in a literary circle that included American poet Richard Hovey, who would become his close friend and his collaborator on the successful Vagabondia poetry series.[11] Carman and Hovey were members of the "Visionists" circle along with Herbert Copeland and F. Holland Day, who would later form the Boston publishing firm Copeland & Day that would launch Vagabondia.[3]



After Harvard Carman briefly returned to Canada, but was back in Boston by February 1890. "Boston is one of the few places where my critical education and tastes could be of any use to me in earning money," he wrote. "New York and London are about the only other places."[5] Unable to find employment in Boston, he moved to New York City and became literary editor of the New York Independent at the grand sum of $20/week.[5] There he could help his Canadian friends get published, in the process "introducing Canadian poets to its readers."[12] However, Carman was never a good fit at the semi-religious weekly, and he was summarily dismissed in 1892. "Brief stints would follow with Current Literature, Cosmopolitan, The Chap-Book, and The Atlantic Monthly, but after 1895 he would be strictly a contributor to the magazines and newspapers, never an editor in any department."[3]



To make matters worse, Carman's first book of poetry, 1893's Low Tide on Grand Pré, was not a success; no Canadian company would publish it, and the U.S. edition stiffed when its publisher went bankrupt.[5]



Literary success

At this low point, Songs of Vagabondia, the first Hovey-Carman collaboration, was published by Copeland & Day in 1894. It was an immediate success. "No one could have been more surprised at the tremendous popularity of these care-free celebrations (the first of the three collections went through seven rapid editions) than the young authors, Richard Hovey and Bliss Carman."[13] Songs of Vagabondia would ultimately "go through sixteen printings (ranging from 500 to 1000 copies) over the next thirty years. The three Vagabondia volumes that followed fell slightly short of that record, but each went through numerous printings. Carman and Hovey quickly found themselves with a cult following, especially among college students, who responded to the poetry's anti-materialistic themes, its celebration of individual freedom, and its glorification of comradeship."[3]



The success of Songs of Vagabondia prompted another Boston firm, Stone & Kimball, to reissue Low Tide... and to hire Carman as the editor of its literary journal, The Chapbook. The next year, though, the editor's job went West (with Stone & Kimball) to Chicago, while Carman opted to remain in Boston.[5]



"In Boston in 1895, he worked on a new poetry book, Behind the Arras, which he placed with a prominent Boston publisher (Lamson, Wolffe).... He published two more books of verse with Lamson, Wolffe."[5] He also began writing a weekly column for the Boston Evening Transcript, which ran from 1895 to 1900.[7]



In 1896 Carman met Mary Perry King, who became the greatest and longest-lasting female influence in his life. Mrs. King became his patron: "She put pence in his purse, and food in his mouth, when he struck bottom and, what is more, she often put a song on his lips when he despaired, and helped him sell it." According to Carman's roommate, Mitchell Kennerley, "On rare occasions they had intimate relations at 10 E. 16 which they always advised me of by leaving a bunch of violets — Mary Perry's favorite flower — on the pillow of my bed."[14] If he knew of the latter, Dr. King did not object: "He even supported her involvement in the career of Bliss Carman to the extent that the situation developed into something close to a ménage à trois" with the Kings.[3]



Through Mrs. King's influence Carman became an advocate of 'unitrinianism,' a philosophy which "drew on the theories of François-Alexandre-Nicolas-Chéri Delsarte to develop a strategy of mind-body-spirit harmonization aimed at undoing the physical, psychological, and spiritual damage caused by urban modernity."[7] This shared belief created a bond between Mrs. King and Carman but estranged him somewhat from his former friends.[citation needed]



In 1899 Lamson, Wolffe was taken over by the Boston firm of Small, Maynard & Co., who had also acquired the rights to Low Tide... "The rights to all Carman's books were now held by one publisher and, in lieu of earnings, Carman took a financial stake in the company. When Small, Maynard failed in 1903, Carman lost all his assets."[5]



Down but not out, Carman signed with another Boston company, L.C. Page, and began to churn out new work. Page published seven books of new Carman poetry between 1902 and 1905. As well, the firm released three books based on Carman's Transcript columns, and a prose work on unitrinianism, The Making of Personality, that he'd written with Mrs. King.[12] "Page also helped Carman rescue his 'dream project,' a deluxe edition of his collected poetry to 1903.... Page acquired distribution rights with the stipulation that the book be sold privately, by subscription. The project failed; Carman was deeply disappointed and became disenchanted with Page, whose grip on Carman's copyrights would prevent the publication of another collected edition during Carman's lifetime."[5]



Carman also picked up some needed cash in 1904 as editor-in-chief of the 10-volume project, The World's Best Poetry.[7]



Later years



Bliss Carman Memorial, Forest Hill Cemetery, Fredericton NB

After 1908 Carman lived near the Kings' New Canaan, Connecticut, estate, "Sunshine", or in the summer in a cabin near their summer home in the Catskills, "Moonshine."[3] Between 1908 and 1920, literary taste began to shift, and his fortunes and health declined.[5]



"Although not a political activist, Carman during the First World War was a member of the Vigilantes, who supported American entry into the conflict on the Allied side."[15]



By 1920, Carman was impoverished and recovering from a near-fatal attack of tuberculosis.[15] That year he revisited Canada and "began the first of a series of successful and relatively lucrative reading tours, discovering 'there is nothing worth talking of in book sales compared with reading.'"[5] "'Breathless attention, crowded halls, and a strange, profound enthusiasm such as I never guessed could be,' he reported to a friend. 'And good thrifty money too. Think of it! An entirely new life for me, and I am the most surprised person in Canada.'" Carman was feted at "a dinner held by the newly formed Canadian Authors' Association at the Ritz Carlton Hotel in Montreal on 28 October 1921 where he was crowned Canada's Poet Laureate with a wreath of maple leaves."[3]



The tours of Canada continued, and by 1925 Carman had finally acquired a Canadian publisher. "McClelland & Stewart (Toronto) issued a collection of selected earlier verses and became his main publisher. They benefited from Carman's popularity and his revered position in Canadian literature, but no one could convince L.C. Page to relinquish its copyrights. An edition of collected poetry was published only after Carman's death, due greatly to the persistence of his literary executor, Lorne Pierce."[5]



During the 1920s, Carman was a member of the Halifax literary and social set, The Song Fishermen. In 1927 he edited The Oxford Book of American Verse.[16]



Carman died of a brain hemorrhage at the age of 68 in New Canaan, and was cremated in New Canaan. "It took two months, and the influence of New Brunswick's Premier J.B.M. Baxter and Canadian Prime Minister W.L.M. King, for Carman's ashes to be returned to Fredericton."[10] "His ashes were buried in Forest Hill Cemetery, Fredericton, and a national memorial service was held at the Anglican cathedral there." Twenty-five years later, on May 13, 1954, a scarlet maple tree was planted at his gravesite, to grant his request in his 1892 poem "The Grave-Tree":[7]



Let me have a scarlet maple

For the grave-tree at my head,

With the quiet sun behind it,

In the years when I am dead.

Writing

Low Tide on Grand Pré

As a student at Harvard, Carman "was heavily influenced by Royce, whose spiritualistic idealism, combined with the transcendentalism of Ralph Waldo Emerson, lies centrally in the background of his first major poem, "Low Tide on Grand Pré" written in the summer and winter of 1886."[7] "Low Tide..." was published in the Spring, 1887 Atlantic Monthly, giving Carman a literary reputation while still at Harvard.[5] It was also included in the 1889 anthology, Songs of the Great Dominion.



Literary critic Desmond Pacey considered "Low Tide..." to be "the most nearly perfect single poem to come out of Canada. It will withstand any amount of critical scrutiny."[17]



"Low Tide..." served as the title poem for Carman's first book. "The poems in this volume have been collected with reference to their similarity of tone," Carman wrote in his preface; a nostalgic tone of pervading loss and melancholy. Three outstanding examples are "The Eavesdropper," "In Apple Time" and "Wayfaring." However, "none can equal the artistry of the title poem. What is more, although Carman would publish over thirty other volumes during his lifetime, none of them contains anything that surpasses this poem he wrote when he was barely twenty-five years old."[3]



Vagabondia

Carman rose to prominence in the 1890s, a decade the poetry of which anthologist Louis Untermeyer has called marked by "a cheerless evasion, a humorous unconcern; its most representative craftsmen were, with four exceptions, the writers of light verse." The first two of those four exceptions were Richard Hovey and Bliss Carman. For Untermeyer: "The poetry of this period ... is dead because it detached itself from the world.... But ... Rev……………………..

……………….>>>>>

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

My three, Bliss Carman- dedication poems.

I composed first two last week and the third

poem, very early this morn.

(1.)



New Dawn, Blessed Gems With Love So Gifted



From morning glow, into soft basking day,

Sacred the time, in life and love we pray,

We converse, we laugh, and hope we embrace-

Fallen man, rectified by God's pure grace.



For divine light that gifts its tender glows,

Healing us from our pains, sorrows and woes,

Upon earth and we mortals so in need

Of saving balm as in darkness we bleed.



Evidenced by Nature's constant gifts

Words heavenly sent that our souls uplift

We so blessed, can thank our living God

As upon this our earth, we daily trod.



Robert J. Lindley, 8-21-2021

Cumque esset mane, meridiem haec anima et haec leniter demulcens blanditiis

*********

(2.)



Beauty Of Sunset And A Life With Love



Behold! Dawn with its ravishing beauty

Life must be more than a slavish duty

From golden shores unto whispering hills

Let love enter, until treasures it spills

Understand precious touch of womankind

For upon earth - that is the gold we find.



Accept all we have and our daily bread

With love's bounty one is truly well fed

Wake unto morning's new resplendent calls

One is blessed without great golden walls.



Walk with Nature unto its forest crown

Flee a spell away from idle town

See and feel the wonders of God's own hands

As life's beauty gifts its most wondrous strands.



Robert J. Lindley, 8-21-2021

In medio annorum vivifica me dulcis rufus occasum

********

(3.)



Love Exists As Notes From A Warbler's Throat



Love exists as notes from a warbler's throat

On life's fleeting winds truth so gaily floats

Over mountains steep and sweet meadows below

Bringing along heart's beauty in its tow

Salvation comes with prayer's truest breath

Conquering woes and even mortal death.



Earth has awaken since first dawning of Man.

Grinning, dancing, spinning- as only it can.



Life and Nature need not fight as they do

Certain harmony is long overdue

Love cries out life must find a better way

Than sad darkness, with its shadowy grays.



Earth has awaken since first dawning of Man.

Grinning, dancing, spinning- as only it can.



Love exists as notes from a warbler's throat

On life's fleeting winds truth so gaily floats

Over mountains steep and sweet meadows below

Bringing along heart's beauty in its tow.



Robert J. Lindley, 8-22-2021

May poetica amoris et verum in aeternum nuptui

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Lesser Known Poets Series- continued, 6th poet chosen, James Thomson
Blog Posted:4/17/2020 5:40:00 AM
Lesser Known Poets Series- continued,
6th poet chosen, James Thomson

(1.)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ci...Dreadful_Night

The City of Dreadful Night
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to navigationJump to search
Question book-new.svg
This article relies largely or entirely on a single source. Relevant discussion may be found on the talk page. Please help improve this article by introducing citations to additional sources.
Find sources: "The City of Dreadful Night" – news · newspapers · books · scholar · JSTOR (September 2015)
The City of Dreadful Night is a long poem by the Scottish poet James "B.V." Thomson, written between 1870 and 1873, and published in the National Reformer in 1874,[1] then in 1880 in a book entitled The City of Dreadful Night and Other Poems.

Thomson, who sometimes used the pseudonym "Bysshe Vanolis" — in honour of Percy Bysshe Shelley and Novalis — was a thorough pessimist, suffering from lifelong melancholia and clinical depression, as well as a wanderlust that took him to Colorado and to Spain, among other places.

The City of Dreadful Night that gave its title to this poem, however, was made in the image of London. The poem, despite its insistently bleak tone, won the praise of George Meredith, and also of George Saintsbury, who in A History of Nineteenth Century Literature wrote that "what saves Thomson is the perfection with which he expresses the negative and hopeless side of the sense of mystery ..."[citation needed]

References
Sullivan, Dick. ""Poison Mixed With Gall": James Thomson's The City of Dreadful Night — A Personal View". Retrieved 2008-09-29.
External links
Works related to The City of Dreadful Night at Wikisource
Quotations related to James Thomson (B.V.) at Wikiquote
The City of Dreadful Night at Project Gutenberg
The City of Dreadful Night public domain audiobook at LibriVox
Categories: British poemsScottish poemsFictional populated places in EnglandVictorian poetryWorks originally published in British magazinesWorks originally published in political magazines1874 poems

(2.)

https://inthedustiwrite.wordpress.co...rly-modernist/

The City of Dreadful Night. James Thomson: Laureate of Pessimism or Early Modernist?
FEBRUARY 20, 2012 / AKIRKWOOD
“It is a curious thing, do you know, Cranly said dispassionately, how your mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve.”[1]

Thomson has been referred to by many critics as a poet striving to find a voice in amongst the chaos, pessimism and mental confusion that marked the Victorian era and has variously been described as a social outsider, religious apostate and atheistic pessimist. Many critical studies of The City of Dreadful Night (1874) have described Thomson as a ‘laureate of pessimism’, stuck in his alienation to whom Faith, Love and Hope are dead. It is evident that Thomson’s work, up until 1860, reveals an anxiety in completely denouncing religious orthodoxy but after 1861, when he became more associated with Higher Criticism of the Bible and Darwinism, Thomson’s poetry took a more atheistic turn, culminating in the complete repudiation of religion in The City. Thomson explored his existential suffering in his poetry and essays and was undoubtedly responding to the pervasive nineteenth-century trend of feeling in the Victorian era of doubt which was largely brought about by the breakdown of orthodox religion, the dissolution of idealism and the destructive forces of growing industrialism.

However, to simply read Thomson in this context; refusing to abandon the all too apparent limitations this proposes, becomes reductive. Too many tired critical tropes have boxed Thomson under the category ‘Victorian pessimist’, failing to see the “dialectic of light and darkness”[2] that permeates his poetry. I propose to argue that Thomson’s proclamation of atheism in The City helped to shape a modernist sensibility within his poetry, allowing him to present the themes of alienation and disillusionment in new and experimental ways. As Thomson became increasingly aware and critical of the aporias of dogmatic religion, he proclaimed his repudiation of Christianity and looked for something else to replace it. Thomson’s City is a canvass to explore the modern sensibility in which “Man is mired – take your choice – in the mass, in the machine, in the city, in a loss of faith, in the hopelessness of a life without anterior intention or terminal value.”[3] In The City, his proclamation of atheism is manifested in the attack and inversion of religious themes in order to emphasise the meaningless of existence in a world with no God or hope for salvation. However, these religious principles are in fact made more conspicuous through their absence, the result being that their form lingers and residues of meaning, which are nevertheless detached from their Christian source, are revealed and it is the poet’s task to re-attach this meaning to a different symbolic system.

*************
The City of Dreadful Night
BY JAMES THOMSON (BYSSHE VANOLIS)

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: All was black,
In heaven no single star, on earth no track;
A brooding hush without a stir or note,
The air so thick it clotted in my throat;
And thus for hours; then some enormous things
Swooped past with savage cries and clanking wings:
But I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Eyes of fire
Glared at me throbbing with a starved desire;
The hoarse and heavy and carnivorous breath
Was hot upon me from deep jaws of death;
Sharp claws, swift talons, fleshless fingers cold
Plucked at me from the bushes, tried to hold:
But I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Lo you, there,
That hillock burning with a brazen glare;
Those myriad dusky flames with points a-glow
Which writhed and hissed and darted to and fro;
A Sabbath of the Serpents, heaped pell-mell
For Devil's roll-call and some fête of Hell:
Yet I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Meteors ran
And crossed their javelins on the black sky-span;
The zenith opened to a gulf of flame,
The dreadful thunderbolts jarred earth's fixed frame:
The ground all heaved in waves of fire that surged
And weltered round me sole there unsubmerged:
Yet I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Air once more,
And I was close upon a wild sea-shore;
Enormous cliffs arose on either hand,
The deep tide thundered up a league-broad strand;
White foambelts seethed there, wan spray swept and flew;
The sky broke, moon and stars and clouds and blue:
And I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: On the left
The sun arose and crowned a broad crag-cleft;
There stopped and burned out black, except a rim,
A bleeding eyeless socket, red and dim;
Whereon the moon fell suddenly south-west,
And stood above the right-hand cliffs at rest:
Still I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: From the right
A shape came slowly with a ruddy light;
A woman with a red lamp in her hand,
Bareheaded and barefooted on that strand;
O desolation moving with such grace!
O anguish with such beauty in thy face.
I fell as on my bier,
Hope travailed with such fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: I was twain,
Two selves distinct that cannot join again;
One stood apart and knew but could not stir,
And watched the other stark in swoon and her;
And she came on, and never turned aside,
Between such sun and moon and roaring tide:
And as she came more near
My soul grew mad with fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Hell is mild
And piteous matched with that accursèd wild;
A large black sign was on her breast that bowed,
A broad black band ran down her snow-white shroud;
That lamp she held was her own burning heart,
Whose blood-drops trickled step by step apart;
The mystery was clear;
Mad rage had swallowed fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: By the sea
She knelt and bent above that senseless me;
Those lamp-drops fell upon my white brow there,
She tried to cleanse them with her tears and hair;
She murmured words of pity, love, and woe,
She heeded not the level rushing flow:
And mad with rage and fear,
I stood stonebound so near.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: When the tide
Swept up to her there kneeling by my side,
She clasped that corpse-like me, and they were borne
Away, and this vile me was left forlorn;
I know the whole sea cannot quench that heart,
Or cleanse that brow, or wash those two apart:
They love; their doom is drear,
Yet they nor hope nor fear;
But I, what do I here?

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

Lesser Known Poets Series- continued,
two poems written, honoring sixth poet chosen James Thomson

(1.)

As That Dawning Hour, In Her Journey She Knew She Was Too Late

Beneath ashen skies and life's treasured ships - underneath deep tides,
ghosts, remorse, memories, all lost in yesteryear's breath abides.

She hurt, gone, life's truth that can never again be
blissful passions that burn swellings of singing seas
came aches, dreams lost, epic fluttering- heart's desires
broken sight of that ring, within massively raging fires
ghastly renderings of shattered hopes, faith without any gains
relentless moaning throughout night's aching and torturous pains!

Beneath ashen skies and life's treasured ships - underneath deep tides,
ghosts, remorse, memories, all lost in yesteryear's breath abides.

She found, old castle fallen down, in sad decay
remembering youth a'callin', knelt she to pray
amidst ruins that rumbled fiery flames in her soul
to consume shattered disappointments of life wearily droll
there within that moment, trepidation fanned sorrow's flames
with trembling lips, she cried, "All this, my weeping heart truly blames"!

Beneath ashen skies and life's treasured ships - underneath deep tides,
ghosts, remorse, memories, all lost in yesteryear's breath abides.

She knew, never more would sweetest of touch she feel
fiery embers that from loving heart none can steal
nights of love, ecstasy that seals desire's great need
and from that epic dying of love's loss, she never be freed
gasping as morbid thoughts delivered knowledge of Life and Fate
as that dawning hour, in her journey she knew she was too late!

Beneath ashen skies and life's treasured ships - underneath deep tides,
ghosts, remorse, memories, all lost in yesteryear's breath abides.

Robert J. Lindley, 4-17-2020
Narrative (sad romance), ( The Agony Of True Love Lost And Its Truly Unbearable Pains )

Quote:
(“Hell was not a pit of fire and brimstone. Hell was waking up alone, the sheets
wet with your tears and your seed, knowing the woman you had dreamed of would never
come back to you.”) ? Lisa Kleypas, Seduce Me at Sunrise )

Note: "Quote"
Epic Loss and Dark are not always wed
nor the calamity of dreaded dreads
as spinning world churns its wicked abyss
deepest of hurts is that true love we miss. (RJL- 1977)

Syllables Per Line:
0 15 15
0 12 12 12 15 15 15
0 15 15
0 12 12 12 15 15 15
0 15 15
0 12 12 12 15 15 15
0 15 15
Total # Syllables:363
Total # Words: 248
******************
(2.)

Breaking, Those Invisible Chains Once Holding Me

waiting, until hurt yields its epic pains,
victim of no worries, no risks, no gains

wandering earthbound
pondering no sound
ghosting through life, as tormented lost soul
ripped heart begging, come please fill this hole

waiting, until hurt yields its epic pains,
victim of no worries, no risks, no gains

cascading earthbound
evading profound
fallen, into spirals of black despair
tipped into blackness of its darken lair

waiting, until hurt yields its epic pains,
victim of no worries, no risks, no gains

defending earthbound
pretending sane-bound
waking to gasps from life's abundant glee
breaking, invisible chains holding me

waiting, until light destroys dark remains,
victor, claiming new joyous treasured gains

Robert J. Lindley, 4-17-2020
Rhyme, ( Life, Hope And What Was So Fated To Be )
from- "a hard look back into speeding abyss of time"...

Syllables Per Line:
0 10 10
0 5 5 10 10
0 10 10
0 5 5 10 10
0 10 10
0 5 5 10 10
0 10 10
Total # Syllables:170
Total # Words:::::110

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Blog Title , Blog on- Thomas Gray's , " Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard"
Blog Posted:9/19/2020 7:36:00 AM
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 lament 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, world's weeping grays
Be reborn with no thoughts of world's 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 mortal 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 truth that our vanity denies
We are lost because we believe world's greatest 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 to day 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 truly see, welcome defeat of blindness
Rather than worldly conflicts and daily sparring
To satisfy our fleshly dreams and deep desires
Lets 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/

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.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

First Creation- A Poet's Blog - On Life, Love, Living, Death, Earth And Eternity
Blog Posted:5/15/2021 7:31:00 AM
First Creation- A Poet's Blog -

On Life, Love, Living, Death, Earth And Eternity

(Blog on poetry, its depths and man's search for eternity)

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

FAMOUS QUOTES:



Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.

Henry Van Dyke

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



Trust in dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

Khalil Gibran

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.

John Milton

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



The hope of eternal life is not to be taken up upon slight grounds. It is a subject to be settled between God and your own soul; settled for eternity. A supposed hope, and nothing more, will prove your ruin.

Ellen G. White

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

Henry David Thoreau

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



Death is not an event in life: we do not live to experience death. If we take eternity to mean not infinite temporal duration but timelessness, then eternal life belongs to those who live in the present.

Ludwig Wittgenstein

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



Love is a symbol of eternity. It wipes out all sense of time, destroying all memory of a beginning and all fear of an end.

Madame de Stael

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

A. E. Housman

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



What love we've given, we'll have forever. What love we fail to give, will be lost for all eternity.

Leo Buscaglia

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



Every action of your life touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity.

Edwin Hubbel Chapin

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



If you want to know why the coast is such an inspirational place, ask Herman Melville, Jack London, Nordhoff and Hall, Robert Louis Stevenson or Joseph Conrad. It's a glimpse of eternity. It invites rumination, the relentless whisper of the tide against the shore.

John Cooper Clarke

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



A life once spent is irrevocable. It will remain to be contemplated through eternity. If it be marked with sins, the marks will be indelible. If it has been a useless life, it can never be improved. Such it will stand forever and ever. The same may be said of each day.

Adoniram Judson

Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/eternity-quotes



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



(1A.)

https://oldenglishpoetry.camden.rutg...-gifts-of-men/

The Gifts of Men



There are many gifts of the youthful apparent

across the earth, those that the soul-bearing carry

in their brains, just as the God of Armies here,

the Measurer so powerfully, has doled out unto humanity

given as a unique present, sending them wide afield,

his own privileges, and every one of them

may be taken up by some of those living among the people. (ll. 1-7)



There are no men upon the earth so blessed with misery,

nor so moderate of prosperity, so craven of spirit,

nor so delayed of courage, that the granter of grace

should deprive them of every skill of the mind,

or mighty deed, wise in wit or in wordy statements,

lest they be hopeless in all matters—

those which God wrought in this worldly life,

all these gracious gifts—God would never deem

that any should become so wretched. (ll 8-17)…



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

(1.B.)

https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/eternity-2/

Robert Herrick

Eternity



O years! and age! farewell:

Behold I go,

Where I do know

Infinity to dwell.



And these mine eyes shall see

All times, how they

Are lost i' th' sea

Of vast eternity:--

Where never moon shall sway

The stars; but she,

And night, shall be

Drown'd in one endless day.

--- Robert Herrick

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



(1.)

Earth, Mortal Life, Is It A Prelude To Eternity



The real challenge, the virgin path to take

Youth and its mysteries - things we forsake

As rising to greet dawn and feel its rays

Sense of peace, hope that it forever stays

That brief time just before golden sun sets

Those fleeting loves, with age one never forgets.



The real challenge, the virgin path to take.

Youth and its mysteries - things we forsake.



That first day, seeing a forever beach

Sweet new love, once thought so far beyond reach

Princess met me, holding my trembling hand

We both barely sixteen, walking white sands

That brief time just before golden sun sets

That first glowing love, that one never forgets.



The real challenge, the virgin path to take.

Youth and its mysteries - things we forsake.



And the now, when a billion years has flown

The in-between, ahead lies great unknown

When daylight yields to a powerful dark

To a bloody battle we must embark

That brief time just before golden sun sets

That first glowing love, that one never forgets.



The real challenge, the virgin path to take.

Youth and its mysteries - things we forsake.



As the path into a golden sunset

Life was not about, treasures one could get

It was the joy of love and being free

And promise of one day- eternity.



The real challenge, the virgin path to take.

Youth and its mysteries - things we forsake.

Robert J. Lindley,

Rhyme, ( A Look Well Beyond Life's Mere Fleeting Blink )

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

(2.)

A Quest Finished, An Epic Truth Found



There in fertile green valley of contemplation

Yet lies those eager seeds of wicked damnation

Sprung from the dark-set and evil heart born of greed

Pleasures that lurk to strike, as a snake in the weeds

That which mankind embraces in its quest for more

Ever seeking to steal gold from paradise shores.



There in swollen streams yet awaits ready to pounce

Wanton greed that measures all by the golden ounce

And ravaging darkness born in a world of hate

Firm and loyal ally with wicked hands of Fate

That which mankind embraces in its quest for more

Ever seeking to steal gold from paradise shores.



Surely as truth weds divine handmaidens of light.

Faith and Love conquers terrors of the darkest night.

Robert J. Lindley,

Sonnet,

( Wherein Hope And Faith, Seeds Great Harvests Of Eternity )

***********

(3.)

A Winter Night At The Old Cabin



white banks, frozen stream

trees staring at naked limbs

full moon smiling down

Robert J. Lindley,

haiku,

( poetic thoughts from a scene never forgotten)

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Creativity (Is The Lifeblood of The Poet)- Trinity From Newfound Bliss, A Dream-Night's Sequence- Honoring Byron, Shelley And Keats
Blog Posted:8/26/2021 9:41:00 AM
Creativity (Is The Lifeblood of The Poet)-

Trinity From Newfound Bliss, A Dream-Night's Sequence-
Honoring Byron, Shelley And Keats



Poem One

Bestowed, Beauty And Bounty Of Moon's Heavenly Breath



Light of pallid moon and swashing oceans

Earth's natural beauty, spinning motion

Awaiting dawn's sweet new call, its soft glee

Truth of universe's eternal decree,

Golden orb, where romantic dreams are born

So oft fleeing from dark world sad and torn

Lovers' sight given unto those in need

Blessed bounty of divinely sent seed ….

Chalice of hope, love elixir of life

Sweet gems, gifted new world with less strife

So often found 'neath gleams of soft moonlight

Bountiful and within Heavenly sight

Love and joy, wherein true romance resides

There above, our moon that so softly glides

Sky light born of God's divine breath and fire

Treasured relief from world's constant ire.



Robert J. Lindley

Romanticism

*********

Poem Two


Morn's Rays Reaffirming I Am Not Blind



I will not kneel and fall as a lost slave

My bloodline is from heritage of the brave

My soul, its depths are so truly heart born

Tho', I have endured meritless scorn

I do not dare to cringe, instead I rise

Seeing truth, life through a humble poet's eyes!



Those dark times, I walked valleys of doubt

I rose from abyss with victory shouts

Reborn a warrior and a stronger man

Of retreating I have never been a fan

I seek divine light, in this soul it floods

This vessel a mixture of many bloods!



New dawn, waking to romantic love find

Morn's rays reaffirming I am not blind

Joy as sun its golden harvests beams down

Blessed to live in these hills just out of town

Mercy and sweet blessings in my old age

Now freed from darkness and my youthful rage!



I will not kneel and fall as a lost slave

My bloodline is from heritage of the brave

Those dark times, I walked valleys of doubt

I rose from abyss with victory shouts

New dawn, waking to romantic love find

Morn's rays reaffirming I am not blind!



Robert J. Lindley

Romanticism



********



Poem Three

Under Red Sunset, Walking On White Beach Sands


Day's ending, reality time does fly

Romance searching as I ask life not why

With coming of full moon's radiant glow

Love's deep pleasures failed to ever show

And sad loneliness raced forth instead

Life to feel so empty, as is my bed

But my beautiful love is before you

Came to sate hot appetites of we two!



Under red sunset, walking on white beach sands

We in fervor -found out where new love stands

Above mountaintops, in heavenly spheres

Dancing out loud and devoid of life's fears

Ecstasy and promise of bedroom nights

Windows letting in sky's golden moonlight

And night recording our sensual moans

Long before videos on new cell phones!



Brother moon, you that urges wolf's loud calls

Shining down, as into love sweethearts fall

Heating hearts to loving memories make

Sweetest desserts to let love's hot fires bake

In new formed ovens, love's tender heat

Tapping in time with united heartbeats

Under your guide, golden moonbeams teach

Love's high plateau, we together may reach!



Robert J. Lindley

Romanticism

______________________

(1.)

English poets such as William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, William Blake, and Lord Byron produced work that expressed spontaneous feelings, found parallels to their own emotional lives in the natural world, and celebrated creativity rather than logic.

***

Romantic poetry

Romantic poetry is the poetry of the Romantic era, an artistic, literary, musical and intellectual movement that originated in Europe towards the end of the 18th century. It involved a reaction against prevailing Enlightenment ideas of the 18th century, and lasted approximately from 1800 to 1850. Wikipedia

***

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/lea...20than%20logic.

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

(2.)

https://www.bl.uk/romantics-and-vict.../the-romantics

The Romantics

Theme: Romanticism

Published:

15 May 2014

Dr Stephanie Forward explains the key ideas and influences of Romanticism, and considers their place in the work of writers including Wordsworth, Blake, P B Shelley and Keats.

Today the word ‘romantic’ evokes images of love and sentimentality, but the term ‘Romanticism’ has a much wider meaning. It covers a range of developments in art, literature, music and philosophy, spanning the late 18th and early 19th centuries. The ‘Romantics’ would not have used the term themselves: the label was applied retrospectively, from around the middle of the 19th century.

In 1762 Jean-Jacques Rousseau declared in The Social Contract: ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.’ During the Romantic period major transitions took place in society, as dissatisfied intellectuals and artists challenged the Establishment. In England, the Romantic poets were at the very heart of this movement. They were inspired by a desire for liberty, and they denounced the exploitation of the poor. There was an emphasis on the importance of the individual; a conviction that people should follow ideals rather than imposed conventions and rules. The Romantics renounced the rationalism and order associated with the preceding Enlightenment era, stressing the importance of expressing authentic personal feelings. They had a real sense of responsibility to their fellow men: they felt it was their duty to use their poetry to inform and inspire others, and to change society.



Revolution

When reference is made to Romantic verse, the poets who generally spring to mind are William Blake (1757-1827), William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), George Gordon, 6th Lord Byron (1788-1824), Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) and John Keats (1795-1821). These writers had an intuitive feeling that they were ‘chosen’ to guide others through the tempestuous period of change.

This was a time of physical confrontation; of violent rebellion in parts of Europe and the New World. Conscious of anarchy across the English Channel, the British government feared similar outbreaks. The early Romantic poets tended to be supporters of the French Revolution, hoping that it would bring about political change; however, the bloody Reign of Terror shocked them profoundly and affected their views. In his youth William Wordsworth was drawn to the Republican cause in France, until he gradually became disenchanted with the Revolutionaries.

The imagination

The Romantics were not in agreement about everything they said and did: far from it! Nevertheless, certain key ideas dominated their writings. They genuinely thought that they were prophetic figures who could interpret reality. The Romantics highlighted the healing power of the imagination, because they truly believed that it could enable people to transcend their troubles and their circumstances. Their creative talents could illuminate and transform the world into a coherent vision, to regenerate mankind spiritually. In A Defence of Poetry (1821), Shelley elevated the status of poets: ‘They measure the circumference and sound the depths of human nature with a comprehensive and all-penetrating spirit…’.[1] He declared that ‘Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world’. This might sound somewhat pretentious, but it serves to convey the faith the Romantics had in their poetry.

Manuscript of P B Shelley's 'The Masque of Anarchy'

Sheet of paper containing the handwritten draft of P B Shelley's 'The Masque of Anarchy', and a faint pencil sketch of a tree

P B Shelley’s manuscript of ‘The Masque of Anarchy’, 1819, was a reaction of furious outrage at the Peterloo Massacre. An avowedly political poem, it praises the non-violence of the Manchester protesters when faced with the aggression of the state.

Usage terms Public Domain

The marginalised and oppressed

Wordsworth was concerned about the elitism of earlier poets, whose highbrow language and subject matter were neither readily accessible nor particularly relevant to ordinary people. He maintained that poetry should be democratic; that it should be composed in ‘the language really spoken by men’ (Preface to Lyrical Ballads [1802]). For this reason, he tried to give a voice to those who tended to be marginalised and oppressed by society: the rural poor; discharged soldiers; ‘fallen’ women; the insane; and children.

Blake was radical in his political views, frequently addressing social issues in his poems and expressing his concerns about the monarchy and the church. His poem ‘London’ draws attention to the suffering of chimney-sweeps, soldiers and prostitutes.



Lyrical Ballads: 1800 edition

Page from the preface to Lyrical Ballads

In the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, Wordsworth writes that he has ‘taken as much pains to avoid [poetic diction] as others ordinarily take to produce it’, trying instead to ‘bring [his] language near to the language of men’.

Usage terms Public Domain

William Blake's Songs of Innocence and of Experience

Decorated page containing the poem 'London' with illustration of a child leading an elderly man through a street, from William Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience

‘London’ from William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, 1794. Blake emphasises the injustice of late 18th-century society and the desperation of the poor.

Usage terms Public Domain

Children, nature and the sublime

For the world to be regenerated, the Romantics said that it was necessary to start all over again with a childlike perspective. They believed that children were special because they were innocent and uncorrupted, enjoying a precious affinity with nature. Romantic verse was suffused with reverence for the natural world. In Coleridge’s ‘Frost at Midnight’ (1798) the poet hailed nature as the ‘Great universal Teacher!’ Recalling his unhappy times at Christ’s Hospital School in London, he explained his aspirations for his son, Hartley, who would have the freedom to enjoy his childhood and appreciate his surroundings. The Romantics were inspired by the environment, and encouraged people to venture into new territories – both literally and metaphorically. In their writings they made the world seem a place with infinite, unlimited potential.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, A Walking Tour of Cumbria

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, A Walking Tour of Cumbria [folio: 3v-4r]

In August 1802, Samuel Taylor Coleridge set out from his home at Greta Hall, Keswick, for a week’s solo walking-tour in the nearby Cumbrian mountains. He kept detailed notes of the landscape around him, drawing rough sketches and maps. These notes and sketches are in Notebook No 2, one of 64 notebooks Coleridge kept between 1794 and his death.

Usage terms Public Domain

A key idea in Romantic poetry is the concept of the sublime. This term conveys the feelings people experience when they see awesome landscapes, or find themselves in extreme situations which elicit both fear and admiration. For example, Shelley described his reaction to stunning, overwhelming scenery in the poem ‘Mont Blanc’ (1816).

Burke's A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful

Burke's A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful [page: title page]

In this 1757 essay, the philosopher Edmund Burke discusses the attraction of the immense, the terrible and the uncontrollable. The work had a profound influence on the Romantic poets.

Usage terms Public Domain

The second-generation Romantics

Blake, Wordsworth and Coleridge were first-generation Romantics, writing against a backdrop of war. Wordsworth, however, became increasingly conservative in his outlook: indeed, second-generation Romantics, such as Byron, Shelley and Keats, felt that he had ‘sold out’ to the Establishment. In the suppressed Dedication to Don Juan (1819-1824) Byron criticised the Poet Laureate, Robert Southey, and the other ‘Lakers’, Wordsworth and Coleridge (all three lived in the Lake District). Byron also vented his spleen on the English Foreign Secretary, Viscount Castlereagh, denouncing him as an ‘intellectual eunuch’, a ‘bungler’ and a ‘tinkering slavemaker’ (stanzas 11 and 14). Although the Romantics stressed the importance of the individual, they also advocated a commitment to mankind. Byron became actively involved in the struggles for Italian nationalism and the liberation of Greece from Ottoman rule.

Notorious for his sexual exploits, and dogged by debt and scandal, Byron quitted Britain in 1816. Lady Caroline Lamb famously declared that he was ‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know.’ Similar accusations were pointed at Shelley. Nicknamed ‘Mad Shelley’ at Eton, he was sent down from Oxford for advocating atheism. He antagonised the Establishment further by his criticism of the monarchy, and by his immoral lifestyle.

Letter from Lord Byron about his memoirs, 29 October 1819

Letter from Lord Byron about his memoirs, 1819

In this letter to his publisher, John Murray, Byron notes the poor reception of the first two cantos of Don Juan, but states that he has written a hundred stanzas of a third canto. He also states that he is leaving his memoirs to his friend George Moore, to be read after his death, but that this text does not include details of his love affairs.

Usage terms Public Domain

Female poets

Female poets also contributed to the Romantic movement, but their strategies tended to be more subtle and less controversial. Although Dorothy Wordsworth (1771-1855) was modest about her writing abilities, she produced poems of her own; and her journals and travel narratives certainly provided inspiration for her brother. Women were generally limited in their prospects, and many found themselves confined to the domestic sphere; nevertheless, they did manage to express or intimate their concerns. For example, Mary Alcock (c. 1742-1798) penned ‘The Chimney Sweeper’s Complaint’. In ‘The Birth-Day’, Mary Robinson (1758-1800) highlighted the enormous discrepancy between life for the rich and the poor. Gender issues were foregrounded in ‘Indian Woman’s Death Song’ by Felicia Hemans (1793-1835).

The Gothic

Reaction against the Enlightenment was reflected in the rise of the Gothic novel. The most popular and well-paid 18th-century novelist, Ann Radcliffe (1764–1823), specialised in ‘the hobgoblin-romance’. Her fiction held particular appeal for frustrated middle-class women who experienced a vicarious frisson of excitement when they read about heroines venturing into awe-inspiring landscapes. She was dubbed ‘Mother Radcliffe’ by Keats, because she had such an influence on Romantic poets. The Gothic genre contributed to Coleridge’s Christabel (1816) and Keats’s ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’ (1819). Mary Shelley (1797-1851) blended realist, Gothic and Romantic elements to produce her masterpiece Frankenstein (1818), in which a number of Romantic aspects can be identified. She quotes from Coleridge’s Romantic poem The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere. In the third chapter Frankenstein refers to his scientific endeavours being driven by his imagination. The book raises worrying questions about the possibility of ‘regenerating’ mankind; but at several points the world of nature provides inspiration and solace.

******

https://poets.org/text/brief-guide-romanticism

A Brief Guide to Romanticism

"In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs, in spite of things silently gone out of mind and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the Poet's thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favorite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge—it is as immortal as the heart of man."

—William Wordsworth, "Preface to Lyrical Ballads"

Romanticism was arguably the largest artistic movement of the late 1700s. Its influence was felt across continents and through every artistic discipline into the mid-nineteenth century, and many of its values and beliefs can still be seen in contemporary poetry.

It is difficult to pinpoint the exact start of the romantic movement, as its beginnings can be traced to many events of the time: a surge of interest in folklore in the early to mid-nineteenth century with the work of the brothers Grimm, reactions against neoclassicism and the Augustan poets in England, and political events and uprisings that fostered nationalistic pride.

Romantic poets cultivated individualism, reverence for the natural world, idealism, physical and emotional passion, and an interest in the mystic and supernatural. Romantics set themselves in opposition to the order and rationality of classical and neoclassical artistic precepts to embrace freedom and revolution in their art and politics. German romantic poets included Fredrich Schiller and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and British poets such as Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Percy Bysshe Shelley, George Gordon Lord Byron, and John Keats propelled the English romantic movement. Victor Hugo was a noted French romantic poet as well, and romanticism crossed the Atlantic through the work of American poets like Walt Whitman and Edgar Allan Poe. The romantic era produced many of the stereotypes of poets and poetry that exist to this day (i.e., the poet as a tortured and melancholy visionary).

Romantic ideals never died out in poetry, but were largely absorbed into the precepts of many other movements. Traces of romanticism lived on in French symbolism and surrealism and in the work of prominent poets such as Charles Baudelaire and Rainer Maria Rilke.

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

"Creativity, Romanticism - Life, Love, Inspiration, Depth, Heart And Beauty

To many are indeed the majority aspects qualities building blocks of the

foundation of poetry…..In that ocean, one must swim or sink.

Creativity is listed first, as poetry cannot exist without it, imho." RJL



This blog was started back in early November of 2020. I got then very

sick and put the blog on a back burner--now that I have had a few days

to compete it and post it here. I bite the bullet and burned midnight oil

to get it completed…

My first two poems for this new blog were composed back then,

while the third and final poem composed as a tribute was created

this week..

********

"Poetic beauty is born from heart and soul. Its depths sweet sunshine,

romance sets world aglow and on its desserts we are blessed to dine" .. RJL



"Poeticus decor oritur ex corde et anima. Intus suavis sunshine,

suis romance sets orbem terrarum super solitum ardens et demerita ad nos beati dine" ..RJL

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

icansayit, I checked it out. You were dead on the money. So one-sided that it is truly embarrassing. A perfect leftist primarily/liberal set up to glorify only liberal faithful modern poets and the modern forms of poetry that the modern critics praise as golden--which damn sure isn't... Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

On Mythology And Heroes, Part One (Medusa, monster hideous beyond comprehension) - Robert Lindley's Blog
About Robert Lindley(Show Details...)(Show Details...)


Home Past Blogs Poems Photos Fav Poems Fav Poets
On Mythology And Heroes, Part One (Medusa, monster hideous beyond comprehension)
Blog Posted:5/8/2020 6:02:00 PM


On Mythology And Heroes, Part One
(Medusa, monster hideous beyond comprehension)

All is there within Medusa's abhorrent gaze
hiding in black-realms wherein monsters daily graze
beyond that abyss, the roaring of aching screams
from there impossible to see sun's golden beams
pathways, hideous corridors painted with blood
where dead love and dying dreams may forever flood!

Eternal night, chambers of horror and wicked glee
gripping fears that causing its victims to flee
deeper into tangles of that consuming maze
'til desperation stones heart, gifting pain's lost craze
all blades of dark in her evil vicious stare
depths of unmerciful cold- of that icy stare!

Hopelessness, terrors searing into all within
casting stony shadows into hearts of lost men
warriors sent to slay that so cursed to monster be
set as solid stone as they look at her to see
Fate such victims into her monstrous abode cast
evil incarnate, beast that set men's souls aghast!

All is there within Medusa's abhorrent gaze
hiding in black-realms wherein monsters daily graze
beyond that abyss, the roaring of aching screams
from there impossible to see sun's golden beams
pathways, hideous corridors painted with blood
where dead love and dying dreams may forever flood!

Robert J. Lindley, Sept 9th , 2004
presented date- 5-08-2020
Rhyme, ( Part One Of )
(Medusa, monster hideous beyond comprehension)
Topic Greek Mythology and Its Magnificent Heroes.

Note:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medusa

Medusa
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to navigationJump to search
For other uses, see Medusa (disambiguation).
Medusa
Gorgona pushkin.jpg
Classical Greek depiction of Medusa from the fourth century BC
Personal information
Parents Phorcys and Ceto
Siblings The Hesperides, Stheno, Euryale, The Graea, Thoosa, Scylla, and Ladon
Children Pegasus and Chrysaor
Greek mythology
Euboean amphora, c. 550 BCE, depicting the fight between Cadmus and a dragon
Deities
PrimordialTitansOlympiansNymphsSea-deitiesEarth-deities
Heroes and heroism
Heracles / Hercules LaborsAchillesHector Trojan WarOdysseus OdysseyJasonArgonauts Golden FleecePerseus MedusaGorgonOedipus SphinxOrpheus OrphismTheseus MinotaurBellerophon PegasusChimeraDaedalus LabyrinthAtalantaHippomenes Golden appleCadmus ThebesAeneas AeneidTriptolemus Eleusinian MysteriesPelops Ancient Olympic GamesPirithous CentauromachyAmphitryon Teumessian foxNarcissus NarcissismMeleager Calydonian BoarOtrera Amazons
Related
SatyrsCentaursDragonsDemogorgonReligion in Ancient GreeceMycenaean gods
Parthenon from west.jpg Ancient Greece portal
Draig.svg Myths portal
vte
In Greek mythology, Medusa (/m?'dju?z?, -s?/; Μ?δουσα "guardian, protectress")[1] also called Gorgo, was one of the three monstrous Gorgons, generally described as winged human females with living venomous snakes in place of hair. Those who gazed into her eyes would turn to stone. Most sources describe her as the daughter of Phorcys and Ceto,[2] although the author Hyginus makes her the daughter of Gorgon and Ceto.[3] According to Hesiod and Aeschylus, she lived and died on an island named Sarpedon, somewhere near Cisthene. The 2nd-century BCE novelist Dionysios Skytobrachion puts her somewhere in Libya, where Herodotus had said the Berbers originated her myth, as part of their religion.

Medusa was beheaded by the hero Perseus, who thereafter used her head, which retained its ability to turn onlookers to stone, as a weapon[4] until he gave it to the goddess Athena to place on her shield. In classical antiquity the image of the head of Medusa appeared in the evil-averting device known as the Gorgoneion.


The three Gorgon sisters—Medusa, Stheno, and Euryale—were all children of the ancient marine deities Phorcys (or "Phorkys") and his sister Ceto (or "Keto"), chthonic monsters from an archaic world. Their genealogy is shared with other sisters, the Graeae, as in Aeschylus's Prometheus Bound, which places both trinities of sisters far off "on Kisthene's dreadful plain":

Near them their sisters three, the Gorgons, winged
With snakes for hair— hatred of mortal man—

While ancient Greek vase-painters and relief carvers imagined Medusa and her sisters as having monstrous form, sculptors and vase-painters of the fifth century began to envisage her as being beautiful as well as terrifying. In an ode written in 490 BC Pindar already speaks of "fair-cheeked Medusa".[5]

In a late version of the Medusa myth, related by the Roman poet Ovid (Metamorphoses 4.770), Medusa was originally a ravishingly beautiful maiden, "the jealous aspiration of many suitors," but because Poseidon had raped her in Athena's temple, the enraged Athena transformed Medusa's beautiful hair to serpents and made her face so terrible to behold that the mere sight of it would turn onlookers to stone.[6] In Ovid's telling, Perseus describes Medusa's punishment by Minerva (Athena) as just and well earned.


Coins of the reign of Seleucus I Nicator of Syria, (312–280 BC)
In most versions of the story, she was beheaded by the hero Perseus, who was sent to fetch her head by King Polydectes of Seriphus because Polydectes wanted to marry Perseus's mother. The gods were well aware of this, and Perseus received help. He received a mirrored shield from Athena, gold, winged sandals from Hermes, a sword from Hephaestus and Hades's helm of invisibility. Since Medusa was the only one of the three Gorgons who was mortal, Perseus was able to slay her while looking at the reflection from the mirrored shield he received from Athena. During that time, Medusa was pregnant by Poseidon. When Perseus beheaded her, Pegasus, a winged horse, and Chrysaor, a giant wielding a golden sword, sprang from her body.[7]

Jane Ellen Harrison argues that "her potency only begins when her head is severed, and that potency resides in the head; she is in a word a mask with a body later appended... the basis of the Gorgoneion is a cultus object, a ritual mask misunderstood."[8]

In the Odyssey xi, Homer does not specifically mention the Gorgon Medusa:

Lest for my daring Persephone the dread,
From Hades should send up an awful monster's grisly head.


The Medusa's head central to a mosaic floor in a tepidarium of the Roman era. Museum of Sousse, Tunisia
Harrison's translation states "the Gorgon was made out of the terror, not the terror out of the Gorgon."[8]

According to Ovid, in northwest Africa, Perseus flew past the Titan Atlas, who stood holding the sky aloft, and transformed him into stone when he tried to attack him.[9] In a similar manner, the corals of the Red Sea were said to have been formed of Medusa's blood spilled onto seaweed when Perseus laid down the petrifying head beside the shore during his short stay in Ethiopia where he saved and wed his future wife, the lovely princess Andromeda. Furthermore, the poisonous vipers of the Sahara, in the Argonautica 4.1515, Ovid's Metamorphoses 4.770 and Lucan's Pharsalia 9.820, were said to have grown from spilt drops of her blood. The blood of Medusa also spawned the Amphisbaena (a horned dragon-like creature with a snake-headed tail).

Perseus then flew to Seriphos, where his mother was being forced into marriage with the king, Polydectes, who was turned into stone by the head. Then Perseus gave the Gorgon's head to Athena, who placed it on her shield, the Aegis.[10]

Some classical references refer to three Gorgons; Harrison considered that the tripling of Medusa into a trio of sisters was a secondary feature in the myth:

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Blog: How Poets Gift Hope To This All Too Dark World
Blog Posted:10/19/2020 5:19:00 PM
Blog: How Poets Gift Hope To This All Too Dark World

***
(1.)
https://poets.org/poem/ulysses
Ulysses
Alfred Lord Tennyson - 1809-1892

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known—cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all,—
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle,
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me,
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

This poem is in the public domain.

***
(2.)

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)
---- BY EMILY DICKINSON

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

***

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 )