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Poetic Wanderings


Claire
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All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

 

JRR Tolkien

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Blow, Bugle, Blow - by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (first verse)

 

THE splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

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Or, after dark, will dubious women come

To make their children touch a particular stone;

Pick simples for a cancer; or on some

Advised night see walking a dead one?

Power of some sort or other will go on

In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;

But superstition, like belief, must die,

And what remains when disbelief has gone?

Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

 

from 'Churchgoing' by Philip Larkin

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Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

 

John Donne

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How pleasant the salt anesthetic

Of the air and the sand and the sun;

Leave the earth to the strong and athletic,

And the sea to adventure upon.

But the sun and the sand

No contractor can copy;

We lie in the land

Of the lotus and poppy;

We vegetate, calm and aesthetic,

On the beach, on the sand, in the sun.

 

Final verse of 'Pretty Halcyon Days by Ogden Nash

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The charmed sunset lingered low adown

In the red West: through mountain clefts the dale

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down

Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale

And meadow, set with slender galingale;

A land where all things always seemed the same!

And round about the keel with faces pale,

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

 

The Lotos-Eaters - Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Never understood his idiosyncratic spelling of 'lotus' - does anyone know the reason? Is it actually etymologically more accurate?)

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(Never understood his idiosyncratic spelling of 'lotus' - does anyone know the reason? Is it actually etymologically more accurate?)

 

Yes, I think it is a question of etymology. 'Lotos' is the Greek word that changed to 'lotus' in Latin and came to English in that form. I guess that Tennyson was trying to be more authentically Greek.

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Ancient Person, for whom I

All the flattering youth defy,

Long be it e'er thou grow old,

Aching, shaking, crazy cold;

But still continue as thou art,

Ancient Person of my heart.

 

 

From A Song of a Young Lady to Her Ancient Lover

John wilmot, Earl of Rochester

 

Love this poem!! :)

 

He's been here before, but another 'ancient person' from Coleridge:

 

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three.

By thy long beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ?

 

Isn't the pronoun choice strange here? 'It is' rather than 'there is'.

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Isn't the pronoun choice strange here? 'It is' rather than 'there is'.

 

Or He is?

 

Say, is there Beauty yet to find?

And Certainty? and Quiet kind?

Deep meadows yet, for to forget

The lies, and truths, and pain?... oh! yet

Stands the Church clock at ten to three?

And is there honey still for tea?

 

 

Rupert Brooke, The Old Vicarage, Grantchester

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Everyone who made love the night before

was walking around with flashing red lights

on top of their heads-a white-haired old gentlemen,

a red-faced schoolboy, a pregnant woman

who smiled at me from across the street

and gave a little secret shrug,

as if the flashing red light on her head

was a small price to pay for what she knew.

 

Saturday Morning - by Hugo Williams

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Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,

Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt!

From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song,

The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong.

 

Cleared - Rudyard Kipling

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Another by Rudyard Kipling

 

The final chorus from 'The Smugglers' Song' from 'Puck of Pook's Hill'

 

Five-and-twenty ponies,

Trotting through the dark -

Brandy for the Parson,

'Baccy for the Clerk.

Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie -

Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

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Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Do not go gentle - Dylan Thomas

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