Author: William Wordsworth, Poet Laureat - he gave me permission
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 2017
About this poem:
This is one of the most famous of Lyric Poetry ever written...
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Author: Shakespeare...he gave me permission
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unset
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 2017
About this poem:
Time is one of my most Treasured Assets; so this is an interesting Sonnet that sums it up for me....
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Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 2017
About this poem:
In the earlier sonnets, the poet's main concern was to persuade the youth to marry and reproduce his beauty in the creation of a child. That purpose changes here in Sonnet 17, in which the poet fears that his praise will be remembered merely as a "poet's rage" that falsely gave the youth more beauty than the youth actually possessed, thus expressing an insecurity about his poetic creations that began in the preceding sonnet.
This disparaging tone concerning the sonnets is most evident in line 3, in which the poet characterizes his poetry as a "tomb." Such death imagery is appropriate given the frequent incorporation of time, death, and decay images throughout the first seventeen sonnets. Ironically, the poet, who has been so concerned about the young man's leaving behind a legacy at death to remind others of his priceless beauty, is now worried about his own future reputation. Will his poems be ridiculed by readers who disbelieve the poet's laudatory praise of the young man's beauty? Not, says the poet, if the youth has a child by which people can then compare the poet's descriptions of the youth's beauty to the beauty of the youth's child — now asking the youth to have a child in order to confirm the poet's worthiness.
The sonnet's concluding couplet links s*xual procreation and versification as parallel activities: "But were some child of yours alive that time, / You should live twice — in it and in my rime." The poet's task is an endless struggle against time, whose destructive purpose can only be frustrated by the creation of fresh beauty or art, which holds life suspended.
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Author: Shakespeare - permission granted
Sonnet #22
Posted:
XXII.
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 2017
About this poem:
Forever Young
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Author: Shakespeare - permission granted
Posted:
XXI.
So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 2017
About this poem:
Modern Interpretation..
I’m not like that other poet who writes about a woman who’s pretty because she wears a lot of makeup. In his verses, he compares her to heaven itself, and to every other beautiful thing—the sun and moon, the rich gems of earth and sea, the first flowers of April, and all the rest of the precious things on the face of the earth. Since I really am in love, I just want to write the truth, and when I do, believe me—my lover is as beautiful as any human being, though maybe not as bright as the stars. Whoever actually likes those love-poem clichés can say more; I’m not trying to sell anything, so I won’t waste time with praise
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Author: Davina Yvonne
DEATH is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I, and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy
way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone, wear no forced air of
solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed
together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was,
let it be spoken without effect, without the shadow of a
ghost in it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as
it ever was; there is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near,
just around the corner.....
All is well.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 2017
About this poem:
This is a Fond Rememberance of my dear Mother Davina Yvonne who died at home on April 13, 1998. Aged 76 years. Davina the loving Mother of Susan, Carol and Tom.
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This is a list of worldwide2's Poems. Click here for worldwide2's Poem List
worldwide2 Poetry (6)