My Favorite Poems

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Tags: poetry


To improve my own poems, I read the masters. Here are selections from those poems which I find most inspiring and noteworthy.


The Favorites

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

(1517–1547). Wikipedia.

Give Place, Ye Lovers. GPEL pg 20.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

(1828-1882). Wikipedia.

Sonnet X: The Portrait.
That he who seeks her beauty's furthest goal,
Beyond the light that the sweet glances throw
And refluent wave of the sweet smile, may know
The very sky and sea-line of her soul.

Sir Philip Sydney

(1554-1586). Wikipedia.

Doubt You to Whom My Muse. GPEL pg 43. Originally from Astrophel and Stella. This is beautiful; I’d love to hear it set to music.
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth?
    To you! to you! all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.

William Shakespeare


The Tempest (4.1). GPEL pg 63.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
The Tempest (5.1). GPEL pg 63.
Where the bee sucks, there suck I
In a cowslip's bell I lie
Measure for Measure (2.2). GPEL pg 64.
    But man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd,
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep.
Measure for Measure (3.1). GPEL pg 64.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world; or to be worse than worst
Of those that lawless and incertain thought
Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury and imprisonment
Can lay on nature is a paradise
To what we fear of death.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1.1). GPEL pg 67.
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!'
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.
Henry V (4.3). GPEL pg 79.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
Sonnet 76. GPEL pg 108.
Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
    For as the sun is daily new and old,
    So is my love still telling what is told.

George Turberville

(c. 1540-c. 1597). Wikipedia.

The Lover to His Lady. GPEL pg 21. In full.
My Girl, thou gazest much
Upon the golden skies:
Would I were Heaven, I would behold
Thee then with all mine eyes.

Sir Thomas Wyatt

(1503-1542). Wikipedia.

Blame Not My Lute. GPEL pg 24.

Christopher Smart


This cat-centric section from Jubilate Agno.

Ben Jonson


On the Portrait of Shakespeare. GPEL pg 127. In full.
    This figure that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut,
Wherein the graver had a strife
With Nature, to outdo the life.
    Oh, could he but have drawn his wit
As well in brass, as he has hit
His face, the print would then surpass
All that was ever writ in brass.
    But since he cannot, reader, look
Not on his picture, but his book.
A Celebration of Charis, Part 4: The Triumph. GPEL pg 127. [The version at Poetry Foundation differs slightly from the one given in GPEL; I’m quoting the latter.]
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
    Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you mark'd but the fall of snow
    Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
    Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt of the bud of the brier,
    Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
Song–To Celia. GPEL pg 130. In full.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
    And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
    And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
    Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
    I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
    Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
    It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
    And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows and smells, I swear,
    Not of itself, but thee.

William Shenstone

Written at an Inn in Henley. GPEL pg 283.
Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,
  Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
  The warmest welcome, at an inn.

Karle Wilson Baker

Days. GPEL pg 1264. In full.
Some days my thoughts are just cocoons—all cold, and dull,
    and blind,
They hang from dripping branches in the gray woods of my
And other days they drift and shine—such free and flying
I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.

William Blake

To the Muses. GPEL pg 332. Stanza 4.
How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few!

G. K. Chesterton

A Ballade of Suicide. Cited from The Society of Gilbert Keith Chesterton.
The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours–on the wall–
Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!”
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay–
My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall–
I see a little cloud all pink and grey–
Perhaps the rector’s mother will not call–
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way–
I never read the works of Juvenal–
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational–
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small–
I think I will not hang myself to-day.


Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Robert Frost


Putting In The Seed. I know it from the collection Mountain Interval.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. It wasn’t until I read HDPM that I noticed how the rhyme in the third line in each stanza becomes the main rhyme for the next stanza.

Charles Lamb

Hester. GPEL pg 486.
My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
        Some summer morning.

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
        A sweet forewarning?

Joseph Blanco White

To Night. GPEL pg 487. In full.
Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! creation widened on man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!
    Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife?—
    If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?

Thomas Moore

As Slow Our Ship. GPEL pg 494.

Thomas Love Peacock

The War Song of Dinas Vawr. GPEL pg 498. Stanzas 1, 3.
The mountain sheep are sweeter,
The valley sheep are fatter;
We therefore deemed it meeter
To carry off the latter.
We made an expedition;
We met a host and quelled it;
We forced a strong position,
And killed the men who held it.


He fled to his hall-pillars;
And, ere our force we led off,
Some sacked his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off.

Lord Byron

She Walks in Beauty. GPEL pg 501.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

One Hour With Thee. GPEL pg 443. Originally from Woodstock.

William Wordsworth

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge (September 3, 1802). GPEL pg 386. In full.
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey. GPEL pg 371. In full. This is the unedited, original 1789 text, as presented by Prospero’s Isle1; I’ve copied it out here in full as a precaution against that website being unavailable2.
Five years have passed; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms
Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit’s cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.
                                   Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration:—feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,
As may have had no trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man’s life;
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lighten’d:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
                                              If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguish’d thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led; more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by,)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite: a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: other gifts
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
                                    Nor, perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb
Our chearful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee: and in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,
If I should be, where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.

Resolution and Independence. William Wordsworth. GPEL pg 382.

Samuel Rogers

A Wish. GPEL pg 360.
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Robert Browning


A Toccata of Galuppi’s. GPEL pg 844.

A Grammarian’s Funeral. GPEL pg 853. Excellent polysyllabic rhyming.

Here’s an SMBC comic about Robert Browning.

Walter Savage Landor


Death. GPEL pg 478. In full.
Death stands above me, whispering low
    I know not what into my ear;
Of his strange language, all I know
    Is, there is not a word of fear.
Twenty Years Hence. GPEL pg 479.
Twenty years hence my eyes may grow,
If not quite dim, yet rather so,
Yet yours from others they shall know
                Twenty years hence.
Resignation. GPEL pg 481.
I see the rainbow in the sky,
  The dew upon the grass,
I see them, and I ask not why
  They glimmer or they pass.
Separation. GPEL pg 481. In full.
There is a mountain and a wood between us,
    Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen us
Morning and noon and eventide repass.
Between us now the mountain and the wood
Seem standing darker than last year they stood,
    And say we must not cross—alas! alas!
Plays. GPEL pg 482. In full.
How soon, alas, the hours are over,
Counted us out to play the lover!
And how much narrower is the stage,
Allotted us to play the sage!
But when we play the fool, how wide
The theatre expands; beside,
How long the audience sits before us!
How many prompters! what a chorus!

Robert W. Service

The Men That Don’t Fit In. Source here. In full.
There's a race of men that don't fit in,
    A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
    And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
    And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
    And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
    They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
    And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
    What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
    Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
    With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
    Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
    Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
    In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
    He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
    And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
    He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
    He's a man who won't fit in.

Matthew Arnold


Epilogue To Lessing’s Laocooen.
"Behold at last the poet's sphere.
But who," I said, "suffices here?

"For, ah! so much has he to do;
Be painter and musician too!
The aspect of the moment show,
The feeling of the moment know!
The aspect not, I grant, express
Clear as the painter's art can dress;
The feeling not, I grant, explore
So deep as the musician's lore—
But clear as words can make revealing,
And deep as words can follow feeling.
But, ah! then comes his sorest spell
Of toil—he must life's movement tell!
The thread which binds it all in one
And not its separate parts alone.
The movement he must tell of life
Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife;
His eye must travel down, at full,
The long, unpausing spectacle;"
The World’s Triumphs. GPEL pg 909. In full.
So far as I conceive the world's rebuke
To him address'd who would recast her new,
Not from herself her fame of strength she took,
But from their weakness who would work her rue.

"Behold," she cries, "so many rages lull'd,
So many fiery spirits quite cool'd down;
Look how so many valours, long undull'd,
After short commerce with me, fear my frown!

Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry,
Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue!"—
The world speaks well; yet might her foe reply:
"Are wills so weak?—then let not mine wait long!

Hast thou so rare a poison?—let me be
Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me!"

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Stanzas Written in Dejection, Near Naples. GPEL pg 558. Stanzas 2 and 3.
    I saw the Deep's untrampled floor
    With green and purple seaweeds strown;
  I see the waves upon the shore,
    Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown;
    I sit upon the sands alone,—
  The lightning of the noontide ocean
    Is flashing around me, and a tone
    Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

    Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
    Nor peace within nor calm around,
  Nor that content surpassing wealth
    The sage in meditation found
    And walked with inward glory crowned—
  Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
    Others I see whom these surround—
  Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;—
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Felicia Dorothea Hemans

The Graves of a Household. GPEL pg 592.

William Cullen Bryant

To a Waterfowl. GPEL pg 597. Stanza 2.
    Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
    Thy figure floats along.

Stanislaw Lem

This is from Michael Kandel’s English translation of Lem’s masterful Cyberiad.

Klapaucius thought, and thought some more. Finally he nodded and said:

“Very well. Let’s have a love poem, lyrical, pastoral, and expressed in the language of pure mathematics. Tensor algebra mainly, with a little topology and higher calculus, if need be. But with feeling, you understand, and in the cybernetic spirit.”

“Love and tensor algebra? Have you taken leave of your senses?” Trurl began, but stopped, for his electronic bard was already declaiming:
Come, let us hasten to a higher plane,
Where dyads tread the fairy fields of Venn,
Their indices bedecked from one to n,
Commingled in an endless Markov chain!

Come, every frustum longs to be a cone,
And every vector dreams of matrices.
Hark to the gentle gradient of the breeze:
It whispers of a more ergodic zone.

In Riemann, Hilbert, or in Banach space
Let superscripts and subscripts go their ways.
Our asymptotes no longer out of phase,
We shall encounter, counting, face to face.

I'll grant thee random access to my heart,
Thou'lt tell me all the constants of thy love;
And so we two shall all love's lemmas prove,
And in our bound partition never part.

For what did Cauchy know, or Christoffel,
Or Fourier, or any Boole or Euler,
Wielding their compasses, their pens and rulers,
Of thy supernal sinusoidal spell?

Cancel me not — for what then shall remain?
Abscissas, some mantissas, modules, modes,
A root or two, a torus and a node:
The inverse of my verse, a null domain.

Ellipse of bliss, converge, O lips divine!
The product of our scalars is defined!
Cyberiad draws nigh, and the skew mind
Cuts capers like a happy haversine.

I see the eigenvalue in thine eye,
I hear the tender tensor in thy sigh.
Bernoulli would have been content to die,
Had he but known such a^2 cos 2phi

John Keats

The Eve of St. Agnes. GPEL pg 607.

Ode on a Grecian Urn. GPEL pg 619. Stanza 4.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or by sea-shore,
    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
        Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
Sonnet. GPEL pg 625. In full.
When I have fears that I may cease to be
    Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
    Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
    Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
    That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
    Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Thomas Hood

The Song of the Shirt. GPEL pg 631. Stanzas 4 and 6.
"O men with sisters dear!
    O men with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
    But human creatures' lives!
    In poverty, hunger, and dirt,—
Sewing at once with a double thread,
    A shroud as well as a shirt!


    My labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
    A crust of bread—and rags.
That shattered roof—and this naked floor—
    A table—a broken chair—
And a wall so blank my shadow I thank
    For sometimes falling there!

Edward Coate Pinkney

A Health. GPEL pg 645. Stanza 2. I especially like the last two lines of this stanza.
Her every tone is music's own,
    Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
    Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
    And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burdened bee
    Forth issue from the rose.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Friendship. GPEL pg 681. In full.
A ruddy drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs,
The world uncertain comes and goes;
The lover rooted stays.
I fancied he was fled,—
And, after many a year,
Glowed unexhausted kindliness,
Like daily sunrise there.
My careful heart was free again,
O friend, my bosom said,
Through thee alone the sky is arched,
Through thee the rose is red;
All things through thee take nobler form,
And look beyond the earth,
The mill-round of our fate appears
A sun-path in thy worth.
Me too thy nobleness has thought
To master my despair;
The fountains of my hidden life
Are through my friendship fair.

Charles Fenno Hoffman

Monterey. GPEL pg 694.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Maidenhood. GPEL pg 696.
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered;—
Age, that bough with snow encumbered.

Belfry of Bruges. GPEL pg 699.

Arthur Hugh Clough

Say Not, the Struggle Not Availeth. GPEL pg 874.

Where Lies the Land. GPEL pg 876.

John Barbour

(c. 1320-1395). Wikipedia.

Freedom. GPEL pg 13.
A! Fredome is a noble thing!
Fredome mayse man to half liking;
Fredome all solace to man giffis,
He livis at ese that frely livis!
A noble hart may haif nane ese,
Na ellys nocht that may him plese,
Gif fredome fail'th; for fre liking
Is yharnit ouer all othir thing.

William Morris

The Haystack in the Floods. HDPM pg 716.

Leight Hunt

The Glove and the Lions. HDPM pg 741.

Emily Dickinson

A Narrow Fellow in the Grass. HDPM pg 798. In full. Certainly in my top 5. “It wrinkled, and was gone” absolutely floored me when I first read this.

A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides.
You may have met him – did you not?
His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a boy, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip lash
Unbraiding in the sun,–
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And Zero at the Bone.

W. H. Auden

In Memory of W. B. Yeats. HDPM pg 830-831.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom;
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

Henry Reed

Naming of Parts. HDPM pg 832-833.

Stephen Crane

I Saw a Man. HDPM pg 892. In full.

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
"You can never–"
"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.

The Book of Wisdom. HDPM pg 893. In full.

I met a seer.
He held a book in his hands,
The book of wisdom.
"Sir," I addressed him,
"Let me read."
"Child–" he began.
"Sir," I said,
"Think not that I am a child,
For already I know much
Of that which you hold;
Aye, much."

He smiled.
Then he opened the book
And held it before me.
Strange that I should have grown
    so suddenly blind.

T. S. Eliot

The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock. The excerpt at the beginning, from Inferno, means, If I thought that my reply were given to anyone who might return to the world, this flame would stand forever still; but since never from this deep place has anyone returned alive, if what I hear is true, without fear of infamy I answer thee.

  1. With one alteration: I’ve substituted blank space for the ugly underscored lines – sometimes headed by dangling apostrophes – which began most of the stanzas. I see no point in preserving those.

  2. There are many other resources I ought to copy to this website for the same reason.