Ode to the West Wind and Ode on a Gracian Urn?
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Ode to the West Wind\nP. B. Shelley\n\nO WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being—  \nThou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead  \nAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,  \nYellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,  \nPestilence-stricken multitudes!—O thou \nWho chariotest to their dark wintry bed  \nThe wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,  \nEach like a corpse within its grave, until  \nThine azure sister of the Spring shall blow  \nHer clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill \n(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)  \nWith living hues and odours plain and hill—  \nWild Spirit, which art moving everywhere—  \nDestroyer and Preserver—hear, O hear!  \n   \nThou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, \nLoose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,  \nShook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,  \nAngels of rain and lightning! they are spread  \nOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,  \nLike the bright hair uplifted from the head \nOf some fierce Mænad, ev'n from the dim verge  \nOf the horizon to the zenith's height—  \nThe locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge  \nOf the dying year, to which this closing night  \nWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,   \nVaulted with all thy congregated might  \nOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphere  \nBlack rain, and fire, and hail will burst:—O hear!  \n   \nThou who didst waken from his summer-dreams  \nThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,   \nLull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,  \nBeside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,  \nAnd saw in sleep old palaces and towers  \nQuivering within the wave's intenser day,  \nAll overgrown with azure moss, and flowers   \nSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou  \nFor whose path the Atlantic's level powers  \nCleave themselves into chasms, while far below  \nThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear  \nThe sapless foliage of the ocean, know \nThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear  \nAnd tremble and despoil themselves:—O hear!  \n   \nIf I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;  \nIf I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;  \nA wave to pant beneath thy power, and share \nThe impulse of thy strength, only less free  \nThan thou, O uncontrollable!—if even  \nI were as in my boyhood, and could be  \nThe comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,  \nAs then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed   \nScarce seem'd a vision,—I would ne'er have striven  \nAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.  \nO lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!  \nI fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!  \nA heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd   \nOne too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.  \n   \nMake me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:  \nWhat if my leaves are falling like its own!  \nThe tumult of thy mighty harmonies  \nWill take from both a deep autumnal tone, \nSweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,  \nMy spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!  \nDrive my dead thoughts over the universe,  \nLike wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;  \nAnd, by the incantation of this verse, \nScatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth  \nAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!  \nBe through my lips to unawaken'd earth  \nThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,  \nIf Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? \n\n\nOde on a Grecian Urn \nJohn Keats (1795–1821).  \n\nTHOU still unravish’d bride of quietness,  \nThou foster-child of silence and slow time,  \nSylvan historian, who canst thus express  \nA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:  \nWhat leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape          \nOf deities or mortals, or of both,  \nIn Tempe or the dales of Arcady?  \nWhat men or gods are these? What maidens loth?  \nWhat mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?  \nWhat pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?         \n  \nHeard melodies are sweet, but those unheard  \nAre sweeter; the
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He has certainly written a lot of poems that are timeless - we still read them and study them.  His poems are much easier to understand and appreciate than the work of some other poets of his day.   I like the rhythm of his poetry and the strong feelings he often expresses.  In many of his poems he is remembering past times, a bit of nostalgia that we all like to do from time to time, though most of us cannot express it as beautifully as he could.  Some of  my favorites are The Solitary Reaper and I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud and Upon Westminster Bridge.
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Nice poem!!!! can I quote?
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here you'll find analysis of this poem\n\nhttp://oldpoetry.com/ocomment/by/AndrewHide\n\nhttp://oldpoetry.com/opoem/\n\nhttp://palc.sd40.bc.ca/palc/classes/assignments.htm
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Poe wrote on both. Otherwise.... \n\n(http://www.straightdope.com/classics/a5_266.html )
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Its not really a soliloquy, but\n\nJULIET appears above at a window\n\nBut, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun.\nArise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she:\nBe not her maid, since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O, it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?\nHer eye discourses; I will answer it.\nI am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!\nO, that I were a glove upon that hand,\nThat I might touch that cheek!\n\nJULIET \nAy me!\n\nROMEO \nShe speaks:\nO, speak again, bright angel! for thou art\nAs glorious to this night, being o'er my head\nAs is a winged messenger of heaven\nUnto the white-upturned wondering eyes\nOf mortals that fall back to gaze on him\nWhen he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds\nAnd sails upon the bosom of the air.\n\nJULIET \nO Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?\nDeny thy father and refuse thy name;\nOr, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,\nAnd I'll no longer be a Capulet.\n\nROMEO \n[Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?\n\nJULIET \n'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;\nThou art thyself, though not a Montague.\nWhat's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,\nNor arm, nor face, nor any other part\nBelonging to a man. O, be some other name!\nWhat's in a name? that which we call a rose\nBy any other name would smell as sweet;\nSo Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,\nRetain that dear perfection which he owes\nWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,\nAnd for that name which is no part of thee\nTake all myself.\n\nROMEO \nI take thee at thy word:\nCall me but love, and I'll be new baptized;\nHenceforth I never will be Romeo.\n\nJULIET \nWhat man art thou that thus bescreen'd in night\nSo stumblest on my counsel?\n\nROMEO \nBy a name\nI know not how to tell thee who I am:\nMy name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,\nBecause it is an enemy to thee;\nHad I it written, I would tear the word.\n\nJULIET \nMy ears have not yet drunk a hundred words\nOf that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound:\nArt thou not Romeo and a Montague?\n\nROMEO \nNeither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.\n\nJULIET \nHow camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?\nThe orchard walls are high and hard to climb,\nAnd the place death, considering who thou art,\nIf any of my kinsmen find thee here.\n\nROMEO \nWith love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;\nFor stony limits cannot hold love out,\nAnd what love can do that dares love attempt;\nTherefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.\n\nJULIET \nIf they do see thee, they will murder thee.\n\nROMEO \nAlack, there lies more peril in thine eye\nThan twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,\nAnd I am proof against their enmity.\n\nJULIET \nI would not for the world they saw thee here.\n\nROMEO \nI have night's cloak to hide me from their sight;\nAnd but thou love me, let them find me here:\nMy life were better ended by their hate,\nThan death prorogued, wanting of thy love.
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It is actually from a Lord Alfred Tennyson poem who was England's Poet Laureate after Wordsworth. \n\nFrom Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem 'In Memoriam:27', 1850:\n\n    I hold it true, whate'er befall;\n    I feel it, when I sorrow most;\n    'Tis better to have loved and lost\n    Than never to have loved at all.\n\n\nTennyson married, but I guess that doesn't give us a clear indication if he ever actually found love.
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its the rhythm of the poem
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if u can type the poem i cn help
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Poet                   "Poem"\nWilliam Blake          "A Divine Image"\nEdmund Spenser         "My Love Is Like To Ice"\nJohn Donne             "Death Be Not Proud"\nLady Mary Chudleigh    "To The Ladies"\nWilliam Wordsworth     "I Wanddered Lonely As A Cloud"\nJohn Mccrae            "In Flanders Field"\nF.R. Scott             "Calamity"\nX.J. Kennedy           "Nude Descending A Staircase"
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the poem or the phrase?  Please explain in more detail.
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Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori - Horace wrote it, not Homer (this one was Greek). It's a line of Horace's "Odes", and it means: it's sweet and appropriate to die for one's homeland!
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click here:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ulysses_%28poem%29
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This is a beautiful poem about losing a loved one..\n\nWhen I'm gone from your side, \nAnd all your tears have been dried ...\n\nDo not stand at my grave and weep, \n\nI am not there, I do not sleep.\n\n\n\n\nI am a thousand winds that blow;\n\nI am the diamond glints on snow;\n\nI am the sunlight on ripened grain; \n\nI am the gentle autumn's rain.\n\n\n\n\nWhen you awaken in the morning hush, \n\nI am the swift uplifting rush \n\nOf quiet birds in circled flight.\n\nI am the soft star that shines at night.\n\n\n\n\nAnd when you stroll in the evening hours, \n\nAnd smell the aroma of beautiful flowers;\n\nThere'll be no need to sob and cry ...\n\nI am not there, I did not die!\n\n\n~ Author Unknown ~
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poem by Mary E. Frye: \n\nDo not stand at my grave and weep \nI am not there. I do not sleep. \nI am a thousand winds that blow \nI am the diamond glints on snow. \nI am the sunlight on ripened grain \nI am the gentle autumn rain. \nWhen you awaken in the morning's hush, \nI am the swift uplifting rush \nOf quiet birds in circled flight. \nI am the soft stars that shine at night. \nDo not stand at my grave and cry. \nI am not there: I did not die \n\nthe singer name is lizzie west
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SONNET 29 PARAPHRASE \nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, When I've run out of luck and people look down on me, \nI all alone beweep my outcast state All alone I lament my fate as an outcast* \nAnd trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries And pray to heaven but my cries go unheard \nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate, And look at myself, cursing my fate, \nWishing me like to one more rich in hope, Wishing I were like one* who had more hope in life \nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Wishing I looked like him; wishing I were surrounded by friends, \nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope, I desire this man's art and that man's range*, \nWith what I most enjoy contented least; I am least contented with what I used to enjoy most. \nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising, But in this mood almost despising myself, \nHaply I think on thee, and then my state, I think of you and then my state of sadness \nLike to the lark at break of day arising Like the lark at the break of day, rises \nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; From the gloomy earth and I sing hyms to heaven; \nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings For thinking of your love brings such happiness to mind \nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings. That then I would not change my state with kings.
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Yes, it is John Donne indeed. This is the poem:\nJohn Donne\nMeditation 17\nNunc lento sonitu dicunt, Morieris.\n(Now this bell tolling softly for another,\nsays to me, Thou must die.)\n\n\n\nPerchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill as that he knows not it\ntolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as\nthat they who are about me and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me,\nand I know not that. The church is catholic, universal, so are all her actions;\nall that she does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action\nconcerns me, for that child is thereby connected to that head which is my head\ntoo, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a\nman, that action concerns me. All mankind is of one author and is one volume;\nwhen one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into\na better language, and every chapter must be so translated. God employs several\ntranslators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war,\nsome by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind\nup all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie\nopen to one another. As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon\nthe preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all;\nbut how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness.\nThere was a contention as far as a suit (in which piety and dignity, religion\nand estimation, were mingled) which of the religious orders should ring to\nprayers first in the morning; and it was determined that they should ring first\nthat rose earliest. If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls\nfor our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in\nthat application, that it might be ours as well as his whose indeed it is. The\nbell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet\nfrom that minute that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. Who\ncasts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? But who takes off his eye from a\ncomet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any\noccasion rings? But who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of\nhimself out of this world? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a\npiece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea,\nEurope is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of\nthy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me because I am\ninvolved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;\nit tolls for thee. . . .\nfrom Meditation 17\nby John Donne