I thought our discussion of sonnets today went quite well, and everybody had some insightful comments about the three well-known Shakespearean sonnets we read. I hope you are all finding some sonnets of your own that you like. Here is one of my favorites by John Keats who was so amazing and died so tragically of tuberculosis at only 25:
Bright Star
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon to death.
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon to death.
Plus, here is a good video somebody made from the film Bright Star about Keats, merging audio and video clips from the movie:
"Since I have known you I have little heed"
ReplyDeleteSince I have known you I have little heed
For care or pain or fear. While we two live
Present or absent, we can richly give
Peace to each other. Hearts will run to weed
Like ruined gardens, scanted of love's seed.
Not ours: there sun and rain, restorative,
Awake the flowers; there heavenly smiles forgive
The errors of the rankest growth they breed.
Ah love me ever: pardon every wrong
That makes thy garden look less beautiful,
Even our love my soul should free of tares--
A slothful husbandman, whose idle song
Alas too often leaves the rich soil dull,
Stealing its dues of toil: but love forbears.
-John Barlas
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
ReplyDeleteI love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sigh
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun abd candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning
IV. "Why do I love the silence of the moon"
ReplyDeleteBy John Barlas
(pseud. Evelyn Douglas)
1889
Why do I love the silence of the moon,
The paradisal distance of the dawn,
The depth of eve mysteriously withdrawn,
Better than all the roses of late June,
The garden's breath, the orchard's golden boon,
The burning brightness of the new-mown lawn,
The mossy forest-floor with beech-mast strawn,
And green trees waving in the depth of noon.
Night hath her dreams and the lone heart its tears;
Silence and longing weep themselves to rest
Each on the other's mild and maiden breast;
The seeking spirit sighs, the dim star hears;
Distance and high devotion suit the best,
And deep as thy deep eyes the dawn appears.
From Amoretti
ReplyDeleteEdmund Spenser (c. 1552-1599)
What guile is this, that those her golden tresses
She doth attire under a net of gold;
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,
That which is gold or hair, may scarce be told?
Is it that men’s frail eyes, which gaze too bold,
She may entangle in that golden snare;
And being caught may craftily enfold
Their weaker hearts, which are not yet well aware?
Take heed therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net,
In which if ever ye entrapped are,
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.
Folly it were for any being free,
To covet fetters, though they golden be.
Sadie said...
ReplyDeleteSonnet - November.
By William Cullen Bryant
Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun,
One mellow smile through the soft vapory air,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadow bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue Gentian flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in the ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will rty to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.
What's up mr. pace it's sasquatch
ReplyDelete