Edwin Arlington Robinson
Edwin Arlington Robinson, (born Dec. 22,
1869, Head Tide, Maine, U.S.—died April 6, 1935, New York, N.Y.), American poet
who is best known for his short dramatic poems
concerning the people in a small New England village, Tilbury Town, very
much like the Gardiner, Maine, in which he grew up.
Richard Cory
Richard Cory is a
narrative poem written by Edwin Arlington Robinson. It was first
published in 1897, as part of The Children of the Night, having been completed
in July of that year; and it remains one of Robinson's most popular and
anthologized poems. The poem describes a person who is
wealthy, well educated, mannerly, and admired by the people in his town.
Despite all this, he fatally shoots himself in the head.
La Belle Dame sans Merci
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a fairy’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.
She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
"La Belle Dame sans Merci"
(French for "The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy")
is a ballad written by the English poet John Keats. It exists in two versions,
with minor differences between them. The original was written by Keats in 1819.
He used the title of the 15th-century La Belle Dame sans Mercy by Alain
Chartier, though the plots of the two poems are different.
The poem is considered an English classic, stereotypical
of other of Keats' works. It avoids simplicity of
interpretation despite simplicity of structure. At only a short twelve
stanzas, of only four lines each, with a simple ABCB rhyme scheme, the poem is
nonetheless full of enigmas, and has been the subject of numerous
interpretations.
The Tyger
Tyger
Tyger, burning bright,
In
the forests of the night;
What
immortal hand or eye,
Could
frame thy fearful symmetry?
In
what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt
the fire of thine eyes?
On
what wings dare he aspire?
What
the hand, dare seize the fire?
And
what shoulder, & what art,
Could
twist the sinews of thy heart?
And
when thy heart began to beat,
What
dread hand? & what dread feet?
What
the hammer? what the chain,
In
what furnace was thy brain?
What
the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare
its deadly terrors clasp!
When
the stars threw down their spears
And
water'd heaven with their tears:
Did
he smile his work to see?
Did
he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger
Tyger burning bright,
In
the forests of the night:
What
immortal hand or eye,
Dare
frame thy fearful symmetry?
"The
Tyger" is a poem by the English poet William Blake published in
1794 as part of the Songs of Experience collection. Literary critic Alfred
Kazin calls it "the most famous of his poems", and The Cambridge
Companion to William Blake says it is "the most anthologized poem in
English". It is one of Blake's most reinterpreted and arranged works.
No man is an island
No man is an island entire of itself; every
man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the
main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory
were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of
thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
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