Lenten Poetry Challenge
Saturday Lent Poem 25
The Happiest Day
Edgar Allan Poe 1827
My seared and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.
II. Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
But they have vanished long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been–
But let them pass.
III. And pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may ev’n inherit
The venom thou hast poured on me–
Be still my spirit!
IV. The happiest day–the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see–have ever seen
The brightest glance of pride and power
I feel have been:
V. But were that hope of pride and power
Now offered with the pain
Ev’n _then_ I felt–that brightest hour
I would not live again:
And as it fluttered–fell
An essence–powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.
Friday Lent Poem 24
Ode to Autumn
John Keats 1819
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, –
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Thursday Lent Poem 23
Song: Go and Catch A Falling Star
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil’s foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy’s stinging,
Serves to advance an honest mind.If thou be’st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find’st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
Wednesday Lent Poem 22
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost 1922
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Tuesday Lent Poem 21
The Thought Fox
Ted Hughes 1957
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
A widening deepening greenness,
Coming about its own business
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.