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The Romantic Poets
John Keats, George Gordon Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Blake
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eBook - ePub
The Romantic Poets
John Keats, George Gordon Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Blake
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Feelings come alive through the words of the Romantic poets. Romanticism gained traction in the late 1700s as writers moved away from the intellectualism of the Enlightenment and toward more emotional and natural themes. The major works of the movement'ssix most famous poetsâWilliam Wordsworth, George Gordon Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, John Keats, and William Blakeâare represented in this handsome Word Cloud Classics volume, The Romantic Poets. One of the largest and most influential artistic movements in history, Romanticism valued intuition and pastoralism, and its themes are well represented in the verse of its stars.
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Sujet
LiteraturSous-sujet
EuropÀische PoesiePERCY BYSSHE
SHELLEY
The Retrospect
_________
CWM ELAN, 1812
To trace Durationâs lone career,
To check the chariot of the year,
Whose burning wheels forever sweep
The boundaries of oblivionâs deep âŠ
To snatch from Time, the monsterâs, jaw
The children which she just had borne
And, ere entombed within her maw,
To drag them to the light of morn
And mark each feature with an eye
Of cold and fearless scrutiny âŠ
It asks a soul not formed to feel,
An eye of glass, a hand of steel,
Thoughts that have passed, and thoughts that are.
With truth and feeling to compare;
A scene which wildered fancy viewed
In the soulâs coldest solitude,
With that same scene when peaceful love
Flings raptureâs colour oâer the grove,
When mountain, meadow, wood and stream
With unalloying glory gleam
And to the spiritâs ear and eye
Are unison and harmony.
The moonlight was my dearer day:â
Then would I wander far away
And lingering on the wild brookâs shore
To hear its unremitting roar,
Would lose in the ideal flow
All sense of overwhelming woe;
Or at the noiseless noon of night
Would climb some heathy mountainâs height
And listen to the mystic sound
That stole in fitful gasps around.
I joyed to see the streaks of day
Above the purple peaks decay
And watch the latest line of light
Just mingling with the shades of night;
For day with me, was time of woe
When even tears refused to flow;
Then would I stretch my languid frame
Beneath the wild-woodsâ gloomiest shade
And try to quench the ceaseless flame
That on my withered vitals preyed;
Would close mine eyes and dream I were
On some remote and friendless plain
And long to leave existence there
If with it I might leave the pain
That with a finger cold and lean
Wrote madness on my withering mien.
It was not unrequited love
That bade my wildered spirit rove;
âTwas not the pride, disdaining life,
That with this mortal world at strife
Would yield to the soulâs inward sense,
Then groan in human impotence,
And weep, because it is not given
To taste on Earth the peace of Heaven.
âTwas not, that in the narrow sphere
Where Nature fixed my wayward fate
There was no friend or kindred dear
Formed to become that spiritâs mate,
Which, searching on tired pinion, found
Barren and cold repulse around âŠ
Ah no! yet each one sorrow gave
New graces to the narrow grave:
For broken vows had early quelled
The stainless spiritâs vestal flame.
Yes! whilst the faithful bosom swelled,
Then the envenomed arrow came
And apathyâs unaltering eye
Beamed coldness on the misery;
And early I had learned to scorn
The chains of clay that bound a soul
Panting to seize the wings of morn,
And where its vital fires were born
To soar, and spurn the cold control
Which the vile slaves of earthly night
Would twine around its struggling flight.
O, many were the friends whom fame
Had linked with the unmeaning name
Whose magic marked among mankind
The casket of my unknown mind.
Which hidden from the vulgar glare
Imbibed no fleeting radiance there.
My darksome spirit sought. It found
A friendless solitude around,â
For who, that might undaunted stand
The saviour of a sinking land,
Would crawl, its ruthless tyrantâs slave,
And fatten upon freedomâs grave,
Though doomed with her to perish where
The captive clasps abhorred despair.
They could not share the bosomâs feeling.
Which, passionâs every throb revealing,
Dared force on the worldâs notice cold
Thoughts of unprofitable mould,
Who bask in Customâs fickle ray,â
Fit sunshine of such wintry day!
They could not in a twilight walk
Weave an impassioned web of talk
Till mysteries the spirit press
In wild yet tender awfulness,
Then feel within our narrow sphere
How little yet how great we are!
But they might shine in courtly glare,
Attract the rabbleâs cheapest stare,
And might command whereâer they move
A thing that bears the name of love;
They might be learned, witty, gay,
Foremost in fashionâs gilt array,
On Fameâs emblazoned pages shine,
Be princesâ friends, but never mine!
Ye jagged peaks that frown sublime,
Mocking the blunted scythe of Time,
Whence I would watch its lustre pale
Steal from the moon oâer yonder vale!
Thou rock, whose bosom black and vast
Bared to the streamâs unceasing flow,
Ever its giant shade doth cast
On the tumultuous surge below!
Woods, to whose depth retires to die
The wou...