I meant to talk about this idea with Saffron, but can't since her computer is down. I'll blunder ahead.

As a "daily poem" feature, I want to post the top 500 poems in English over the last 750 years. This is according to The Columbia Granger's Index to Poetry, which listed the top 500 according to how often they were selected for anthologies. William Harmon then edited a volume of these poems that came out in 1992. The rankings may be slightly outdated by this time, but I would still expect them to be largely accurate. Of course, the date of the book also means that the work of the most recent poets won't be included. But due to to the relative unpopularity of poetry in our time, what we have in this top 500 is definitely the greatest hits of English poetry.

I'll post the poems with the dates of the author, starting with the least anthologized. Maybe I'll include a link or a blurb. Some long poems may need to be spread out over several days, such as "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." If there is discussion, the next poem can be delayed.

See if this feature is something you might enjoy when you log on to Booktalk--a daily poem to read, discuss, or skip if not to your taste--whatever. How long this continues is up to my self-discipline (iffy) and the number of people viewing.

500. Luke Havergal

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, --
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, --
And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some --
Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you trust her she will call.
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal --
Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies --
In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this, --
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, --
Bitter, but one that faith can never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this --
To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
Go, -- for the winds are tearing them away, --
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go! and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal --
Luke Havergal.

--Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)

Splendid idea!!! Thank you for thinking of it and for going to the time and trouble of doing it!

Three cheers for DWill! Horray, horray, horray!

ps. Computer still down, can you guess where I am?

Well, what did you think of "Luke Havergal"? I hadn't thought that name could be very "poetic," but Robinson works it into to the ethereal atmosphere of the poem. This poem has the distinction of being praised by a U.S. president. Theodore Roosevelt actually promoted the volume that "Luke Havergal" came out in. Of the poem, he said that he was less than sure he understood it all, but was certain he liked it. Now that is a good president! Roosevelt shortly afterwards obtained an easy job for the impoverished Robinson in a New York customs house.

499.
William Butler Yeats (1859-1939)

No Second Troy

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great.
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?

dwill, I liked Luke Havergal: very dynamic, very vivid imagery. Motion, action, urgency. Like a splashy paint job.

Thanks for the comment, oblivion. That's the type of comment I think is the most fun to make and read. "Like a splashy paint job" says something about the poem that analysis may miss.

I agree,Oblivion's comment captures the poem well. I definately do not understand it, but like the sounds in the poem -- especially the line:

The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some --

The last few words, "whisper some", made me laugh.

RE: No Second Troy

I read this poem and all I could think was, "boy, somebody caused somebody (Yeats) a whole lot of pain." I know very little about Yeats, however, it seems I was dead on. The following is copied from a website on Yeats.

WBY also finally proposed to Maud Gonne's daughter, Iseult, but she turned him down, too. Yeats did what any smart writer would do, though--he made poetic hay from this unrequited love. "No Second Troy" is only one of quite a few poems that feature her. Gonne wrote an autobiography, which might be very interesting. I wonder if she talks about why she said no to Yeats. Yeats had an idealized notion of womanhood that Gonne must have wanted no part of. He always lamented that she got so enmeshed in revolutionary politics. He wanted her to act the aristocrat as his true feminine hero, Lady Augusta Gregory, did.

The ending allusion in "No second Troy" seems to be to Helen of Troy. But Helen was merely a pawn in that war, so the allusion doesn't exactly work, beyond its dramatic zing.

DW: Did I already say what a swell idea this thread is? Well, it is and I hope you will stay with the project. The best thing about it is, that it makes me read poems that I might not otherwise read; in the same way as Poet's Choice. Which by the way has become somewhat irregular --the past two weeks have been skipped. I am hoping the weeks were just skipped. I hope that it is not something more final responsible for the lack of entries.

I hope the idea works out well. It's easy enough to do. What I like is that, beyond the intrinsic value of the poem, the poem can be a keyhole through which to view the poet and his/her era. I didn't know anything about E.A. Robinson until I became curious after reading his poem.

498.

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS
by: W.B. Yeats (1859-1939)

I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

A beautiful poem, forceful in the first stanzas, quiet and reflective in the last. I love the reflective imagery(both physical in the first stanzas and non-physical in the last: things reflect and glitter. But in the last stanza, he reflects on his life and course of action)--fire, silver, gold, glittering, brightening, flickering, sun moon...

Judy Collins made a beautiful song from this. Maybe you can listen to it if you're interested. I lke Yeats' early poetry sometimes more than I like his late, "great" poetry.
I think an aengus is a mythological figure.

497. (Note: Thompson's stanza form not preserved here. This is a period piece, but shockingly intense for its late Victorian audience.)

The Hound of Heaven

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat -- and a voice beat
More instant than the Feet --
"All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."

I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,
Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.)
But, if one little casement parted wide,
The gust of his approach would clash it to :
Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars ;
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.
I said to Dawn : Be sudden -- to Eve : Be soon ;
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over
From this tremendous Lover--
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see !
I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue ;
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
The long savannahs of the blue ;
Or whether, Thunder-driven,
They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet :--
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
Still with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Came on the following Feet,
And a Voice above their beat--
"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."

I sought no more that after which I strayed,
In face of man or maid ;
But still within the little children's eyes
Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me !
I turned me to them very wistfully ;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
"Come then, ye other children, Nature's -- share
With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship ;
Let me greet you lip to lip,
Let me twine with you caresses,
Wantoning
With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses,
Banqueting
With her in her wind-walled palace,
Underneath her azured daïs,
Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring."
So it was done :
I in their delicate fellowship was one --
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.
I knew all the swift importings
On the wilful face of skies ;
I knew how the clouds arise
Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings ;
All that's born or dies
Rose and drooped with ; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine ;
With them joyed and was bereaven.
I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers
Round the day's dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine ;
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
I laid my own to beat,
And share commingling heat ;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.
For ah ! we know not what each other says,
These things and I ; in sound I speak--
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth ;
Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
The breasts o' her tenderness ;
Never did any milk of hers once bless
My thirsting mouth.
Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
With unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy ;
And past those noisèd Feet
A Voice comes yet more fleet --
"Lo ! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me."

Naked I wait thy Love's uplifted stroke !
My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,
And smitten me to my knee ;
I am defenceless utterly.
I slept, methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me ; grimed with smears,
I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years --
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist ;
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding ; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
Ah ! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount ?
Ah ! must --
Designer infinite !--
Ah ! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it ?
My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust ;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
Such is ; what is to be ?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds ;
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity ;
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again.
But not ere him who summoneth
I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned ;
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
Be dunged with rotten death ?
Now of that long pursuit
Comes on at hand the bruit ;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea :
"And is thy earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard ?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me !
"Strange, piteous, futile thing !
Wherefore should any set thee love apart ?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said),
"And human love needs human meriting :
How hast thou merited --
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot ?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art !
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me ?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home :
Rise, clasp My hand, and come !"
Halts by me that footfall :
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ?
"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest !
seek it in My arms.
All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home :
Rise, clasp My hand, and come !"
Halts by me that footfall :

Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ?
"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest !
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest me."

Francis Thompson, 1859-1907

As you say, very intense. I think you've already chosen the best word to describe this poem. Have you read anything by Felicia Hemens?