WOW, WOW, WOW about the Shakespere sonnet. That really hits home with me as we are about to celebrate our 50th. How beautiful it is. Not exactly our story but now, at my present age it resonates strongly

3. "To Autumn," by John Keats. I included a note appended to the poem I copied. Harmon is the editor of the Top 500, the 1992 book from which of course all these poems are taken. I wonder how he determined in 1998 that "To Autumn" was no. 1. Anyway, I wouldn't argue if it was, because I like it more than Blake's "The Tyger." This was the last, in order of composition, of the five great odes. Keats had an amazingly fertile year in 1819, just before becoming seriously ill with tuberculosis. This poem seems to exist for its own sake and not to prove anything or assert anything, but it does have a role in culminating Keats' thinking about process, which includes but is not the same as death. This to me is one of the best love poems in the language.

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-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d 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’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

2.

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-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d 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 cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

3.

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 red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


# Harmon lists To Autumn as the most anthologized poem in the English language. It was written on September 19, 1819, and published the following year. To Autumn can be found in: Keats, John. Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems. London: Talor and Hessey, 1820. (as found in the Noel Douglas replica edition printed by London: Percy Lund, Humphries & Co. Ltd., 1927.)
# Harmon, William, ed. The Classic Hundred Poems (Second Edition). New York: Columbia University Press, 1998.

DWill wrote:3. "To Autumn," by John Keats.

Good Friday is a pleasant day to read great poetry. I will comment on this poem by Keats as I read it for the first time.

I included a note appended to the poem I copied. Harmon is the editor of the Top 500, the 1992 book from which of course all these poems are taken. I wonder how he determined in 1998 that "To Autumn" was no. 1. Anyway, I wouldn't argue if it was, because I like it more than Blake's "The Tyger." This was the last, in order of composition, of the five great odes. Keats had an amazingly fertile year in 1819, just before becoming seriously ill with tuberculosis. This poem seems to exist for its own sake and not to prove anything or assert anything, but it does have a role in culminating Keats' thinking about process, which includes but is not the same as death. This to me is one of the best love poems in the language.

Thanks DWill, we are now in the home stretch of the top ten. Your comment about Keats' interest in process as more than death points to the interplay of life and death

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Oh, this is a famous line. Autumn comes after summer, with the heat of growing now moving toward the cool of winter. We are in autumn now in Australia, with the deciduous oaks red in leaf and fertile harvest after a wet summer.

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

The sun has an annual life, born in spring, full in summer, old in autumn and dead in winter.

Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d 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’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

All the natural results of summer growth come to the full in autumn, as the plant grows its seed for new life.

2.

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-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d 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 cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Autumn is personified, sitting carelessly on a granary floor. The opium drug of the romantics makes its appearance as the poppy loses its flower and swells to give its juice. The patient gleaning of autumn harvest.

3.

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 red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Autumn rivals spring, just as John rivals Christ. From John 3, 'you rise, I fall'. The music of fall is the maturity of the new life from spring. The September equinox when the tropical zodiac moves from Virgo to Libra has now moved in the sky to early Virgo. We see in the night sky the stars of the September sun, with Saturn in the middle of the virgin. Keats offers a hymn to the natural cycle of the year, celebrating the cornucopia of harvest. The lamb is ready for slaughter, and the pumpkin is ripe, ready for the hallowed evening and thanksgiving. The birds are ready to fly south for winter.

# Harmon lists To Autumn as the most anthologized poem in the English language. It was written on September 19, 1819, and published the following year. To Autumn can be found in: Keats, John. Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems. London: Talor and Hessey, 1820. (as found in the Noel Douglas replica edition printed by London: Percy Lund, Humphries & Co. Ltd., 1927.)
# Harmon, William, ed. The Classic Hundred Poems (Second Edition). New York: Columbia University Press, 1998.

Ode To Autumn - by John Keats

This is one of the poems which I 'chose' to learn by heart, rather than being instructed to do so.

I just love it.....but really because it conjurs up the joys of middle to old age.

I feel as though I have reached a season of misty, mellow fruitfulness....

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun

As I've grown older I often feel I have learned how to access the joy in life, and combat melancholy. But the maturing sun, is different in nature than the hot sun of summer......and the joys of maturity are different from the joys of youth.....

I have liked growing older.....and I would not have liked to have missed it for anything.....which John Keats did....so I know what a privilidge it is.

I have "Nightingale" by heart, but not this one. This one is at least as good. The personification of Autumn must be the best that anyone has done with that device.

2. "Sir Patrick Spens," Anonymous. We can probably explain the placement of this poem by the need for anthologies to account for the history of English poetry, and this one is about as early as English poetry gets. But it has qualities. I'll quote William Harmon's comment on the poem: "The poem presents its dramatically elliptical narration in the simplest ballad measure with superlative economy of design: just a few quick bold strokes and a thoroughgoing reliance on concrete detail. We are not told that the king was worried in some vague way; he is drinking and asking for help. Four brief speeches (king, knight, Sir Patrick, a nameless sailor) and then a focus on the marvelous detail of "cork heel'd shoon" (the last word in medieval chic) and floating hats. (Note that: "skeely" is "skillful"; "lift" is ""sky"; "lap" is "sprang"; "laith" is "unwilling"; "aboon" is "above"; "flatter'd" is "floated"; "kames" is "combs.")"

Poetry once had much more of of a narrative function than it has now. It's good to allow room for that.

"In the reign of Alexander III of Scotland, his daughter Margaret was escorted by a large party of nobles to Norway for her marriage to King Eric; on the return journey many of them were drowned. Twenty years later, after Alexander's death, his grand-daughter Margaret, the Maid of Norway, was heiress to the Scottish throne, and on the voyage to Scotland she died.

The ballad; which exists in several versions, combines these two incidents."


Sir Patrick Spens

THE SAILING

The King sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blood-red wine;
"O where shall I get a skeely skipper
To sail this ship or mine?"

Then up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the King's right knee:
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea."

The King has written a broad letter,
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the foam;
The King's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou must fetch her home."

The first line that Sir Patrick read,
A loud laugh laughed he;
The next line that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.

"O who is this has done this deed,
Has told the King of me,
To send us out at this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?

"Be it wind, be it wet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the foam;
The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis we must fetch her home."

They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn,
With all the speed they may;
And they have landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.

II. THE RETURN

They had not been a week, a week,
In Noroway but twae,
When that the lords of Noroway
Began aloud to say, -

"Ye Scottishmen spend all our King's gowd,
And all our Queenis fee."
"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!
So loud I hear ye lie.

"For I brought as much of the white monie
As gane my men and me,
And a half-fou of the good red gowd
Out o'er the sea with me.

"Make ready, make ready, my merry men all,
Our good ship sails the morn."
"Now, ever alack, my master dear
I fear a deadly storm.

"I saw the new moon late yestreen
With the old moon in her arm;
And if we go to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm."

They had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brake and the top-masts lap,
It was such a deadly storm;
And the waves came o'er the broken ship
Till all her sides were torn.

"O where will I get a good sailor
Will take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast
To see if I can spy land?"

"O here am I, a sailor good,
Will take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top-mast,
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."

He had not gone a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bolt flew out of the good ship's side,
And the salt sea came in.

"Go fetch a web of the silken cloth,
Another of the twine,
And wap them into our good ship's side,
And let not the sea come in."

They fetched a web of the silken cloth,
Another of the twine,
And they wapp'd them into the good ship's side,
But still the sea came in.

O loth, both, were our good Scots lords
To wet their cork-heel'd shoon,
But long ere all the play was play'd
They wet their hats aboon.

And many was the feather-bed
That fluttered on the foam;
And many was the good lord's son
That never more came home.

The ladies wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their heair,
All for the sake of their true loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.

O lang, lang may the maidens sit
With their gold combs in their hair,
All waiting for their own dear loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.

O forty miles of Aberdeen,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens,
With the Scots lords at his feet.

1. "The Tyger" (or "The Tiger"), by William Blake. Some see this poem from "Songs of Experience," the companion to "The Lamb" from "Songs of Innocence," as confronting the existence of evil against the good of "The Lamb." But it isn't like that. Blake explores our two polarities in each collection, corresponding to the child's view and the view of the human being who has come to maturity.

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?

Thanks to those who have gone along on this countdown, either all the way or for part of it (s.a., saffron, froglipz, oblivion, Penelope, Robert, lady of shallot, dawn, giselle, realiz). I hope to see you all around the forum from time to time!

DWill wrote: Thanks to those who have gone along on this countdown, either all the way or for part of it (s.a., saffron, froglipz, oblivion, Penelope, Robert, lady of shallot, dawn, giselle, realiz). I hope to see you all around the forum from time to time!

Tyger is such a dramatic poem. I love it because it is so fun to read aloud. Four dings for the poem. I can hardly believe we have goten to the end of the list. I must say I am a bit sad. See you all around. And one last thanks to DWill.

A Big thankyou to DWill and also to Saffron. I have enjoyed it so much.

I've learned a lot too.

Oh, you're welcome. I'm curious to know about one thing. Did anybody learn through reading all these poems more about the poetry that is essential for them? I think that appreciation for a wide variety of poetry is one good thing, but there will always be a certain style, mood, or voice--or a range of all these--that we naturally find ourselves steering for. This might be a hard question to answer specifically. Often it's a matter of "I know it when I see it."

1. "The Tyger" (or "The Tiger"), by William Blake.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Blake's question anticipates Darwin's theory of evolution. Traditional faith, still dominant in Blake's life time at the dawn of the nineteenth century, believed that all creatures are designed by God. Blake asks how God could frame such 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?

God, inhabiting the eternal cosmos, is questioned as to how the wonders of the earth were planned in advance, with a strange reflection between the fiery eyes of the predator and the deeps of space. The hand seizing the fire asks the question of Prometheus, how industrial man could be designed by God.

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?

The shoulder of God, placed to the wheel of creation, is imagined as providing the art of the dread feet of the tiger.

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

Vulcan, forge of the Gods, made some beautiful robots, but lacked the skill to create life. This image of the designer manufacturing life is hinting at the absurdity of traditional teleology.

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?

Our imagination of God as gentle and merciful seeks to create God in the image of our desire, instead of worshiping the reality, in which nature is red in tooth and claw, and predatory competition provides the impetus for evolution.

http://www.pathguy.com/tyger.htm says "In the creation story in "Job", the stars sing for joy at creation, a scene that Blake illustrated. In Blake's later books, the stars throw down their cups (the notebook poem "When Klopstock England Defied...") and in "The Four Zoas" figure prominently in the account of Urizen's failed clockwork universe founded on pure reason. For Blake, the stars represent cold reason and objective science. (They are weaker than the Sun of inspiration or the moon of love. Their mechanical procession has reminded others, including the author of "Lucifer in Starlight", of "the army of unalterable law"; in this case the law of science.) Although Blake was hostile (as I am, and as most real scientists are) to attempts to reduce all phenomena to chemistry and physics, Blake greatly appreciated the explosion of scientific knowledge during his era. But there is something about seeing a Tyger that you can't learn from a zoology class. The sense of awe and fear defy reason. And Blake's contemporary "rationalists" who had hoped for a tame, gentle world guided by kindness and understanding must face the reality of the Tyger."

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The symmetry of the poem recapitulates Blake's Promethean romantic vision, anticipating the question of Mary Shelley if science can make life, and asking how God could possibly dare to make something so beautiful and terrible. There is a feeling of Yeats - a terrible beauty is born.