Poetry Alive

John Keats was a romantic poet of the early nineteenth century. He was, perhaps, even more "romantic" than the other three giants of the era: Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Shelley. This poem really embodies the exuberance and feeling that is present in all of his best work. It speaks of his wonder after reading the first complete English translation of Homer, by George Chapman. Chapman's version, from around the time of Shakespeare, had long been replaced by the more polished versions of Dryden and Pope; but Chapman's "vigorous and earthy paraphrase"* often does a better job of capturing the feeling of the original Greek. Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new pla

Carmen 7, by Gaius Valerius Catullus Catullus was a Roman poet of the first century BC. His poems, though greatly revered by such canonical authors as Virgil and Ovid, survived in only one manuscript; possibly because many of his poems were considered too explicit. His poems include epigrams, hymns, mini-epics, and short, often informal poems. Catullus is especially remembered for his love poems like this one, to "Lesbia." Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque. quam magnus numerus Libyssae harenae lasarpiciferis iacet Cyrenis oraclum Iovis inter aestuosi et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum; aut quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox, furtivos hominum vident amores: tam te basia multa basiare vesano satis et super Catullo est, quae nec pernumerare curiosi possint nec mala fascinare lingua. You ask how many of your kisses, Lesbia, will be enough for me. As many as the great number of Libyan sands that lie in flower-rich Cyrene, between the oracle of sweltering Jove and Old Battus' sacr

John Donne's elaborate conceits are known for going beyond the simplistic metaphors of most love poetry, but they are at their best when, as here, they're not just intelligent symbolism but relevant, poignant embodiments of the feeling being experienced. As relevant today as it was 400 years ago, this poem captures that mix of playfullness and seriousness peculiar to the lover. Busy old fool, unruly Sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school-boys and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beams so reverend, and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long. If her eyes have not blinded thin

Robert Herrick was a Cambridge-educated Londoner stuck with an out of the way vicarship in Devon. He wasn't a fan of rural life, but it was there that he wrote almost all of the poetry he's known for: the volumes "Hesperides" and "Noble Numbers," both published in 1648. This poem sets forth the content of Hesperides. I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers. I sing of Maypoles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes, Of bridegrooms, brides and of their bridal-cakes. I write of youth, of love, and have access By these to sing of cleanly wantonness. I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece, Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris. I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write How roses first came red and lilies white. I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing The court of Mab, and of the fairy king. I write of Hell ; I sing (and ever shall) Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all. bower - A place closed in or overarched with branches of trees, shrubs, or other p