tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3020960402708303830.post6620931152113318337..comments2024-03-28T14:53:38.827-04:00Comments on BLCKDGRD: I Think the Pain for Him Will End in May or January, Though the Weather Is Far Too Clear to Me to Think of Anything but August ComedyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3020960402708303830.post-71016228309989537302016-08-11T18:02:51.233-04:002016-08-11T18:02:51.233-04:00the poetry foundation tells us:
William Cullen B...the poetry foundation tells us:<br /><br /><br />William Cullen Bryant<br /><br />1794–1878<br /><br />No line of his poetry survives in the consciousness of his nation, and none of his editorial pronouncements still resonates from his five decades with the New-York Evening Post, yet William Cullen Bryant stood among the most celebrated figures in the frieze of nineteenth-century America. The fame he won as a poet while in his youth remained with him as he entered his eighties; only Longfellow and Emerson were his rivals in popularity over the course of his life. “Thanatopsis,” if not the best-known American poem abroad before the mid nineteenth century, certainly ranked near the top of the list, and at home school children were commonly required to recite it from memory. At his death, all New York City went into mourning for its most respected citizen, and eulogies poured forth as they had for no man of letters since Washington Irving, its native son, had died a generation earlier. The similarity was appropriate: Irving brought international legitimacy to American fiction; Bryant alerted the English-speaking world to an American voice in poetry.<br /><br /> <br /><br />The shaping of Bryant’s mind and personality owed much to his family circumstances in Cummington, Massachusetts, a small village in the Berkshire hills carved from the forest scantly a generation before his birth....mistah charley, ph.d.https://www.blogger.com/profile/06303695341246058680noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3020960402708303830.post-65249222893247487172016-08-11T17:59:15.233-04:002016-08-11T17:59:15.233-04:00nature regarded by a formerly famous new england p...nature regarded by a formerly famous new england poet<br /><br /> Thanatopsis<br /><br />By William Cullen Bryant<br /><br /> To him who in the love of Nature holds <br />Communion with her visible forms, she speaks <br />A various language; for his gayer hours <br />She has a voice of gladness, and a smile <br />And eloquence of beauty, and she glides <br />Into his darker musings, with a mild <br />And healing sympathy, that steals away <br />Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts <br />Of the last bitter hour come like a blight <br />Over thy spirit, and sad images <br />Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, <br />And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, <br />Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— <br />Go forth, under the open sky, and list <br />To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—<br />Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—<br />Comes a still voice—<br /> Yet a few days, and thee <br />The all-beholding sun shall see no more <br />In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, <br />Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, <br />Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist <br />Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim <br />Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,<br />And, lost each human trace, surrendering up <br />Thine individual being, shalt thou go <br />To mix for ever with the elements, <br />To be a brother to the insensible rock <br />And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain <br />Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak <br />Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. <br /> Yet not to thine eternal resting-place <br />Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish <br />Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down <br />With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, <br />The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, <br />Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, <br />All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills <br />Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales <br />Stretching in pensive quietness between; <br />The venerable woods—rivers that move <br />In majesty, and the complaining brooks <br />That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, <br />Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,— <br />Are but the solemn decorations all <br />Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, <br />The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, <br />Are shining on the sad abodes of death, <br />Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread <br />The globe are but a handful to the tribes <br />That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings <br />Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, <br />Or lose thyself in the continuous woods <br />Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, <br />Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there: <br />And millions in those solitudes, since first <br />The flight of years began, have laid them down <br />In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.<br />So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw <br />In silence from the living, and no friend <br />Take note of thy departure? All that breathe <br />Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh<br />When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care <br />Plod on, and each one as before will chase <br />His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave <br />Their mirth and their employments, and shall come<br />And make their bed with thee. As the long train <br />Of ages glide away, the sons of men, <br />The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes <br />In the full strength of years, matron and maid, <br />The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man— <br />Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, <br />By those, who in their turn shall follow them. <br /> So live, that when thy summons comes to join <br />The innumerable caravan, which moves <br />To that mysterious realm, where each shall take <br />His chamber in the silent halls of death, <br />Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, <br />Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed <br />By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, <br />Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch <br />About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />mistah charley, ph.d.https://www.blogger.com/profile/06303695341246058680noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3020960402708303830.post-52990151398129640762016-08-11T17:41:28.210-04:002016-08-11T17:41:28.210-04:00Have you ever heard of The Horned Man by James Las...Have you ever heard of The Horned Man by James Lasdun (Brit. poet)? Worth a read.<br /><br />Don't forget to visit the mothership while down east—L.L. Bean!Jim H.https://www.blogger.com/profile/02088100982761595050noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3020960402708303830.post-47996351055556237172016-08-11T15:08:19.315-04:002016-08-11T15:08:19.315-04:00Hey! Just got the book, thanks!Hey! Just got the book, thanks!zencomixhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02425613931488064403noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3020960402708303830.post-87814450191250486782016-08-11T09:49:50.991-04:002016-08-11T09:49:50.991-04:00Those fruit are beach rosehips (i.e. ex-roses). Mo...Those fruit are beach rosehips (i.e. ex-roses). More industrious and adventurous individuals than myself will make jelly or butter out of them: http://the3foragers.blogspot.com/2010/08/rosehips.html <br />Not a fan. fishhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01522672049371678717noreply@blogger.com