Category Archives: Sonnet

“Mowing” by Robert Frost [w/ Audio]

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There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
 And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
 What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
 Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
 Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound --
 And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
 It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
 Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf: 
 Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
 To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
 Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
 (Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
 The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
 My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

“Silver” by Walter de la Mare [w/ Audio]

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Slowly, silently, the moon
 Walks the night in her silver shoon;
 This way, and that, she peers, and sees
 Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
 Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
 Couched in his kennel, like a log,
 With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
 Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
 A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
 With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
 By silver reeds in a silver stream.

“Remember” by Christina Rossetti [w/ Audio]

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Remember me when I am gone away,
   Gone far away into the silent land;
   When you can no more hold me by the hand,
 Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
 Remember me when no more day by day
   You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
   Only remember me; you understand
 It will be late to counsel then or pray.
 Yet if you should forget me for a while
   And afterwards remember, do no grieve:
   For if the darkness and corruption leave
   A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
 Better by far you should forget and smile
  Than that you should remember and be sad.

“Death, Be Not Proud” by John Donne [w/ Audio]

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Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
 Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
 For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
 Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
 From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
 Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
 And soonest our best men with thee do go,
 Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
 Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
 And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
 And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
 And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
   One short sleep past, we wake eternally
    And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

BOOKS: “The Flowers of Evil” by Charles Baudelaire

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Les Fleurs du MalLes Fleurs du Mal by Charles Baudelaire
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Amazon.in Page

I read the 1909 Cyril Scott translation of Baudelaire’s poetry collection. It consists of 54 poems, including “Condemned Women” but not including others of the six poems that were banned in early editions and which only came to be included in later editions. (I did look up and read a couple translations each for the six poems — because censorship can’t be allowed to prevail. Not surprisingly, they are calm by today’s standards. It should be noted that Baudelaire played in symbolism, and so his poems – while ahead of their time in subject matter – didn’t tend toward explicit vulgarity in the first place.)

The Scott translation is all in rhymed verse, the largest share of it presented as sonnets — though there are some longer pieces (longer, but not long. It’s a quick read.) “The Broken Bell” and “Spleen” were highlights for me, but the whole collection is intriguing, evocative, and readable.

I enjoyed this collection tremendously, even with such an old translation. The hedonism, eroticism, and macabre of Baudelaire’s work creates an intense tone.

I’d highly recommend this collection for all poetry readers.



View all my reviews

“The World Is Too Much With Us” by William Wordsworth [w/ Audio]

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The world is too much with us; late and soon,
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; --
 Little we see in Nature that is ours;
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
 The winds that will be howling at all hours,
 And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
 For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

“On His Blindness” by John Milton [w/ Audio]

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When I consider how my light is spent,
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
 And that one Talent which is death to hide
 Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present
 My true account, lest he returning chide,
 "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
 I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
 That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
 Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His State
 Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
 And post o'er Land and Ocean without rest:
 They also serve who only stand and wait."

NOTE: This poem is sometimes called “Sonnet 19,” sometimes “On His Blindness,” and sometimes “When I Consider How My Light Is Spent.”

“Rooms” by Charlotte Mew [w/ Audio]

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I remember rooms that have had their part
  In the steady slowing down of the heart.
 The room in Paris, the room at Geneva,
 The little damp room with the seaweed smell,
 And that ceaseless maddening sound of the tide --
  Rooms where for good or for ill -- things died.
 But there is the room where we (two) lie dead,
 Though every morning we seem to wake and might just as well seem to sleep again
  As we shall somewhere in the other quieter, dustier bed
  Out there in the sun -- in the rain.

“When You Are Old” by W. B. Yeats [w/ Audio]

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When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
 And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
 And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
 Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
 And loved your beauty with love false or true,
 But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
 And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
 Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
 And paced upon the mountains overhead
 And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

“A BLOCKHEAD” by Amy Lowell [w/ Audio]

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Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
 Unseparated atoms, and I must
 Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust
 Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays,
 There are none, ever. As a monk who prays
 The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust
 Each tasteless particle aside, and just
 Begin again the task which never stays.
 And I have known a glory of great suns.
 When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!
 Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,
 And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!
 Split is that liquor, my too hasty hand
 Threw down the cup, and did not understand.