She Walks in Beauty Like the Night

In honor of She Walks in Beauty Like the Night Day, I am reprinted Lord Byron's poem

"She walks in beauty, like the night"
Lord Byron

SHE walks in beauty, like the night  
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,  
And all that's best of dark and bright  
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;  
Thus mellow'd to that tender light          
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.  
  
One shade the more, one ray the less,  
Had half impair'd the nameless grace  
Which waves in every raven tress  
Or softly lightens o'er her face,   
Where thoughts serenely sweet express  
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.  
  
And on that cheek and o'er that brow  
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,  
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,   
But tell of days in goodness spent,—  
A mind at peace with all below,  
A heart whose love is innocent.

When We Two Parted

When We Two Parted
by George Gordon, Lord Byron


When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shrudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee so well--
Long, long I shall rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.

When I Have Fears

Sometimes John Keats really nails it. (BTW, if you're wondering how the horse connects, think about what kind of horse it is.


When I Have Fears
John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Thy Days are Done

Thy Days Are Done
George Gordon, Lord Byron


Thy days are done, thy fame begun;
Thy country's strains record
The triumphs of her chosen Son,
The slaughter of his sword!
The deeds he did, the fields he won,
The freedom he restored!

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free
Thou shalt not taste of death!
The generous blood that flow'd from thee
Disdain'd to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,
Thy spirit on our breath!

Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word!
Thy fall, the theme of choral song
From virgin voices pour'd!
To weep would do thy glory wrong:
Thou shalt not be deplored.




I don't know why this poem gets to me, but every time I read it I think....Wow.

The Splendor Falls

I subscribe to a "Poem of the Day" email. Today's was "The Splendor Falls" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I've been reading and re-reading the poem for about two hours, trying to soak it all in. (It's from "The Princess," if you're a Tennyson fan.) Lamentably, I know very little about Tennyson and his work. I have some thoughts on this, but other than the obvious (death, what comes after), I have nothing worth sharing on what the poem might mean, or what the author might be trying to say.

But that's okay. Poetry doesn't always have to be explained. Sometimes you just take it in and enjoy. Hopefully you will, as well.




The Splendor Falls
Lord Tennyson


The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying. dying, dying.

O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.