Editorial Reviews. From the Author. Greetings poetry lovers. Thanks for taking the time to read Reaching For Celestial Heights: Uplifting, Encouraging, and Success Poems including some written for Mom and Dad - Kindle edition by Eddie.
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- leondumoulin.nl: Eddie Johnson: Books, Biography, Blogs, Audiobooks, Kindle
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leondumoulin.nl: Eddie Johnson: Books, Biography, Blogs, Audiobooks, Kindle
Rather let me write: This vision comes to me when I unfold The volume of the Poet paramount, Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone;— Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount, Placed him as Musagetes on their throne. I never really took the time to delve too deep into Longfellow, but I had crossed his poem the day is gone, which Poe gave as a perfect example of poetry in his The Poetic Principle I believe.
I think Poe was quite influenced by that kind of poem. For this reason I think that poem is so powerful as it in a sense demonstrates the true power of poetry, through its humbleness. Like a beautiful person who does not woo us by saying or showing too much, but by the grace revealed in the smallest of gestures. Time and again, a majority of poets try to give us a glimpse of a truth, a principle, a thought — too complex and sometimes this acts against getting it across to the reader.
Gosselin, I, too, enjoy those smaller pieces of wisdom and nuanced feeling, those anecdotes of history in all the great fields of human endeavour. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid [expression], never produces a profound or enduring effect. There must be steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax.
You made a valid point nonetheless. Some of the images are very effective. Nothing can be better than —. The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective.
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The poem, on the whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful insouciance of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the sentiments, and especially for the ease of the general manner. It is but the result of writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that the tone, in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would adopt — and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion.
This is a very valuable list and great service that Satyananda has done. I have never been a great Longfellow admirer or reader, although maybe I should read more of his work, as, like myself, he is a Quaker and his work always seems to reveal a deep ethical basis.
I remember when I first encountered him, aged 19, when I read the entirety of Hiawatha. Initially, it transfixed me with its rhythms and rhymes, but I also remember flagging as I got further and further into the poem, as its structure became repetitive. The problem for me with much of the poetry, though, is that although I love ethics, sometimes saying the right things can seem too simplistic — rather like rhyming in fact.
Predictable rhymes with predictable sentiments leave me feeling unsatisfied. I agree on the whole ethics part James. Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair, At the threshold, near the gates, With its menace or its prayer, Like a mendicant it waits; Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid; By the cares of yesterday Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear, Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere.
And we stand from day to day, Like the dwarfs of times gone by, Who, as Northern legends say, On their shoulders held the sky. The ancient chimney of thy nursery! With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune! Thou hearest footsteps from afar! And, at the sound, Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one, who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand Some source of wonder and surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently, Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free,.
The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison walls to thee. Through these once solitary halls Thy pattering footstep falls. Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, The Father of his Country, dwelt. And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt. Up and down these echoing stairs, Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounded his majestic tread; Yes, within this very room Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary both in heart and head. But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where.
I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, As restless as the bee. Along the garden walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants.
Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! Dream-like the waters of the river gleam; A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. I see its valves expand, As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, By some prophetic feeling taught, I launch the bold, adventurous thought, Freighted with hope and fear; As upon subterranean streams, In caverns unexplored and dark, Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, Laden with flickering fire, And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length they disappear, And in the distant dark expire.
By what astrology of fear or hope Dare I to cast thy horoscope! Like the new moon thy life appears; A little strip of silver light, And widening outward into night The shadowy disk of future years; And yet upon its outer rim, A luminous circle, faint and dim, And scarcely visible to us here, Rounds and completes the perfect sphere; A prophecy and intimation, A pale and feeble adumbration, Of the great world of light, that lies Behind all human destinies.
And formed the seven-chorded lyre. Wish you all the best for All poems are really awesome. I have recently found out that Henry is my 4th cousin 7x removed. What an amazing honor! Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed. Here goes the list: Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!
Taking into account another stanza: The Arrow and the Song I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.
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- 10 Greatest Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
- 10 Greatest Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Society of Classical Poets.
Regards and best wishes Reply. The Builders All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Here are some of the others: Aftermath When the summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again the fields we mow And gather in the aftermath. Changed From the outskirts of the town Where of old the mile-stone stood, Now a stranger, looking down I behold the shadowy crown Of the dark and haunted wood.
Christmas Bells I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men! APRIL I open wide the portals of the Spring To welcome the procession of the flowers, With their gay banners, and the birds that sing Their song of songs from their aerial towers.
This is his greatest poem: Arnold Sangster Patmore Palgrave Dobell Allingham Dutt Greetings for the day! The sonnets that Longfellow wrote to some of the masters are inspirational, like the ones on Dante, Keats and Shakespeare below: Dante Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. This is perhaps one of the kindest gestures.
Thank you so very much. Regards and best wishes. I discovered some new great poems. Nothing can be better than — —————— the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Down the corridors of Time. Something Left Undone Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun.
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Eddie Johnson
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Alexa Actionable Analytics for the Web. AmazonGlobal Ship Orders Internationally. Amazon Inspire Digital Educational Resources. Eddie Johnson is an independent book author and self-publisher. Throughout Eddie's life, he's held jobs assisting others.
Since then he has worked in private sector customer relations and billing related positions in telecommunications and banking. He has a Degree in Business Data Processing. Eddie is a devoted husband and father. Are You an Author? Help us improve our Author Pages by updating your bibliography and submitting a new or current image and biog. Showing 10 Results Books: Temptation in the Pulpit:
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