human
Can you write me a poem about rosalynd ' s madrigal, valentinian and westminster abbey in the style of Edgar Allan Poe?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about rosalynd ' s madrigal, valentinian and westminster abbey in the style of Edgar Allan Poe:
  The first carol
Verses before death
Fresh spring
Like as a ship
True love
The moon
Sweet judge
Wat'red was my wine
Rosalynd's madrigal
The solitary shepherd's song
I saw my lady weep
Farewell to arms
Sephestia's song to her child
The passionate shepherd to his love
My spotless love
Since there's no help
Were I as base
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth
O me!  What eyes hath love put in my head
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
When in the chronicle of wasted time
That time of year thou may'st in me behold
How like a winter hath my absence been
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
They that have power to hurt, and will do
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye
The forward violet thus did I chide
O lest the world should task you to recite
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Come away
Full fathom five
Dirge (Fear no more the heat o' the sun)
Song (Take, O take those lips away)
Song (How should I your true love know)
Kind are her answers
Her sacred bower
When thou must home
Western wind
Follow your saint
Cherry-ripe
This happy dream
Hymn to God the father
The funeral
The nightingale
Charis' triumph
On my first daughter
Echo's lament for Narcissus
An epitaph on Salathiel Pavy, a child of Queen Elizabeth's
Invocation to sleep, from Valentinian
Song from the Duchess of Malfi
Song from the Devil's Law-case
In Earth, dirge from Vittoria Corombona
Song (Phoebus, arise!)
Sleep, Silence' child
To the nightingale
I died true
On the tombs in Westminster Abbey
To Cynthia, on concealment of her beauty
Matin song
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Song (Ask me no more where Jove bestows)
To my inconstant mistress
An hymeneal dialogue
Ingrateful beauty threatened
Sweet content
Good-morrow
To meadows
To blossoms
To daffodils
To violets
To primroses
To daisies, not to shut so soon
To the virgins, to make much of time
In silks
Corinna's going a-maying
Grace for a child
Holy baptism
The pulley
The collar
Lullaby (Weep you no more, sad fountains)
The rose
His mistress
A sonnet of the moon
Hymn on Christ's nativity
L'allegro
Il penseroso
On his blindness
On his deceased wife
Song on May morning
Invocation to Sabrina, from Comus
Invocation to Echo, from Comus
The attendant spirit, from Comus
The vigil of death
On a prayer-book sent to Mrs. M. R.
To the morning
Love's horoscope
On Mr. G. Herbert's book
Wishes to his supposed mistress
Quem Vidistis Pastores etc.
Music's duel
The flaming heart
On the death of Mr. Crashaw
Hymn to the light
To Lucasta on going to the wars
To Althea, from prison
A guiltless lady imprisoned:  after penanced
The rose
A Horatian ode upon Cromwell's return from Ireland
The picture of T. C. in a prospect of flowers
The nymph complaining of death of her fawn
The definition of love
The garden
The dawning
The night
The eclipse
The retreat
The world of light
The wife of Usher's well
The dowie dens of Yarrow
Hame, hame, hame
A lyke-wake dirge
Ode (Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies)
Song, from Abdelazar
Hymn (The spacious firmament on high)
Lines on receiving his mother's picture
The land of dreams
The piper
The tiger
To the muses
Love's secret
To a mouse
The farewell
Why art thou silent?
Thoughts of a Briton on the subjugation of Switzerland
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free
On the extinction of the Venetian Republic
O friend! I know not
To Toussaint L'ouverture
With ships the sea was sprinkled
The world
When I have borne in memory
Three years she grew
The daffodils
The solitary reaper
Elegiac stanzas
'Tis said that some have died for love
The pet lamb
Stepping westward
The childless father
Ode on intimations of immortality
A weary lot is thine
The rime of the ancient mariner
A wet sheet and a flowing sea
Wild with weeping
To the night
To a skylark
To the moon
The question
The waning moon
Ode to the west wind
Rarely, rarely comest thou
The invitation, to Jane
The recollection
Ode to heaven
Life of life
Stanzas written in dejection near Naples
Dirge for the year
A widow bird
The two spirits
La Belle Dame sans merci
On first looking into Chapman's Homer
To sleep
The gentle south
Last sonnet
Ode to a nightingale
She is not fair
Written by Spensor on his marriage in Ireland, Elizabeth Boyle of
identity of the heroine of this great poem.  It is worth while to
choice is allowed.  In reading such a line as Tennyson's
"Dear as remembered kisses after death,"
It may please the reader to think that this frolic, rich, and
delicate singer was Shakespeare's very Rosalind.  From Dr. Thomas
This splendid poem (from the same romance), written on the poet's
George Peele's four fine stanzas (which must be mentioned as
dedicated to Queen Elizabeth, but are better without that
dedication) exist in another form, in the first person, and with
The sixth stanza is perhaps by Izaak Walton.
The author of this exquisite song is by no means certain.  The
second stanza is not with the first in Shakespeare, but it is in
conceit."  In Kind are her Answers the long syllables and the
I have followed the usual practice in omitting the last and less
beautiful stanza.
Campion's "airs," for which he wrote his words, laid rules too
for music make an unlucky repeating pattern with the poor variety
began again and again with the onset of a true poet.  Take, for
example, the poem beginning with the vitality of this line,
"touching in its majesty"-
Who would have guessed that the piece was to close in a jogging
stanza containing a reflection on the fact that brutes are
speechless, with these two final lines -
"If speech be then the best of graces,
Doe it not in slumber smother!"
Campion yields a curious collection of beautiful first lines.
"Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me"
is far finer than anything that follows.  So is there a single
gloom in this -
"Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!"
And a single joy in this -
"Oh, what unhoped-for sweet supply!"
Another solitary line is one that by its splendour proves Campion
"A thousand cherubim fly in her looks."
And yet "a thousand cherubim" is a line of a poem full of the
dullest kind of reasoning--curious matter for music--and of the
their quibbling).  But the work of choosing among his lyrics for
enough for extracting a short poem, but must not be made to bear
too great a burden.
opening:-
"When thou must home to shades of underground,
And there arrived, a new admired guest--"
It is as solemn and fantastic at the close as at this dark and
splendid opening, and throughout, past description, Elizabethan.
death, it is by no violence that we give him the name that covers
especially the quality of keeping its simplicity; and it has a
quality of great simplicity not at all child-like, but adult,
large, gay, credulous, tragic, sombre, and amorous.
but the earlier lines of the last are fine.
emphatic initiative, and his overbearing and impulsive voice in
"But might I of Jove's nectar sup
I would not change for thine;"
and for doing so have encountered the anger rather than the
argument of those who cannot admire a pretty lyric but they must
SONG (Phoebus, arise!)
poem, some more impassioned and less restless hour.  It is, from
life.  One might wish that the English ode (roughly called
passed out of the gates of the garden of stanzas, and walks (not
Treasury we all know so well; and, therefore, generation after
taught by the Golden Treasury, and Cardinal Newman was of it.
Writing to Coventry Patmore of his great odes, he called them
beautiful but fragmentary; was inclined to wish that they might
some day be made complete.  There is nothing in all poetry more
unity of life, and when it ends it ends for ever.
solemn roses!
"Me here she first perceived, and here a morn
Of bright carnations overspread her face."
The seventeenth century has possession of that "morn" caught once
freshness to wither it.
The solemn vengeance of this poem has a strange tone--not unique,
like indignation; nevertheless, it is menacingly and obscurely
justified, on a ground as it were beyond the common region of
tolerance and pardon.
An editor is greatly tempted to mend a word in these exquisite
verses.  George Herbert was maladroit in using the word "rest" in
stanza; so then the first line of the last stanza would not have
this rather distressing ambiguity.  The poem is otherwise perfect
George Herbert's work is so perfectly a box where thoughts
nevertheless, it may be well to stop the reader at such a lovely
passage as this -
"He was a garden in a Paradise."
Ronsard to Herrick:  "Time is short; they make the better bargain
cold impatience was--time out of mind--unknown to the truer love;
poets were wrong to give their verses the message of so sorry a
charming reflex glimpse it gives of her to whom the rose and the
verse were sent, and who had not thought that time was brief.
The sock represents the stage, in L'Allegro, for comedy, and the
buskin, in Il Penseroso, for tragedy.  Milton seems to think the
comic drama in England needs no apology, but he hesitates at the
tragic.  The poet of King Lear is named for his sweetness and his
Most of the allusions in Lycidas need no explaining to readers of
Bellerus stands for Belerium, the Land's End.
Arethusa and Mincius--Sicilian and Italian streams--represent the
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep,"
reader of taste could suffer them.  A better opinion on that
Addison, whom some believe to have committed none; moreover, Pope
call a "rage," and this expatiated (to use another word of their
own) beyond all bounds.  Of sheer voluntary extremes it is not in
provoked, could be backed to write more trash than fancy ever
tempted the half-incredulous sweet poet of the older time to run
arranged there.  The eighteenth century was never content with a
behind no century in passion--nay, to show the way, to fire the
nations.  Addison taught himself, as his hero taught the battle,
"where to rage"; and in the later years of the same literary age,
misgiving as to the resulting verse.  Take such a phrase as "the
Take The Weeper of Crashaw--his most flagrant poem.  Its follies
are all sweet-humoured, they smile.  Its beauties are a quick and
flagrant that it is difficult to quote them without rousing that
sipped the Saint's tear:  "Then to his music," in Crashaw's
divinely simple phrase; and his singing "tastes of this breakfast
thee."  Then you come upon the fancy, "Fountain and garden in one
'To disinherit the sun's rise,
Delicately to displace
The day, and plant it fairer in thy face."
Elizabethan would have had it no fresher.  The Hymn to St. Teresa
Sweet, not so fast!"  Of many contemporary songs in pursuit of a
poet's light heart and perpetual pleasure, with the late ripeness
"Come, and come strong,
To the conspiracy of our spacious song!"
I have been obliged to take courage to alter the reading of the
This ode has been chosen as more nobly representative than that,
better known, On the Death of Mr. William Harvey.  In the Crashaw
language of love, and left it cooler than he found it.  What the
conceits of Lovelace and the rest-- flagrant, not frigid--did not
began to lose by him.  But even then, even then, who could have
foretold what the loss at a later day would be!
speaking and therefore indivisible by pause or even by any
lingering.  Take this one instance -
"Like some fair pine o'erlooking all the ignobler wood."
If Cowley's delicate example had ruled in English poetry (and he
impulse, of more impetuous foot, of fuller and of hastier breath,
Cowley probably was two or three years younger than Richard
Crashaw, and the alexandrine is to be found--to be found by
searching--in Crashaw; and he took precisely the same care as
Cowley that the long wand of that line should not give way in the
"Or you, more noble architects of intellectual noise."
"Of sweets you have, and murmur that you have no more."
"And everlasting series of a deathless song."
"To all the dear-bought nations this redeeming name."
A later poet--Coventry Patmore--wrote a far longer line than even
dreams.
"He unhappily adopted," says Dr. Johnson as to Cowley's diction,
ever brought to pass.
Colonel Richard Lovelace, an enchanting poet, is hardly read,
except for two poems which are as famous as any in our language.
Perhaps the rumour of his conceits has frightened his reader.  It
impulse.  Since the first day danced with the first night, no
dancing was more natural--at least to a dancer of genius.  True,
Barnsdale, danced in his boots ("and glad he could so get away"),
author here and there whose original seriousness or work-a-day
century was in love with that old fancy--more in love, perhaps,
than any century in the past.  Its late painters, whose human
angels and the loves aloft, as though they shook a tree to make a
Fine is the fantastic and infrequent landscape in Lovelace's
poetry:
"This is the palace of the wood,
And court o' the royal oak, where stood
The whole nobility."
In more than one place Lucasta's, or Amarantha's, or Laura's hair
Wordsworth's line.
Lovelace, who loved freedom, seems to be enclosed in so narrow a
book; yet it is but a "hermitage."  To shake out the light and
spirit of its leaves is to give a glimpse of liberty not to him,
but to the world.
In To Lucasta I have been bold to alter, at the close, "you" to
"thou."  Lovelace sent his verses out unrevised, and the
inconsistency of pronouns is common with him, but nowhere else so
him this redress, offered him here as an act of comradeship.
That errors should abound in the text of Lovelace is the more
kind of dainty confusion between the two vestals--the living and
the dead; they are "equal virgins," and you must assign the
pronouns carefully to either as you read.  This, read twice, must
This is a poem that takes the winds with an answering flight.
Should they be "birds" or "gods" that wanton in the air in the
between birds so divine and gods so light?  But to begin with
"gods" would be to make an anticlimax of the close.  Lovelace led
faults), "of the British Aristides."  The portly dulness of the
mind that could make such a phrase, and having made, award it, is
award was not made in his own age; he did but live on the eve of
puzzle the triumph of him, whoever he was, who made a success of
this phrase of the "British Aristides."  Nay, it is difficult not
spiritual Aristides, might himself have been somewhat taken by
surprise at the encounters of so subtle a muse.  He, as a garden-
heads, within the caves, and by the walks and the statues of the
gods, keeping the tryst of a seventeenth century convention in
which there were certainly no surprises.  And for fear of the
commonplaces of those visits, Marvell sometimes outdoes the whole
The political poems, needless to say, have an excellence of a
different character and a higher degree.  They have so much
Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland than when it
The Satires are, of course, out of reach for their inordinate
length.  The celebrated Satire on Holland certainly makes the
utmost of the fun to be easily found in the physical facts of the
poor; but the joke of his bad verses was hardly needed, so fine
does Marvell find that of his hunger.  Perhaps there is no age of
The presence of a furtive irony of the sweetest kind is the sure
sign of the visit of that unlooked-for muse.  With all spirit and
The noble phrase of the Horatian Ode is not recovered again, high
"Magnanimous despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing."
students until Mr. E. K. Chambers gave us his excellent edition.
into life.  Vaughan's imagination suddenly opens a new window
It was no easy matter to choose a group of representative ballads
thin places.  Finally, it seemed best to take, from among the
songs.  Such passages do not occur but in ballads that are
stanzas following.  A Lyke Wake Dirge is of surpassing quality
throughout.  I am sorry to have no room for Jamieson's version of
This most majestic ode--one of the few greatest of its kind--is a
simplicity, bears himself like a child who, having said something
section has a touch of it.
It is a futile thing--and the cause of a train of futilities--to
hail "style" as though it were a separable quality in literature,
Aphra Behn's resounding song is to be praised.  But it IS the
style--implying the reckless and majestic heart--that first takes
HYMN (The spacious firmament on high)
genius, magical in spite of the limited diction.
Also in spite of limited diction--the sign of thought closing in,
counterfeit.  Yet Pope's Elegy begins by stealing and translating
opening of Ben Jonson's -
"What beckoning ghost, besprent with April dew,
Hails me so solemnly to yonder yew?"
"What beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?"
Yet they are not lost.  Pope's awe and ardour are authentic, and
Cowper, again, by the very directness of human feeling makes his
narrowing English a means of absolutely direct communication.  Of
This fragment (the only fragment, properly so called, in the
present collection) so pleased Wordsworth that he wished he had
written the lines.  They are very gently touched.
When Blake writes of sleep and dreams he writes under the very
It is not necessary to write notes on Wordsworth's sonnets--the
greatest sonnets in our literature; but it would be well to warn
editors how they print this one sonnet; "I wished to share the
heart-moving poem, 'Tis said that some have died for love, is
Wordsworth to be confessed as an impassioned poet.
"This beast not unobserved by Nature fell,
His death was mourned by sympathy divine."
And the signs of that sympathy are cruelly asserted to be these
arid woodland ruins--cruelly, because the common sight of the day
"The Being that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creature whom He loves."
We must shut our ears because the poet offers us, as a proof of
that "reverential care," the visible alteration of nature at the
scene of suffering--an alteration we are obliged to dispense with
Wordsworth himself believed in a sympathy he asks us--upon such
To choose from Wordsworth is to draw close a net with very large
supremely beautiful but exceedingly Wordsworthian.
Close to the marvellous Kubla Khan--a poem that wrests the secret
Age as the best specimen of Coleridge's poetry that is quite
likeness to "some poor nigh-related guest" with the three lines
that follow is too squalid for poetry, or prose, or thought.
This poem is surely more full of a certain quality of extreme
Page 265 (Are those her ribs through which the Sun)
impossibly placed a star WITHIN the tip of the crescent.
Page 266 (I feer thee, ancient Mariner!)
perhaps the most beautiful passage in the poem," adds one critic
Coleridge reveals, throughout this poem, an exaltation of the
senses, which is the most poetical thing that can befall a simple
supernatural stanzas on page 271; and, for touch, to the line -
"And still my body drank."
One really fine and poetic stanza--of course, the third; three
stanzas that are good eloquence--the fourth, fifth, and seventh;
and one that is a fair bit of argument--the tenth--may together
perhaps carry the rest.
The profounder spirit of Shelley's poem yet leaves it a careless
Dissyllabic rhymes are beautiful and enriching when they fall in
the right place; that is, where there is a pause for the second
little syllable to stand.  For example, they could not be better
This magnificent poem is surely the greatest of a great poses
writings, and one of the most splendid poems on nature and on
poetry in a literature resounding with odes on these enormous
themes.
No need to point to a poem that so shines as does this lucent
verse.
Keats is here the magical poet, as he is the intellectual poet in
fact he was.
Of the five odes of Keats, the Nightingale is perhaps the most
perfect, and certainly the most imaginative.  But the Grecian Urn
which this fancy sports are amongst the loveliest in all
rather weak and its sentiment effusive.  It has a touch of the
deadly sickliness of Endymion.  None the less does it remain just
eloquent Melancholy more narrowly escapes exclusion from that
group.