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Poetry   (under construction)

Don't Trust In Self...

Don’t trust in self, my dreamer young, don’t trust,
Beware, like ulcers, inspiration…

Muse

When, in the night, I wait for her, impatient,

Inspiration Point, Letchworth Park

Ah, Nature! never hast thou thrilled me so,
 

 

Title/ First Line Poet Comments
     
An Inspiration Ella Wheeler Wilcox  I like her  poetry. It's easy to read and follow.
    However the battle is ended,
     
Inspiration Ella Wheeler Wilcox  
    NOT like a daring, bold, aggressive boy,
    Is inspiration, eager to pursue,
     

The Muse And The Poet

 Ella Wheeler Wilcox  
    The Muse said, Let us sing a little song
     

The Poet And His Songs

 Ella Wheeler Wilcox  
    Unto the source of song, that unseen place
     
 I Don't Deplore the Years... Aleksandr Pushkin Translated by Yevgeny Bonver
    I don't deplore the years of my spring,
Muse Aleksandr Pushkin Translated by Yevgeny Bonver,  Puskin reminisces  about his inspiration of youth.  
    In my youth's years, she loved me, I am sure.
     
To the Muse Aleksandr Blok  
   In your hidden memories
To the Muses William Blake:
   Whether on Ida's shady brow,
     
Farewell To The Muse Lord Byron:  
   Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
     

Teares Of The Muses

 Edmund Spenser  
Rehearse to me ye sacred Sisters nine:
     
Inspiration Robert Service  
     
     
 

 

Poems By Famous poets.

 

The Poet and His Songs - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As the birds come in the spring
We know not from where
As the stars come at evening
From depths of the air; …
So come to the poet his songs,
All hitherward blown
From the misty realm, that belongs
To the vast unknown
-----------
 

 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse
Was tender, musical, and terse;
The inspiration, the delight,
The gleam, the glory, the swift flight,
Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem
The revelations of a dream,
        

 


ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: I  - SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586)

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,--
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,--
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn'd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows;
And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
 "Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."

 

 Midsummer Night's Dream's - William Shakespeare

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name. 
 

 

BARDs - From the lores Of our Timeless Myths.' - From Unknown Bard.
 

'Sing O Muse,
Sing to us of the glorious gods,
Who ruled the land and sea.
And tell us
Of the fair beauty of the goddesses
Who dwell in Eternal Olympus.'
'Sing to us, O Muse: Of Ages that has come to past,
Of those mighty warriors
Wielding their dreaded spears,

 

 

 

 

(Muses) -   from The Odes of Horace
 

Am I mad, or does the Muse call out to me?
Don't you hear her? Don't you hear her
in the rustling leaves, in the wind's soft voice,
in the water's laughter? Don't you hear her?

If this is madness, let me go insane!
Let me go in search of her, calling out
to the bright sky: descend, singing goddess,
descend! Bring us your immortal music:

the sound of flutes playing like wind
over bending grass, the sound of strings
plucked like sudden sunshine, the clear bell
of your voice thrilling through the world.
            

http://members.tripod.com/bob_newcumnock/burnscorsen/Corsenconx.html

 O WERE I on Parnassus hill,
Or had o' Helicon my fill,
That I might catch poetic skill,
To sing how dear I love thee !