A Good day to Read Poetry

It is V-day, and although an Australian friend calls this "American rubbish", I must admit that today is a good day to read poetry. One grows rich just by reading these classics.

Acquainted with the Night by: Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, O luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.

I Arise from Dreams of Thee

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I ARISE from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Has led me -- who knows how? --

To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent stream, --

The champak odors fall

Like sweet thoughts in a dream,

The nightingale's complaint,

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine,

O, beloved as thou art!

O, lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fall!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale,

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My Heart beats loud and fast

Oh! press it close to thine again,

Where it will break at last!




Sonnet XXX by William Shakespeare

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.