WHOSE is the love that, gleaming through the world,
Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn?
Whose is the warm and partial praise,
Virtue's most sweet reward?
Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul
Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow?
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on,
And loved mankind the more?
Harriet! on thine :—thou wert my purer mind;
Thou wert the Inspiration of my song;
Thine are these early wilding flowers,
Though garlanded by me.
Then press into thy breast this pledge of love,
And know, though time may change and years may roll,
Each flow'ret gathered in my heart
It consecrates to thine.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, April 06, 2009
To Harriet*****
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Dear Sean,
ReplyDeleteThis is cheap poetry, English platitute..while the Irish writers and poets, sweeped, in one sentence. their idiotry away; you know that I prefer the good old Frankfurter Schule and the Latin/South American poets and writers who can touch my soul.)!
Kindest
Hans
Shelley believed all that when he wrote it. Some flowers die. New ones blossom. It's life...
ReplyDeleteGreat comments!
ReplyDeleteFor a while I shall lean back and indulge in (smiling) taciturnity.
Go on talking.
Dear Hans,
ReplyDeleteFrankfurter Schule? Do you mean German poetry? I love it too, specially 'Der Panther' of Rilke.
But Shelley and Byron have a special place in my heart. They lived what they wrote. It took courage, and it wasn't boring. To each, his own, of course.
I'm quite versatile in my taste for poetry. I'm sure I would appreciate your Latin/South American writers as well. My soul is very hospitable.:) :) :)
All the best,
Claude
Claudia, I have noticed from your wonderful comments over the months that you are truly a kind person and have a great open heart.... :)
ReplyDeleteWhen we praise C'est La Craic, he says, "Well, if you insist."
ReplyDeleteThank you, Nevin! May I send your generous appreciation to my 92-year-old half-sister? She's still trying to raise me up, and a bit discouraged at times by her lack of success. Maybe your words will give her hope...All the best to you, and yours.
Yes Claudia, but you don't have to insist very hard:)
ReplyDeleteTroglodyte that I am, I'm unfamiliar with Shelley or Schule, but I will stick with that most immeasurable of poets, Dr. Seuss.
You don't have to understand it, just laugh and enjoy the ludicousness and insanity of it all.
Much like life
Night All
That should be ludicrousness
ReplyDeleteDamn you google comment box, and your infernal ineditability, damn you to hell !!
I have a soft spot for Percy B. It's only in the last few years that I have started to read poetry again. A bit of MacG or McI can be fun, but give me something sublime and I am a happy man... be it Rilke, Yeats or Farrokhzad!
ReplyDeleteLate but ... well, that's me. :)
ReplyDeleteTo cut it once again short: I enjoyed this conversation very much.
As with so many 'things': The beauty of a (very) poem lies in the eyes of its beholder - and sometimes, if not often, those eyes are under the influence of their beholder's momentary mood.