My Top Ten Poems of the Nineteenth Century
The Lady of Shalott (1842)
Lord Alfred Tennyson
Part I
On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro’ the field the road runs byTo many-tower’d Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThro’ the wave that runs for everBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil’d,Slide the heavy barges trail’dBy slow horses; and unhail’dThe shallop flitteth silken-sail’dSkimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to tower’d Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers “’Tis the fairyLady of Shalott.”
Part II
There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colours gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro’ a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village-churls,And the red cloaks of market girls,Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,Goes by to tower’d Camelot;And sometimes thro’ the mirror blueThe knights come riding two and two:She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror’s magic sights,For often thro’ the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lightsAnd music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed;“I am half sick of shadows,” saidThe Lady of Shalott.
Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,He rode between the barley-sheaves,The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight for ever kneel’dTo a lady in his shield,That sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazon’d baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armour rung,Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,The helmet and the helmet-featherBurn’d like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often thro’ the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flow’dHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flash’d into the crystal mirror,“Tirra lirra,” by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro’ the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She look’d down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror crack’d from side to side;“The curse is come upon me,” criedThe Lady of Shalott.
Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver tower’d Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wroteThe Lady of Shalott.
And down the river’s dim expanseLike some bold seër in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Thro’ the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darken’d wholly,Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.For ere she reach’d upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,Dead-pale between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they cross’d themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, “She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott.”
Ozymandias (1818)
Percy Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land,Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;And on the pedestal, these words appear:My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal Wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.”
The Bells (1849)
Edgar Allan Poe
IHear the sledges with the bells—Silver bells!What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars that oversprinkleAll the heavens, seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the tintinnabulation that so musically wellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
IIHear the mellow wedding bells—Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight!—From the molten-golden notes,And all in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloatsOn the moon!Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwellsOn the Future!—how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
IIIHear the loud alarum bells—Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!In the startled ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,Leaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desire,And a resolute endeavorNow—now to sit or never,By the side of the pale-faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells!What a tale their terror tellsOf Despair!How they clang, and clash, and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear it fully knows,By the twanging,And the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows;Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the jangling,And the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—Of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IVHear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells!What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affrightAt the melancholy menace of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throatsIs a groan.And the people—ah, the people—They that dwell up in the steeple,All alone,And who tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute nor human—They are Ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls,RollsA pæan from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the pæan of the bells!And he dances, and he yells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the pæan of the bells—Of the bells:Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the throbbing of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells—To the sobbing of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rhyme,To the rolling of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells—To the tolling of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells—Bells, bells, bells—To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
If— (written 1895, published 1910)
Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you,If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too;If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breathe a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,If all men count with you, but none too much;If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
How Do I Love Thee (1850)
Elizabeth Barret Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of being and ideal grace.I love thee to the level of every day’sMost quiet need, by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for right;I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.I love thee with the passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.
The Raven (1845)
Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and storeCaught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden boreOf ‘Never—nevermore.’”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent theeRespite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted—nevermore!
Because I Could Not Stop for Death (1890)
Emily Dickinson
Because I could not stop for Death –He kindly stopped for me –The Carriage held but just Ourselves –And Immortality.
We slowly drove – He knew no hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess – in the Ring –We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed Us –The Dews drew quivering and chill –For only Gossamer, my Gown –My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemedA Swelling of the Ground –The Roof was scarcely visible –The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses’ HeadsWere toward Eternity –
Jabberwocky (1871)
Lewis Carroll
’Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe:All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!Beware the Jubjub bird, and shunThe frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;Long time the manxome foe he sought—So rested he by the Tumtum treeAnd stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and throughThe vorpal blade went snicker-snack!He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?Come to my arms, my beamish boy!O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe:All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.
Ulalume (1847)
Edgar Allan Poe
The skies they were ashen and sober;The leaves they were crispèd and sere—The leaves they were withering and sere;It was night in the lonesome OctoberOf my most immemorial year;It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,In the misty mid region of Weir—It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic,Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.These were days when my heart was volcanicAs the scoriac rivers that roll—As the lavas that restlessly rollTheir sulphurous currents down YaanekIn the ultimate climes of the pole—That groan as they roll down Mount YaanekIn the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—Our memories were treacherous and sere—For we knew not the month was October,And we marked not the night of the year—(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)We noted not the dim lake of Auber—(Though once we had journeyed down here)—Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescentAnd star-dials pointed to morn—As the star-dials hinted of morn—At the end of our path a liquescentAnd nebulous lustre was born,Out of which a miraculous crescentArose with a duplicate horn—Astarte’s bediamonded crescentDistinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said—“She is warmer than Dian:She rolls through an ether of sighs—She revels in a region of sighs:She has seen that the tears are not dry onThese cheeks, where the worm never dies,And has come past the stars of the LionTo point us the path to the skies—To the Lethean peace of the skies—Come up, in despite of the Lion,To shine on us with her bright eyes—Come up through the lair of the Lion,With love in her luminous eyes.”
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust—Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger!Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.”In terror she spoke, letting sink herWings until they trailed in the dust—In agony sobbed, letting sink herPlumes till they trailed in the dust—Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming:Let us on by this tremulous light!Let us bathe in this crystalline light!Its Sybilic splendor is beamingWith Hope and in Beauty to-night:—See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,And be sure it will lead us aright—We safely may trust to a gleamingThat cannot but guide us aright,Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,And tempted her out of her gloom—And conquered her scruples and gloom;And we passed to the end of the vista,But were stopped by the door of a tomb—By the door of a legended tomb;And I said—“What is written, sweet sister,On the door of this legended tomb?”She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume—’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”
Then my heart it grew ashen and soberAs the leaves that were crispèd and sere—As the leaves that were withering and sere,And I cried—“It was surely OctoberOn this very night of last yearThat I journeyed—I journeyed down here—That I brought a dread burden down here—On this night of all nights in the year,Ah, what demon has tempted me here?Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—This misty mid region of Weir—Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”
Lower to the Level (1844)
Frances Osgood
Yes! “lower to the level”Of those who laud thee now:Go! join the joyous revel,And pledge the heartless vow;Go! dim the soul-born beautyThat lights that lofty brow!Fill, fill the bowl! let burning wineDrown, in thy soul, Love’s dream divine!
Yet when the laugh is lightest,When wildest goes the jest,When gleams the goblet brightest,And proudest heaves thy breast,And thou art madly pledgingEach gay and jovial guest,—A ghost shall glide amid the flowers—The shade of Love’s departed hours!
And thou shalt shrink in sadnessFrom all the splendor there,And curse the revel’s gladness,And hate the banquet’s glare,And pine, ’mid Passion’s madness,For true Love’s purer air,And feel thou’dst give their wildest gleeFor one unsullied sigh from me!
Yet deem not this my prayer, love,Ah! no! if I could keepThy alter’d heart from care, love,And charm its griefs to sleep,Mine only should despair, love,I—I alone would weep!I—I alone would mourn the flowersThat fade in Love’s deserted bowers!
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