Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on. Considered a poetic fragment, I find these two verses by Shelley complete in their simplicity. Unlike …
Continue reading Poetry: Shelley – Music, When Soft Voices Die
The age demanded that we singAnd cut away our tongue.The age demanded that we flowAnd hammered in the bung.The age demanded that we danceAnd jammed us into iron pants.And in the end the age was handedThe sort of shit that it demanded. The amusing thing about this poem is that I cannot tell exactly which …
When my love swears that she is made of truth,I do believe her, though I know she lies,That she might think me some untutored youth,Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties.Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,Although she knows my days are past the best,Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:On both sides thus is simple …
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:Petals on a wet, black bough.Pound One of my favorite poems, "In a Station of the Metro" is a piece of Imagist poetry depicting the briefest moment of time in crisp language and quick emotion. While I seldom like modernist poetry, this one has always fascinated me. Unlike …
"The news of a day I've forgotten -- If I ever read it." -Robert Frost "A Patch of Old Snow
Madelyn Rose Craig 