Name That Poet

[prezbucky]

One good way to learn a language (really learn it) is to read some of the poetry of that language.

In that vein, hopefully this topic will foment the reading of English/American (et al.) poetry.

Here's the deal:

Someone will post a poem, without the title (makes it a bit harder to search for the poem on the web).

Whoever guesses the author gets to post the next poem.

This one's easy (probably). Who wrote it?:

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
_________________
Billie Jean is not my lover. Hee.

[Alan]

Hi,

That's by William Butler Yeats.

A
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English as a Second Language
You can read my ESL story Too Many Words

[Alan]

Hi,

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

A
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English as a Foreign Language
You can read my EFL story A funny thing happened...

[prezbucky]

Shakespeare

----------------

When some proud son of man returns to
earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of
woe,
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have
been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's
own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him
alone,
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on
earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be for-
given,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with
disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush
for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on - it honors none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones
arise;
I never knew but one, - and here he lies.
_________________
Billie Jean is not my lover. Hee.

[Torsten]

Hmm, maybe Seamus Heaney?
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Test Of English for International Communication
TOEIC Preparation & TOEIC Vocabulary

[prezbucky]

incorrect!

hint:

He wrote some of his best stuff while vacationing in the Cinqueterra region of Italy, back in the 19th century.

He is known as one of Britain's top poets of all time. (Top 20 or so, at least)
_________________
Billie Jean is not my lover. Hee.

[Conchita]

Lord Byron
******************************************

Here goes another poem:

The wintry haw is burning out of season,
crab of the thorn, a small light for small people,
wanting no more from them but that they keep
the wick of self-respect from dying out,
not having to blind them with illumination.

But sometimes when your breath plumes in the frost
it takes the roaming shape of Diogenes
with his lantern, seeking one just man;
so you end up scrutinized from behind the haw
he holds up at eye-level on its twig,
and you flinch before its bonded pith and stone,
its blood-prick that you wish would test and clear you,
its pecked-at ripeness that scans you, then moves on.

[Dark magician]

Hi,everybody!

I guess this poem wrote by Seamus Heaney
and he got The Nobel Prize in Literature 1995

********************************

this another poem

Meet Kiera

I was once asked by someone
who had never met Kiera
if we called her ''Pudding''
because she was fat?!
Which I have to say
had me in stitches
for ages afterwards!
We call her pudding
because she has to be
the most softest thing
on four legs that ever there was....
hence 'big soft pudding'
and it just stuck! In a lot of ways
she reminds me of Tommy.

Mba
_________________
Right is always stronger than iniquity.

[Alan]

Hi,

Now for something a little different:

The Jumblies

They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, `You'll all be drowned!'
They called aloud, `Our Sieve ain't big,
But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!
In a Sieve we'll go to sea!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
`O won't they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, `How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
`O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a Sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

And in twenty years they all came back,
In twenty years or more,
And every one said, `How tall they've grown!
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore!'
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And every one said, `If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,---
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

A
_________________
English as a Second Language
You can read my ESL story Words, words, words...

[prezbucky]

Edward Lear

----------------------------

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
_________________
Billie Jean is not my lover. Hee.

[aereal]

[Yankee]

Hi aereal

That was a very clever solution! But you forgot something. Where is the next poem by the next "mystery poet"?

Amy
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Amy
.
ESL teacher, translator, and a native speaker of American English

[aereal]

ups... my bad... sorry!
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///////////////////////////

A little sea sprite,
on the sea one night,
Cried "Now is the time for me,"
And he looked above,
And he looked for his love;
For he was in love, you see.

But his love was a star
In the sky a-far,
And she knew not his love so true;
So he tried to think
Of a magic link
'Twixt the sea and the sky so blue.

Then out of the sky,
From the moon on high,
A silvery moonbeam fell;
And it fell on the brine,
With its wonderful shine,
On the brine where the sea sprites dwell.

Though the siren sing
Where the sea bells ring
And the sleepy poppies dream—
Though the sea sprite knew
Their songs untrue,
He knew not the false moonbeam.

For the way seemed clear
To his love so dear,
And he needn't have wings to fly;
Up its silvery stream
He would climb by the beam,
He would climb right into the sky.

Up the glittering step
He carefully crept,
While his heart beat a merry tune;
But O what a fright
To the poor little sprite,
When he came to the crescent moon.

Alas! and A-lack!
He couldn't get back,
For the moonbeams flew away;
And the stars in the sky
Knew not he was nigh,
Or that he had lost his way.

There he sat forlorn,
On the crescent horn,
And thought of his home in the sea
Of his brothers at play
All the livelong day
On the foam so fresh and free.

Then he saw his star,
In her golden car,
As she twinkled above his head;
And he sobbed and sighed,
And woefully cried
That he wished—he wished he was dead.

But the little the star heard
His every word,
And thrilled at his musical voice
Like the tinkling of bells,
Or the songs of shells,
And it bade her heart rejoice,

For she was lonely and sad,
And no lover had;
And she'd twinkled so long up there,
It had often been said
That she never would wed—
And yet she was wonderous fair,

But often she'd seen,
On the ocean green,
The sea sprite who had loved her so;
Though he came not to woo,
She had loved him too,
Yet she never would tell him—oh no.

But as she looked down
On the lover she'd found —
The story is strange to relate —
She sprang from her car,
For the height was no bar,
And hurried to join her mate.

Oh how her heart beat,
As she leaped from her seat,
And fell to the moon below;
And the stars were aghast,
As she darted past,
And they all said "I told you so."

And her golden hair,
As she fell through the air,
Shown bright like a comet's tail;
While the people on earth,
All ceased from their mirth
As they watched her fiery trail.

Not a bit too soon,
She came to the moon,
Where she grasped her lover's hand;
And they sang with glee,
As they splashed in the sea,
Right into the sea sprite's land.

And the sea o' nights
Is bright with lights,
Whenever they're out to play
For the white sea foam
Is their beautiful home,
Where they live forever and aye.

[prezbucky]

Well since the word "aye" is in it, I figured it'd be from Robert Burns.... but a web search of the lines has turned up nothing but a bunch of MySpace-ish crud from 12-year-olds (NTTAWWT-Y-Os) about Love, Stars, Sea, and Sprite.

So I'm going to guess that YOU wrote it, aereal!

-------------------------------------------------------

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
_________________
Billie Jean is not my lover. Hee.

[Yankee]

.
I think The Call of the Wild has something in common with aereal's poem, Tom.

Your poet: Robert Frost
---------------------------

In Congress once great Mowther shone,
Debating weighty matters;
Now into an asylum thrown,
He vacuously chatters.

If in that legislative hall
His wisdom still he'd vented,
It never had been known at all
That Mowther was demented.


_________________
Amy
.
ESL teacher, translator, and a native speaker of American English