Quotes about Byron, page 2
Tennyson
Poets they do pursue each theme
Under a gentle head of steam,
Save one, who needed fierce fire on,
The brilliant, passionate Byron.
His Child Harold's Pilgrimage
Forever will the world engage.
He fought, with glory, to release
From Turkish yoke the Isle of Greece ;
Her glories oft by him were sung,
This wondrous bard, alas, died young.
poem by James McIntyre
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Antagonishtic - Parody Hughes MEARNS Antagonish and Thomas PERCY Warkworth Hermit
As I was strolling down Fleet Street
I met three tweeters texting fleet,
then Time defeated one more day,
and when one sun set where were they?
1 November 2009
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robi03_193 3_mear01_0004
See
Thomas Percy: Warkworth
Samuel Johnson
Hughes Mearns: Antagonish et al
Last line parody of Lord BYRON Destruction of Sennacherib
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Us Potes
Swift was sweet on Stella;
Poe had his Lenore;
Burns' fancy turned to Nancy
And a dozen more.
Poe was quite a trifler;
Goldsmith was a case;
Byron'd flirt with any skirt
From Liverpool to Thrace.
Sheridan philandered;
Shelley, Keats, and Moore
All were there with some affair
Far from lit'rachoor.
Fickle is the heart of
Each immortal bard.
Mine alone is made of stone-
Gotta work too hard.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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She Walks With A Kind Of Innocence (Novelinee)
(after Lord George Gordon Byron)
The soft glowing radiance of her face
with hair tumbling down in a auburn tress
brings to her a unnamed kind of grace,
her thoughts do only loveliness express
as she walks with a kind of innocence
and when I meet the glance of her dear eyes
in them I can find no kind of offence,
any self-centeredness, her expressions denies,
they twinkle like the sun, like starry skies.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Diabolick!
(Byron's governess, May Gray, would come to bed with him at night
and 'play tricks with his person'. According to Byron, this 'caused
the anticipated melancholy of my thoughts—having anticipated life') .
I lay awake, most every night,
Tucked in my bed at Aberdeen,
And waited for that footstep light,
My Governess, my Demon Queen.
I was but nine, or ten at most
When she climbed underneath my sheet,
I heard her breathing in my head
Her hands, ice cold about my feet.
And she would whisper soft to me
Would play strange tricks to rouse me there,
My teeth would chatter in my sleep,
Across my face, her perfumed hair.
Her lips were red, would seek my mouth
[...] Read more
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Lines In The Travellers' Book At Orchomenus
In this book a traveller had written:
'Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
To trace the birth and nursery of art:
Noble his object, glorious is his aim;
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name.'
BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING.
The modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse,
His name would bring more credit than his verse.
What A Writer
what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.
how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.
of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Old Environment
I used to think that this environ-
Ment talk was all a lot of guff;
Place mattered not with Keats and Byron
Stuff.
If I have thoughts that need disclosing,
Bright be the day or hung with gloom,
I'll write in Heaven or the composing-
Room.
Times are when with my nerves a-tingle,
Joyous and bright the songs I sing;
Though, gay, I can't dope out a single
Thing.
And yet, by way of illustration,
The gods my graying head annoint . . .
I wrote this piece at Inspiration
point.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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The old tree weeps
The old tree weeps, its branches low
bend over a path, winding slow
through tilting, toppling, broken stones
fading remains of treasured bones
hidden where moss and ivy grow.
Here lies John Peachey of Harrow
On which Byron sought long ago
phrases of love, amongst deaths thrones,
the old tree weeps.
Where young Allegra's remains know
that words are not enough to show
the lives that die beneath headstones
she was denied one of her own
her father's sins repaid her, so
the old tree weeps.
poem by Diana Rosser
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Apollo's Quill
Writing is tough but made easy
When I'm not lazy
When I'm not crazy
But choosy
About this brand of pen
Its ink a brand won..
Writing
In a style written golden
People rating it to number one
And calling it their way..
Blake and Byron one day
Yeats and Keats another day
Milton and Middleton any day
And words worth this pen
Naming it after an Indian
Kabir or Tagore or Amir
Kannadhasan or Bharathidhasan or Bharathiar..
This pen of poets
[...] Read more
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Ode To The Unfinished Poem
Some say that it’s no use,
crying over spilt ink
The piece is done
-now leave it in the moment
Take the time to feel the flowers;
absorb inhale aroma
a 'literreal ambrosia
But:
by the blue-blooded balls of Byron and
Billy Butler Ba-Buckin-eh Yeats
I so swear:
[...] Read more
poem by Randy Resh
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Momus
"Where's the need of singing now?"--
Smooth your brow,
Momus, and be reconciled.
For king Kronos is a child--
Child and father,
Or god rather,
And all gods are wild.
"Who reads Byron any more?"--
Shut the door
Momus, for I feel a draught;
Shut it quick, for some one laughed.--
What's become of
Browning? Some of
Wordsworth lumbers like a raft?
"What are poets to find here?"--
Have no fear:
When the stars are shining blue
There will yet be left a few
[...] Read more
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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I am the sin you never confessed
I am the sin you have never confessed,
offense you have wished to commit but have not
because you’re afraid to come out of the nest
where you rest in retreat, always fearing to blot
the copybook no one will look at but you,
while I remain part of you that, though essential
for all of your happiness, trusty and true,
can’t force you to reach me or your own potential.
Inspired by a poet who read Shakespeare’s Sonnet XXVII and Byron’s “When we Two Parted” before reading a poem of his own which had the line “I am the sin you’ve never confessed”.
11/22/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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On a Fork of Byron's
Like any other fork.—No mark you meet with
To point some psychological conceit with.
An ordinary fork. A fork to eat with.
No individuality of fashion:
No stamp of frenzy fine, or poet-passion;
An article in no respect Parnassian.
No muse “with ivy never sere” hath decked it:
In fact, it would be foolish to expect it.
I question if the muses recollect it.
A plain straightforward fork; yet interesting,
As to the world in general attesting
That poetizing hinges on digesting.
A fork not standing on its merits merely,
But, being Byron's, testifying clearly
That verse and victuals are related nearly.
Quite genuine; crest and all; a fork to swear by;
[...] Read more
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Self Myth
Flamingo flames as dangerous as doubt
I doubt your sincere whispers
Concave of fear
The little elves are tattle tales
You bookmark the ages of sanity
Lean on the cathedral of choice
Others have made your choice
Your brave identity is fabricated
Noble Shelley rests by Keats
Adjectives in earth's karmic venue
Blight of the forlorn swords
Knowledge is the sorrow of time
Remember the witch of Macbeth?
Byron dies in Greece
Paris cafe with dim light
Mistress of the ravens talon
[...] Read more
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Sonnet To Byron
Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow;
Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
poem by John Keats
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To Byron
Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow;
Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
poem by John Keats
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Thomas Campbell
As musings on Banks of Canadian Thames doth not necessarily consist of
meditations in verse, but the monotony of the cogitations may be relieved by a
soliloquy in prose, and as Campbell manifested a deep interest in American subjects,
we will give the following anecdote related by that genial American Author Washington
Irvine, to Sir Walter Scott. Irvine, while in Britian, visited Campbell, but found him absent
and he expressed a regret to Campbells wife that her husband did not write more. She said
that he was timid and he felt Byron and Scott o'ershadow him with their great poems. Sir
Walter replied, ' I myself produce pebbles, Scottish pebbles, but Campbell is the creator of
Diamonds of the first water.' Byron also expressed himself in a similar strain as follows :-
'Arise, O Campbell, give thy talents scope ;
Who dares aspire if thou has ceased to hope '
Campbell wrote thus of America in the beginning of the century, and by comparing the facts
as he describes them it shows the wonderous strides which the United States, especially,
have taken on the Banks of Lake Erie, as Lake Ontario seems to be favorite location for
Canadian cities.
On Erie's banks were tigers steal along,
And the dread Indian chaunts his dismal song.
[...] Read more
poem by James McIntyre
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On Exaggerated Deference To Foreign Literary Opinion
What! and shall _we_, with such submissive airs
As age demands in reverence from the young,
Await these crumbs of praise from Europe flung,
And doubt of our own greatness till it bears
The signet of your Goethes or Voltaires?
We who alone in latter times have sung
With scarce less power than Arno's exiled tongue--
We who are Milton's kindred, Shakespeare's heirs.
The prize of lyric victory who shall gain
If ours be not the laurel, ours the palm?
More than the froth and flotsam of the Seine,
More than your Hugo-flare against the night,
And more than Weimar's proud elaborate calm,
One flash of Byron's lightning, Wordsworth's light.
poem by William Watson
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Off Mesolongi
The lights of Mesolongi gleam
Before me, now the day is gone;
And vague as leaf on drifting stream,
My keel glides on.
No mellow moon, no stars arise;
In other lands they shine and roam:
All I discern are darkening skies
And whitening foam.
So on those lights I gaze that seem
Ghosts of the beacons of my youth,
Ere, rescued from their treacherous gleam,
I steered towards truth.
And you, too, Byron, did awake,
And ransomed from the cheating breath
Of living adulation, stake
Greatness on death!
[...] Read more
poem by Alfred Austin
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