Nineteenth-Century American Poetry (Penguin Classics)
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Whitman, Dickinson, and Melville occupy the center of this anthology of nearly three hundred poems, spanning the course of the century, from Joel Barlow to Edwin Arlington Robinson, by way of Bryant, Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Poe, Holmes, Jones Very, Thoreau, Lowell, and Lanier.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
music leaves the palace guest, And falls to dreaming here upon my breast. Yet, spite of all, sometimes my Prison shakes With the great yearning of a heart that aches. Oh! that its lonesome roof would fall to-night, And show me for an instant—something White! 1877 ANSWERING A CHILD But if I should ask the king?— He could if he would? Ah, no. Though he took from his hand the ring, Though he took from his head the crown— In the dust I should lay them down. If I sat at a fairy’s feet?— A
mentally ill mother. 77 Head of an urban political machine. 78 Two of the four magic gifts conferred upon the hero of the nursery tale “Jack the Giant Killer.” 79 In carpentry: cross-braced. 80 Keelson. 81 (Slang) A black American. 82 An extended hand spoke on a ship’s wheel. 83 Quaker name for Sunday and Whitman’s coinage from the verb “loaf.” 84 A journeyman in that trade. 85 (Chatahoochee) Rivers in Louisiana. 86 Whitman’s coinage: syphilitic. 87 Paper envelope containing a medical
of the lion;15 Grafts gentlest scion On pirate and Turk. The Cossack eats Poland, Like stolen fruit; Her last noble is ruined, Her last poet mute: Straight, into double band The victors divide; Half for freedom strike and stand;— The astonished Muse finds thousands at her side. 1847 MERLIN I Thy trivial harp will never please Or fill my craving ear; Its chords should ring as blows the breeze, Free, peremptory, clear. No jingling serenader’s art, Nor tinkle of piano strings, Can
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?39 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,40 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the
DWELL Brother where dost thou dwell? What sun shines for thee now? Dost thou indeed farewell? As we wished here below. What season didst thou find? ’Twas winter here. Are not the fates more kind Than they appear? Is thy brow clear again As in thy youthful years? And was that ugly pain The summit of thy fears? Yet thou wast cheery still, They could not quench thy fire, Thou dids’t abide their will, And then retire. Where chiefly shall I look To feel thy presence near? Along the