The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft Īnd gathering swallows twitter in the glades.Įlizabeth Barrett Browning’s most famous poem is a love sonnet, taken from a celebrated collection of love sonnets. Hedge-crickets sing and now with treble soft Or sinking as the light wind lives or fades Īnd full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,Īnd touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:Īnd sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ĭrows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Until they think warm days will never cease,įor summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. With a sweet kernel to set budding more,Īnd still more, later flowers for the bees, To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,Īnd fill all fruit with ripeness to the core With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run
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The poem also encourages readers to find and celebrate the beauty and necessity in things, like the cold and brown of autumn, that might, at first, seem unpleasant or not worth noticing.Ĭonspiring with him how to load and bless John Keats’ ode to perhaps the least-romanticized of the seasons is mostly a catalogue of remarkable and beautiful detail and naturalistic imagery. The lone and level sands stretch far away.” Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,Īnd wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Who said-“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone If even the mighty “King of Kings” is now fallen, buried in the sand and forgotten, how can ordinary people hope to escape the same fate, without even a statue to remind subsequent generations of their names? Percy Shelley’s most acclaimed and famous poem addresses, in all of fourteen lines, the enormity of time, the inevitability of death, and the necessity of all people being condemned to obscurity. My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.Īnd yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
That music hath a far more pleasing sound I love to hear her speak, yet well I know Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I have seen roses damasked, red and white,Īnd in some perfumes is there more delight If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun Ĭoral is far more red than her lips’ red
Sonnet 130 parodies the over-the-top metaphors and comparisons often used by writers of romantic poetry while still expressing a love as deep, if not deeper, for the poet’s muse. While William Shakespeare is best known among the general public for his many brilliant plays, scholars have also been endlessly fascinated by his poetry, particularly his extensive collection of love sonnets. Sonnet 130: My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun
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