Here is a short movie by Ralf Kleemann featuring a poetic reading of Edgar Allan Poe’s A Dream Within a Dream.
Tag Archive for poetry
This is writely applied Edgar Allan Poe inspired fun. A poetic rendering of Humpty Dumpty to the rhyme of The Raven. Short and sweet…or bitter sweet?
T. S. Eliot was born September 26, 1888.
Here is a presentation of T.S. Eliot’s The Hollow Men set to Pink Floyd music.
I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections, and the truth of imagination.
- John Keats
John Keats left for Italy on September 17, 1820 with hopes of a recovery from tuberculosis. Unfortunately it was his last destination as he would be gone the following February leaving behind his beloved Fanny Brawne and the only friend to accompany him and nurse him in his last days, Joseph Severn.
Keat’s poetry as music…
Stafylakis – Keats Cycle – 2 The day is gone
The Day is Gone, and all its Sweets are Gone
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone,
Bright eyes, accomplished shape, and lang’rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise -
Vanished unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday -or holinight
Of fragrant-curtained love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
But, as I’ve read love’s missal through today,
He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
My life has been the poem I would have writ,
But I could not both live and utter it.
On Sep 6, 1847, Henry David Thoreau leaves his home on Walden to move into the home of Ralph Waldo Emerson, his mentor. Nothing describes who Henry David Thoreau was more than his own words. His appreciation for nature and his surroundings speaks volumes and as a reader, we are thankful that the city life was not for him.
An excerpt from Where I Lived, and What I Lived For
Walden Or Life In The Woods by Henry David Thoreau
The only house I had been the owner of before, if I except a boat, was a tent, which I used occasionally when making excursions in the summer, and this is still rolled up in my garret; but the boat, after passing from hand to hand, has gone down the stream of time. With this more substantial shelter about me, I had made some progress toward settling in the world. This frame, so slightly clad, was a sort of crystallization around me, and reacted on the builder. It was suggestive somewhat as a picture in outlines. I did not need to go outdoors to take the air, for the atmosphere within had lost none of its freshness. It was not so much within doors as behind a door where I sat, even in the rainiest weather. The Harivansa says, “An abode without birds is like a meat without seasoning.” Such was not my abode, for I found myself suddenly neighbor to the birds; not by having imprisoned one, but having caged myself near them. I was not only nearer to some of those which commonly frequent the garden and the orchard, but to those smaller and more thrilling songsters of the forest which never, or rarely, serenade a villager – the wood thrush, the veery, the scarlet tanager, the field sparrow, the whip-poor-will, and many others.