POETRY Page

JOHN MILTON'S PARADISE LOST, BOOK IV,

LINES 1 TO 171

O For that warning voice, which he who saw

Th' Apocalyps, heard cry in Heaven aloud,
Then when the Dragon, put to second rout,
Came furious down to be reveng'd on men,
Wo to the inhabitants on Earth! that now, [ 5 ]
While time was, our first-Parents had bin
warnd
The coming of thir secret foe, and scap'd
Haply so scap'd his mortal snare; for now
Satan, now first inflam'd with rage, came
down,
The Tempter ere th' Accuser of man-kind, [
10 ]
To wreck on innocent frail man his loss
Of that first Battel, and his flight to Hell:
Yet not rejoycing in his speed, though bold,
Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast,
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Begins his dire attempt, which nigh the birth [

15 ]
Now rowling, boiles in his tumultuous brest,
And like a devillish Engine back recoiles
Upon himself; horror and doubt distract
His troubl'd thoughts, and from the bottom
stirr
The Hell within him, for within him Hell [ 20
]
He brings, and round about him, nor from
Hell
One step no more then from himself can fly
By change of place: Now conscience wakes
despair
That slumberd, wakes the bitter memorie
Of what he was, what is, and what must be [
25 ]
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must
ensue.
Sometimes towards Eden which now in his
view
Lay pleasant, his grievd look he fixes sad,
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Sometimes towards Heav'n and the full-

blazing Sun,
Which now sat high in his Meridian Towre: [
30 ]
Then much revolving, thus in sighs began.

O thou that with surpassing Glory crownd,

Look'st from thy sole Dominion like the God
Of this new World; at whose sight all the
Starrs
Hide thir diminisht heads; to thee I call, [ 35 ]
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name
O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what
state
I fell, how glorious once above thy Spheare;
Till Pride and worse Ambition threw me
down [ 40 ]
Warring in Heav'n against Heav'ns matchless
King:
Ah wherefore! he deservd no such return
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From me, whom he created what I was

In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard. [
45 ]
What could be less then to afford him praise,
The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks,
How due! yet all his good prov'd ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high
I sdeind subjection, and thought one step
higher [ 50 ]
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burthensome, still paying, still to ow;
Forgetful what from him I still receivd,
And understood not that a grateful mind [ 55
]
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and dischargd; what burden then?
O had his powerful Destiny ordaind
Me some inferiour Angel, I had stood
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Then happie; no unbounded hope had rais'd [

60 ]
Ambition. Yet why not? som other Power
As great might have aspir'd, and me though
mean
Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshak'n, from within
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd. [
65 ]
Hadst thou the same free Will and Power to
stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to
accuse,
But Heav'ns free Love dealt equally to all?
Be then his Love accurst, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe. [ 70 ]
Nay curs'd be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I flie
Infinite wrauth, and infinite despaire?
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Which way I flie is Hell; my self am Hell; [

75 ]
And in the lowest deep a lower deep
Still threatning to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav'n.
O then at last relent: is there no place
Left for Repentance, none for Pardon left? [
80 ]
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd
With other promises and other vaunts
Then to submit, boasting I could subdue [ 85
]
Th' Omnipotent. Ay me, they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vaine,
Under what torments inwardly I groane:
While they adore me on the Throne of Hell,
With Diadem and Sceptre high advanc'd [ 90
]
The lower still I fall, onely Supream
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In miserie; such joy Ambition findes.

But say I could repent and could obtaine
By Act of Grace my former state; how soon
Would higth recall high thoughts, how soon
unsay [ 95 ]
What feign'd submission swore: ease would
recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow
Where wounds of deadly hate have peirc'd so
deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse [
100 ]
And heavier fall: so should I purchase deare
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my punisher; therefore as farr
From granting hee, as I from begging peace:
All hope excluded thus, behold in stead [ 105
]
Of us out-cast, exil'd, his new delight,
Mankind created, and for him this World.
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So farewel Hope, and with Hope farewel

Fear,
Farewel Remorse: all Good to me is lost;
Evil be thou my Good; by thee at least [ 110 ]
Divided Empire with Heav'ns King I hold
By thee, and more then half perhaps will
reigne;
As Man ere long, and this new World shall
know.

Thus while he spake, each passion dimm'd his

face
Thrice chang'd with pale, ire, envie and
despair, [ 115 ]
Which marrd his borrow'd visage, and betraid
Him counterfet, if any eye beheld.
For heav'nly mindes from such distempers
foule
Are ever cleer. Whereof hee soon aware,
Each perturbation smooth'd with outward
calme, [ 120 ]
Artificer of fraud; and was the first
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That practisd falshood under saintly shew,

Deep malice to conceale, couch't with
revenge:
Yet not anough had practisd to deceive
Uriel once warnd; whose eye pursu'd him
down [ 125 ]
The way he went, and on th' Assyrian mount
Saw him disfigur'd, more then could befall
Spirit of happie sort: his gestures fierce
He markd and mad demeanour, then alone,
As he suppos'd all unobserv'd, unseen. [ 130 ]
So on he fares, and to the border comes
Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,
Now nearer, Crowns with her enclosure
green,
As with a rural mound the champain head
Of a steep wilderness, whose hairie sides [
135 ]
With thicket overgrown, grottesque and
wilde,
Access deni'd; and over head up grew
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Insuperable highth of loftiest shade,

Cedar, and Pine, and Firr, and branching
Palm
A Silvan Scene, and as the ranks ascend [ 140
]
Shade above shade, a woodie Theatre
Of stateliest view. Yet higher then thir tops
The verdurous wall of paradise up sprung:
Which to our general Sire gave prospect large
Into his neather Empire neighbouring round. [
145 ]
And higher then that Wall a circling row
Of goodliest Trees loaden with fairest Fruit,
Blossoms and Fruits at once of golden hue
Appeerd, with gay enameld colours mixt:
On which the Sun more glad impress'd his
beams [ 150 ]
Then in fair Evening Cloud, or humid Bow,
When God hath showrd the earth; so lovely
seemd
That Lantskip: And of pure now purer aire
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Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires

Vernal delight and joy, able to drive [ 155 ]
All sadness but despair: now gentle gales
Fanning thir odoriferous wings dispense
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they
stole
Those balmie spoiles. As when to them who
saile
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past [
160 ]
Mozambic, off at Sea North-East windes
blow
Sabean Odours from the spicie shoare
Of Arabie the blest, with such delay
Well pleas'd they slack thir course, and many
a League
Chear'd with the grateful smell old Ocean
smiles. [ 165 ]
So entertaind those odorous sweets the Fiend
Who came thir bane, though with them better
pleas'd
Then Asmodeus with the fishie fume,
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That drove him, though enamourd, from the

Spouse
Of Tobits Son, and with a vengeance sent [
170 ]
From Media post to Ægypt, there fast bound.

Now to th' ascent of that steep savage Hill

Satan had journied on, pensive and slow;
But further way found none, so thick
entwin'd,
As one continu'd brake, the undergrowth

Epistle to Augusta
- Lord Byron (George Gordon)

My sister! my sweet sister! if a name

Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine:
Go where I will, to me thou art the same
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A lov'd regret which I would not resign.

There yet are two things in my destiny—
A world to roam through, and a home with thee.
The first were nothing—had I still the last,
It were the haven of my happiness;
But other claims and other ties thou hast,
And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;
Revers'd for him our grandsire's fate of yore—
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.
If my inheritance of storms hath been
In other elements, and on the rocks
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen,
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks,

The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen

My errors with defensive paradox;
I have been cunning in mine overthrow,
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The careful pilot of my proper woe.

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.
My whole life was a contest, since the day
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd
The gift—a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
And I at times have found the struggle hard,
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay:
But now I fain would for a time survive,
If but to see what next can well arrive.
Kingdoms and empires in my little day
I have outliv'd, and yet I am not old;
And when I look on this, the petty spray
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:
Something—I know not what—does still uphold
A spirit of slight patience; not in vain,
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.
Perhaps the workings of defiance stir
Within me—or perhaps a cold despair,
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Brought on when ills habitually recur,

Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air

For even to this may change of soul refer,

And with light armour we may learn to bear),
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not
The chief companion of a calmer lot.
I feel almost at times as I have felt
In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks,
Which do remember me of where I dwelt
Ere my young mind was sacrific'd to books,
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
My heart with recognition of their looks;
And even at moments I could think I see
Some living thing to love—but none like thee.
Here are the Alpine landscapes which create
A fund for contemplation; to admire
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;
But something worthier do such scenes inspire:
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Here to be lonely is not desolate,

For much I view which I could most desire,
And, above all, a lake I can behold
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.
Oh that thou wert but with me!—but I grow
The fool of my own wishes, and forget
The solitude which I have vaunted so
Has lost its praise in this but one regret;

There may be others which I less may show;

I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet
I feel an ebb in my philosophy,
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.
I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,
By the old Hall which may be mine no more.
Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;
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Though, like all things which I have lov'd, they are

Resign'd for ever, or divided far.
The world is all before me; I but ask
Of Nature that with which she will comply—
It is but in her summer's sun to bask,
To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
To see her gentle face without a mask,
And never gaze on it with apathy.
She was my early friend, and now shall be
My sister—till I look again on thee.
I can reduce all feelings but this one;
And that I would not; for at length I see
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun,
The earliest—even the only paths for me—

Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,

I had been better than I now can be;
The passions which have torn me would have slept;
I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.
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With false Ambition what had I to do?

Little with Love, and least of all with Fame;
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,
And made me all which they can make—a name,
Yet this was not the end I did pursue;
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.
But all is over—I am one the more
To baffled millions which have gone before.
And for the future, this world's future may
From me demand but little of my care;
I have outliv'd myself by many a day,
Having surviv'd so many things that were;
My years have been no slumber, but the prey
Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share
Of life which might have fill'd a century,
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by.
And for the remnant which may be to come
I am content; and for the past I feel
Not thankless, for within the crowded sum
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Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,

And for the present, I would not benumb

My feelings further. Nor shall I conceal
That with all this I still can look around,
And worship Nature with a thought profound.
For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart
I know myself secure, as thou in mine;
We were and are—I am, even as thou art—
Beings who ne'er each other can resign;
It is the same, together or apart,
From life's commencement to its slow decline
We are entwin'd—let death come slow or fast,
The tie which bound the first endures the last!

The Listeners
- Walter de la Mare

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,

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Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark
stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
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And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still
house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
If –
- Rudyard Kipling
(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)
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If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
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And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

The Parable of the Old Man and the Young

- Wilfred Owen

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,

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And took the fire with him, and a knife.

And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him, thy son.
Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,
A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

The Seven Sorrows

- Ted Hughes
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The first sorrow of autumn

Is the slow goodbye
Of the garden who stands so long in the evening
A brown poppy head,
The stalk of a lily,
And still cannot go.

The second sorrow

Is the empty feet
Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his
brothers.
The woodland of gold
Is folded in feathers
With its head in a bag.

And the third sorrow

Is the slow goodbye
Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers
The minutes of evening,
The golden and holy
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Ground of the picture.

The fourth sorrow

Is the pond gone black
Ruined and sunken the city of waterThe beetle's
palace,
The catacombs
Of the dragonfly.

And the fifth sorrow

Is the slow goodbye
Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp.
One day it's gone.
It has only left litterFirewood, tentpoles.

And the sixth sorrow

Is the fox's sorrow
The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds,
The hooves that pound
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Till earth closes her ear

To the fox's prayer.

And the seventh sorrow

Is the slow goodbye
Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the
window
As the year packs up
Like a tatty fairground
That came for the children.

A Glass of Wine
- Andrew Motion

Exactly as the setting sun

clips the heel of the garden,

exactly as a pigeon
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roosting tries to sing

and ends up moaning,

exactly as the ping

of someone’s automatic carlock
dies into a flock
of tiny echo-aftershocks,

a shapely hand of cloud

emerges from the crowd
of airy nothings that the wind allowed
to tumble over us all day
and points the way

towards its own decay

but not before
a final sunlight-shudder pours
away across our garden-floor
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so steadily, so slow
it shows you everything you need to know
about this glass I’m holding out to you,

its open eye

enough to bear the whole weight of the sky.

I am the One
- Alan Jacobs

Pure, as the mountain stream after a fall of April snow

Conscious as he who wakens from deepest sleep,
aglow
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Aware as the cat who senses all before she prepares to

go
Blissful as a babe in arms fondled like an endearing
doe
Alone, I AM
Self-existent
Here in the Heart from where I AM is found
Now, in the Heart from where I AM is ground.
I am space for this beautiful place to happen in, and
My Earth is a grain of sand on Being’s strand
Whatever’s on the screen, whatever wave the spectral
band,
Goodly Air, stormy Sea or merely mediocre Land
All is in me, this I truly recognise and understand.
I am not a tortured victim in a tormented world
A twin-holed meat ball, hairily curled,
I am no thing, no name, no body, no word,
I am single-eyed and feeling very headless
There’s no thing on theses shoulders, mind’s no longer
restless
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Where I’m seeing from is a boundless window,

frameless.

All That Is Gold

- JRR Tolkein

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

Imagery

Imagery is the use of vivid and descriptive language

to create mental images for the reader. It appeals to the
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senses (sight, sound, smell, touch, taste) and can make

the text more engaging and evocative.

Example:
- "The sun set behind the mountains, casting long
shadows over the valley, and the air smelled of pine
and earth."

Blank Verse
Blank verse is unrhymed poetry written in iambic
pentameter. This means each line typically has ten
syllables, with an unstressed syllable followed by a
stressed one, five times per line. It is often used in
English dramatic, epic, and reflective poetry.

Example (from William Shakespeare's "Hamlet"):

- "To be, or not to be, that is the question."

Free Verse
Free verse is poetry that does not have a regular
rhythm or rhyme scheme. It allows the poet more
freedom to express ideas without the constraints of
traditional poetic forms.
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Example (from Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass"):

- "I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to
you."

Texture
in literature refers to the surface quality of a piece of
writing, how it feels to the reader through the choice
of words, the rhythm, and the flow of sentences. It
involves the interplay of the poem's sound, imagery,
and rhythm.

Example:
- Smooth texture: "The silk scarf flowed like water
over her skin."
- Rough texture: "The gravel crunched loudly
underfoot, each step a jarring impact."

Theme
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is the underlying message or central idea of a literary

work. It is the broad concept or insight that the author
wishes to convey about life, society, or human nature.

Example:
- In George Orwell's "1984," a prominent theme is the
dangers of totalitarianism.

Tone
Refers to the writer's attitude toward the subject matter
or audience. It is conveyed through the choice of
words and details.

Example:
- Optimistic tone: "The sun peeked through the clouds,
promising a new day full of possibilities."
- Pessimistic tone: "The relentless rain battered the
windows, mirroring the gloom that had settled over
the town."