{"product_id":"six-centuries-of-great-poetry-isbn-9780440213833","title":"Six Centuries of Great Poetry","description":"Uniquely comprehensive...highly readable...the definitive collection of classic lyric poetry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Shakespeare's wise music to Marvell's profundity and wit...from the Romantics' passionate view of man and woman and nature to twentieth-centur poets' confused searching, this outstanding one-volume collection brings us the profound, soul-nourishing experience of great poetry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBrilliantly selected and arranged by renowned literary masters Robert Penn Warren and Albert Erskine, the poems here reflect the genius of six centuries of poets.  It is the finest anthology of lyric poetry ever published.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Truth\" by Geoffrey Chaucer\u003cbr\u003e\"Ophelia's Song\" by William Shakespeare\u003cbr\u003e\"The Canonization\" by John Donne\u003cbr\u003e\"To Heaven\" by Ben Jonson\u003cbr\u003e\"Ode on Solitude\" by Alexander Pope\u003cbr\u003e\"The Tyger\" by William Blake\u003cbr\u003e\"The Solitary Reaper\" by William Wordsworth\u003cbr\u003e\"Ode to a Nightingale\" by John Keats\u003cbr\u003e\"God's Grandeur\" by Gerard Manley Hopkins\u003cbr\u003e\"Sailing to Byzantium\" by William Butler Yeats\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand more than ninety additional classic poems.\u003cb\u003eRobert Penn Warren\u003c\/b\u003e taught English at Yale University and was the winner of the Pulitzer Prize for fiction and one for poetry, and of the National Book Award for poetry. He was the author, with Cleanth Brooks, of \u003ci\u003eUnderstanding Fiction\u003c\/i\u003e, and of the novels \u003ci\u003eAll the King’s Men, World Enough and Time, Band of Angels, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eFlood\u003c\/i\u003e, as well as many other works of fiction, poetry, and literary criticism. He died in 1989.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAlbert Erskine\u003c\/b\u003e was a vice president and executive editor at Random House in New York. He was also on the staff of \u003ci\u003eThe Southern Review\u003c\/i\u003e and was associated with the Louisiana State University Press. He died in 1993.GEOFFREY CHAUCER\/1340?-1400\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMerciles Beautè\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYour yën two wol slee me sodenly,\u003cbr\u003eI may the beautè of hem not sustene,\u003cbr\u003eSo woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd but your word wol helen hastily\u003cbr\u003eMy hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYour yën two wol slee me sodenly,\u003cbr\u003eI may the beautè of hem not sustene.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUpon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully\u003cbr\u003eThat ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene;\u003cbr\u003eFor with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYour yën two wol slee me sodenly,\u003cbr\u003eI may the beautè of hem not sustene.\u003cbr\u003eSo woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJOHN DONNE\/1573-1631\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Canonization\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,\u003cbr\u003eOr chide my palsy, or my gout,\u003cbr\u003eMy five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,\u003cbr\u003eWith wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,\u003cbr\u003eTake you a course, get you a place,\u003cbr\u003eObserve his honour, or his grace,\u003cbr\u003eOr the king's real, or his stampèd face.\u003cbr\u003eContemplate, what you will approve,\u003cbr\u003eSo you will let me love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlas, alas, who's injured by my love?\u003cbr\u003eWhat merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?\u003cbr\u003eWho says my tears have overflowed his ground?\u003cbr\u003eWhen did my colds a forward spring remove?\u003cbr\u003eWhen did the heats which my veins fill\u003cbr\u003eAdd one more to the plaguey bill?\u003cbr\u003eSoldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still\u003cbr\u003eLitigious men, which quarrels move,\u003cbr\u003eThough she and I do love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCall us what you will, we are made such by love;\u003cbr\u003eCall her one, me another fly,\u003cbr\u003eWe are tapers too, and at our own cost die,\u003cbr\u003eAnd we in us find the eagle and the dove.\u003cbr\u003eThe phoenix riddle hath more wit\u003cbr\u003eBy us, we two being one, are it.\u003cbr\u003eSo to one neutral thing both sexes fit,\u003cbr\u003eWe die and rise the same, and prove\u003cbr\u003eMysterious by this love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe can die by it, if not live by love,\u003cbr\u003eAnd if unfit for tombs and hearse\u003cbr\u003eOur legend be, it will be fit for verse;\u003cbr\u003eAnd if no piece of chronicle we prove,\u003cbr\u003eWe'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;\u003cbr\u003eAs well a well-wrought urn becomes\u003cbr\u003eThe greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,\u003cbr\u003eAnd by these hymns, all shall approve\u003cbr\u003eUs \u003ci\u003ecanonized\u003c\/i\u003e for love;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd thus invoke us; you whom reverend love\u003cbr\u003eMade one another's hermitage;\u003cbr\u003eYou to whom love was peace, that now is rage;\u003cbr\u003eWho did the whole world's soul contract, and drove\u003cbr\u003eInto the glasses of your eyes\u003cbr\u003e(So made such mirrors, and such spies,\u003cbr\u003eThat they did all to you epitomize),\u003cbr\u003eCountries, towns, courts: beg from above\u003cbr\u003eA pattern of your love!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJONATHAN SWIFT\/1667-1745\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA City Shower\u003cbr\u003eIn Imitation of Virgil's Georgics\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCareful observers may foretell the hour\u003cbr\u003e(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower.\u003cbr\u003eWhile rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er\u003cbr\u003eHer frolics, and pursues her tail no more;\u003cbr\u003eReturning home at night, you'll find the sink\u003cbr\u003eStrike your offended sense with double stink.\u003cbr\u003eIf you be wise, then, go not far to dine:\u003cbr\u003eYou'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine.\u003cbr\u003eA coming shower your shooting corns presage,\u003cbr\u003eOld aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage.\u003cbr\u003eSauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;\u003cbr\u003eHe damns the climate, and complains of spleen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, the south, rising with dabbled wings,\u003cbr\u003eA sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,\u003cbr\u003eThat swilled more liquor than it could contain,\u003cbr\u003eAnd, like a drunkard, gives it up again.\u003cbr\u003eBrisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,\u003cbr\u003eWhile the first drizzling shower is borne aslope:\u003cbr\u003eSuch is that sprinkling which some careless quean\u003cbr\u003eFlirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:\u003cbr\u003eYou fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop\u003cbr\u003eTo rail; she, singing, still whirls on her mop.\u003cbr\u003eNot yet the dust had shunned th' unequal strife,\u003cbr\u003eBut aided by the wind, fought still for life;\u003cbr\u003eAnd, wafted with its foe by violent gust,\u003cbr\u003e'Twas doubtful which was rain and which was dust.\u003cbr\u003eAh! where must needy poet seek for aid,\u003cbr\u003eWhen dust and rain at once his coat invade.\u003cbr\u003eSole coat! where dust cemented by the rain\u003cbr\u003eErects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow in contiguous drops the rain comes down,\u003cbr\u003eThreatening with deluge this devoted town.\u003cbr\u003eTo shops in crowds the daggled females fly,\u003cbr\u003ePretend to cheapen goods but nothing buy.\u003cbr\u003eThe templar spruce, while every spout's abroach,\u003cbr\u003eStays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.\u003cbr\u003eThe tucked up seamstress walks with hasty strides,\u003cbr\u003eWhile streams run down her oiled umbrella's sides.\u003cbr\u003eHere various kinds, by various fortunes led\u003cbr\u003eCommence acquaintance underneath a shed.\u003cbr\u003eTriumphant Tories and desponding Whigs\u003cbr\u003eForget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.\u003cbr\u003eBoxed in a chair, the beau impatient sits,\u003cbr\u003eWhile spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,\u003cbr\u003eAnd ever and anon with frightful din\u003cbr\u003eThe leather sounds; he trembles from within.\u003cbr\u003eSo when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,\u003cbr\u003ePregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed\u003cbr\u003e(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,\u003cbr\u003eInstead of paying chairmen, ran them through),\u003cbr\u003eLaocoön struck the outside with his spear,\u003cbr\u003eAnd each imprisoned hero quaked for fear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow from all parts the swelling kennels flow,\u003cbr\u003eAnd bear their trophies with them as they go:\u003cbr\u003eFilths of all hues and odour seem to tell\u003cbr\u003eWhat street they sailed from by their sight and smell.\u003cbr\u003eThey, as each torrent drives with rapid force,\u003cbr\u003eFrom Smithfield or St. 'Pulchre's shape their course,\u003cbr\u003eAnd in huge confluence joined at Snowhill ridge,\u003cbr\u003eFall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge.\u003cbr\u003eSweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood,\u003cbr\u003eDrowned puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud,\u003cbr\u003eDead cats, and turnip tops, come tumbling down the flood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWILLIAM WORDSWORTH\/1770-1850\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSurprised by Joy--Impatient as the Wind\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSurprised by joy--impatient as the wind\u003cbr\u003eI turned to share the transport--Oh! with whom\u003cbr\u003eBut Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,\u003cbr\u003eThat spot which no vicissitude can find?\u003cbr\u003eLove, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut how could I forget thee? Through what power,\u003cbr\u003eEven for the least division of an hour,\u003cbr\u003eHave I been so beguiled as to be blind\u003cbr\u003eTo my most grievous loss?--That thought's return\u003cbr\u003eWas the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,\u003cbr\u003eSave one, one only, when I stood forlorn,\u003cbr\u003eKnowing my heart's best treasure was no more\u003cbr\u003eThat neither present time, nor years unborn\u003cbr\u003eCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWILLIAM BUTLER YEATS\/1865-1939\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSailing to Byzantium\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat is no country for old men. The young\u003cbr\u003eIn one another's arms, birds in the trees\u003cbr\u003e--Those dying generations--at their song,\u003cbr\u003eThe salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,\u003cbr\u003eFish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long\u003cbr\u003eWhatever is begotten, born, and dies.\u003cbr\u003eCaught in that sensual music all neglect\u003cbr\u003eMonuments of unaging intellect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn aged man is but a paltry thing,\u003cbr\u003eA tattered coat upon a stick, unless\u003cbr\u003eSoul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing\u003cbr\u003eFor every tatter in its mortal dress,\u003cbr\u003eNor is there singing school but studying\u003cbr\u003eMonuments of its own magnificence;\u003cbr\u003eAnd therefore I have sailed the seas and come\u003cbr\u003eTo the holy city of Byzantium.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO sages standing in God's holy fire\u003cbr\u003eAs in the gold mosaic of a wall,\u003cbr\u003eCome from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,\u003cbr\u003eAnd be the singing-masters of my soul.\u003cbr\u003eConsume my heart away; sick with desire\u003cbr\u003eAnd fastened to a dying animal\u003cbr\u003eIt knows not what it is; and gather me\u003cbr\u003eInto the artifice of eternity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce out of nature I shall never take\u003cbr\u003eMy bodily form from any natural thing,\u003cbr\u003eBut such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make\u003cbr\u003eOf hammered gold and gold enameling\u003cbr\u003eTo keep a drowsy Emperor awake;\u003cbr\u003eOr set upon a golden bough to sing\u003cbr\u003eTo lords and ladies of Byzantium\u003cbr\u003eOf what is past, or passing, or to come.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWILFRED OWEN\/1893-1918\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWild with All Regrets\u003cbr\u003eTo Siegfried Sassoon\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy arms have mutinied against me--brutes!\u003cbr\u003eMy fingers fidget like ten idle brats,\u003cbr\u003eMy back's been stiff for hours, damned hours.\u003cbr\u003eDeath never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.\u003cbr\u003eI can't read. There's no use. Take your book.\u003cbr\u003eA short life and a merry one, my buck!\u003cbr\u003eWe said we'd hate to grow dead-old. But now,\u003cbr\u003eNot to live old seems awful; not to renew\u003cbr\u003eMy boyhood with my boys, and teach 'em hitting,\u003cbr\u003eShooting, and hunting,--all the arts of hurting!\u003cbr\u003e--Well, that's what I learnt. That, and making money.\u003cbr\u003eYour fifty years in store seem none too many\u003cbr\u003eBut I've five minutes. God! For just two years\u003cbr\u003eTo help myself to this good air of yours!\u003cbr\u003eOne Spring! Is one too hard to spare? Too long?\u003cbr\u003eSpring air would find its own way to my lung,\u003cbr\u003eAnd grow me legs as quick as lilac shoots.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, there's the orderly. He'll change the sheets\u003cbr\u003eWhen I'm lugged out. Oh, couldn't I do that?\u003cbr\u003eHere in this coffin of a bed, I've thought\u003cbr\u003eI'd like to kneel and sweep his floors forever,--\u003cbr\u003eAnd ask no nights off when the bustle's over,\u003cbr\u003eFor I'd enjoy the dirt. Who's prejudiced\u003cbr\u003eAgainst a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,--\u003cbr\u003eLess live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn?\u003cbr\u003eDear dust--in rooms, on roads, on faces' tan!\u003cbr\u003eI'd love to be a sweep's boy, black as Town;\u003cbr\u003eYes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?\u003cbr\u003eA flea would do. If one chap wasn't bloody,\u003cbr\u003eOr went stone-cold, I'd find another body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich I shan't manage now. Unless it's yours.\u003cbr\u003eI shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours.\u003cbr\u003eYou'll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest,\u003cbr\u003eAnd climb your throat on sobs, until it's chased\u003cbr\u003eOn sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI think on your rich breathing, brother, I'll be weaned\u003cbr\u003eTo do without what blood remained me from my wound.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sailing to Byzantium\" by W.B. Yeats reprinted by permission of The Macmillan Co., New York, and A.P. Watt and Son, London.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wild with All Regrets\" by Wilfred Owen reprinted by permission of the publishers, New Directions, New York, and Chatto and Windus, London.","brand":"Dell","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300398715109,"sku":"NP9780440213833","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780440213833.jpg?v=1767736700","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/six-centuries-of-great-poetry-isbn-9780440213833","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}