Crossing the Bar, by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Crossing the Bar

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Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

Tennyson wrote this poem in 1889, just three years before the end of a long life. A UK Poet Laureate for 42 years. The poem has often been interpreted as a reflection by Tennyson on his own life in anticipation of death approaching.


 


How Do I Love Thee?, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Sonnet 43


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How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

Alone, by Edgar Allan Poe →

From childhood’s hour, I have not been 
As others were—I have not seen 
As others saw—I could not bring 
My passions from a common spring— 
From the same source I have not taken 
My sorrow—I could not awaken 
My heart to joy at the same tone— 
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— 
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn 
Of a most stormy life—was drawn 
From ev’ry depth of good and ill 
The mystery which binds me still— 
From the torrent, or the fountain— 
From the red cliff of the mountain— 
From the sun that ’round me roll’d 
In its autumn tint of gold— 
From the lightning in the sky 
As it pass’d me flying by— 
From the thunder, and the storm— 
And the cloud that took the form 
(When the rest of Heaven was blue) 
Of a demon in my view—

Thoughts about Poem

Poe, wrote this poem as an adult, looking back at his life. He had felt alone since his youth and still did. As he looked back from “ev’ry depth of good and ill” it was still a mystery.

For example look at theselines from the Raven (reviewed in this section).

“Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.”

Most of Poe’s memories are not happy and suggest loneliness.


On The Pulse of Morning by Maya Angelou →

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Although it was written especially for one occasion - Bill Clinton's presidential inauguration in 1993 - it carries a universal message. Maya said of the poem: "In my work, in everything I do, I mean to say that we human beings are more alike than we are unalike, and to use that statement to break down the walls we set between ourselves because we are different."

On The Pulse of Morning by Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.

The dinosaur who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
It is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no hiding place down here.

You created only a little lower than
The angels have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.

Your mouth spilling words.
I am armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out to us today; you may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
It says come rest here by my side.

Each of you is a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
The tree and the rock were one.

Before, cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.

The River sang and sang on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

They hear the first and last of every Tree.
Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside the River.

Each of you, a descendant of some passed
On traveler, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot ...
You, the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.

Lift your faces; you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain,
It cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage needs not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.

Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, and into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning

To a Mouse by Robert Burns →

Little, sly, cowering, timid beast,
Oh, what a panic is in your heart!
You need not start away so hasty
With bickering prattle!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering paddle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes you startle
At me, your poor, earth-born companion
And fellow mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, that you may steal;
What then? Poor beast, you must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it.

Your small house, too, in ruin!
Its feeble walls the winds are scattering!
And nothing now, to build a new one,
Of coarse green foliage!
And bleak December's winds coming,
Both bitter and piercing!

You saw the fields laid bare and empty,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! The cruel plough passed
Out through your cell.

That small heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter's sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.

But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still you are blessed, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

"To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, November, 1785" Robert Burns, is said to have been ploughing in his fields when he accidentally destroyed a mouse's nest, which it needed to survive the winter. His brother wrote of this saying that he composed the poem while still holding his plough.

The mouse is a symbol of the poor or powerless, such as Robert Burns, the authors, father, who work diligently but unsuccessfully to get ahead. Many laborers, such as farmers, are just as much at the mercy of nature's wrath and the powerful as the mouse.

The poem inspired John Steinbeck in his Novel, Of Mice and Men.

In Flanders Fields , by Lieut-Col. John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row. That mark our place; and in the sky. The larks, still bravely singing, fly. Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago. We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe; To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, through poppies grow In Flanders Fields.

See the review of One-Hundred and One Famous Poems in Reviews. click here

Thoughts about this Poem

One of the most quoted poems from World War 1. It refers to the red poppies that grew over the graves of fallen soldiers which resulted in the remembrance poppy becoming one of the world's most recognized memorial symbols for soldiers who have died in conflict. 

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Crossing the Bar, by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

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The poem followed some seasickness by Tennyson. He lived on the Isle of Wright and the words came to him after crossing the bar with particularly choppy water s thought to have been inspired by a bout of seasickness. Tennyson lived on the Isle of Wight, and after a particularly choppy crossing of the water the words for came to him most likely in one setting.



Does Bad Poetry Spring from Genuine Feeling or is it just Sincere? →

Oscar Wilde said that “All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic.

Harold Bloom used this phrase, saying instead, “All Bad Poetry is Sincere." Bloom was justifying why Maya Angelou was not included in his extensive list at the back of his book or among the 26 authors that made up what he felt was the primary influence of "Western Canon" in his book of the same name.

He added that Angelou’s thoughts were "sincere" but, in his view, lacked aesthetic accomplishment.  Bloom's conclusion seems to leave us with questions: "What does it mean to be a writer?" Must we write about things of value? Who defines value?

Bloom's real reasons for leaving Angelou off his list likely was the political influence she had by what she said.

For example, Aesthetics, or esthetics, is a branch of philosophy that deals with the nature of beauty and taste and the philosophy of art. It examines aesthetic values, often expressed through judgments of taste.

This leaves us with the idea that::

“Bad Poetry” may be a matter of opinion.”

See more on Harold Bloom and the "Western Canon" under the review section.

Review of Poem "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: The Argument" by William Blake →

Taken from - The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: The Argument by William Blake

Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air;

Hungry clouds swag on the deep.

Once meek, and in a perilous path,

The just man kept his course along

The vale of death.

Roses are planted where thorns grow,

And on the barren heath

Sing the honey bees.

Then the perilous path was planted:

And a river and a spring

On every cliff and tomb;

And on the bleached bones

Red clay brought forth.

Till the villain left the paths of ease,

To walk in perilous paths, and drive

The just man into barren climes.

Now the sneaking serpent walks

In mild humility,

And the just man rages in the wilds

Where lions roam.

Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air;

Hungry clouds swag on the deep. 

'Review of Poem by Brent M. Jones

“Rintrah” is considered to be part of William Blake's mythology who appears in this poem as a just man righteously expressing wrath. Blake felt that good and evil were just different influences we experienced and part of different energies that we had to experience as part of our life.

See Review of the Book: The Marriage of Heaven and Hell by William Blake

Surprised by Joy-Impatient as The Wind by William Wordsworth →

Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport — Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind —
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? — That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore

*"Surprised by Joy, the book by C.S. Lewis" is an allusion to this poem. The poem was Wordsworth’s thoughts following the death of a beloved daughter.