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The Well Read Poem

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Sep 26, 2022 • 9min

S9E5: "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost; poem begins at timestamp 7:34. Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
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Sep 19, 2022 • 7min

S9E4: "To Autumn" by John Keats

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "To Autumn" by John Keats; poem begins at timestamp 2:34. To Autumn by John Keats Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;       To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,       For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.   Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,    Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook       Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep    Steady thy laden head across a brook;    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,       Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.   Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn    Among the river sallows, borne aloft       Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;       And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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Sep 12, 2022 • 8min

S9E3: "Bed in Summer" by Robert Louis Stevenson

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is Robert Louis Stevenson's "Bed in Summer"; poem begins at timestamp 5:55. Bed in Summer by Robert Louis Stevenson In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day.   I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me in the street.   And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?
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Sep 5, 2022 • 6min

S9E2: "Sumer is I-cumin In" by Anonymous

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Sumer is i-cumin in" by an anonymous Englishman of the Middle Ages; poem begins at timestamp 1:34. Sumer is i-cumin in by Anonymous Sumer is i-cumin in— Lhude sing, cuccu! Groweth sed and bloweth med And springth the wude nu. Sing, cuccu!   Awe bleteth after lomb, Lhouth after calve cu, Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth— Murie sing, cuccu! Cuccu, cuccu, Wel singes thu, cuccu. Ne swik thu naver nu!   Sing, cuccu, nu. Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu, nu.
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Aug 29, 2022 • 7min

S9E1: "The Rhodora" by Ralph Waldo Emerson

In this ninth season, we are going to read six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "The Rhodora" by Ralph Waldo Emerson; poem begins at timestamp 5:07. The Rhodora by Ralph Waldo Emerson On being asked, whence is the flower. In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals fallen in the pool Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for Being; Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask; I never knew; But in my simple ignorance suppose The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.
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Apr 25, 2022 • 8min

S8E6: "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats. Poem begins at timestamp 2:23. "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains          My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains          One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,          But being too happy in thine happiness,—                 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees                         In some melodious plot          Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,                 Singest of summer in full-throated ease.   O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been          Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green,          Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,          Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,                 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,                         And purple-stained mouth;          That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,                 And with thee fade away into the forest dim:   Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget          What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret          Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,          Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;                 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow                         And leaden-eyed despairs,          Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,                 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.   Away! away! for I will fly to thee,          Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,          Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night,          And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,                 Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;                         But here there is no light,          Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown                 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.   I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,          Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet          Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;          White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;                 Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;                         And mid-May's eldest child,          The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,                 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.   Darkling I listen; and, for many a time          I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,          To take into the air my quiet breath;                 Now more than ever seems it rich to die,          To cease upon the midnight with no pain,                 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad                         In such an ecstasy!          Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—                    To thy high requiem become a sod.   Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!          No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard          In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path          Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,                 She stood in tears amid the alien corn;                         The same that oft-times hath          Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam                 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.   Forlorn! the very word is like a bell          To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well          As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades          Past the near meadows, over the still stream,                 Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep                         In the next valley-glades:          Was it a vision, or a waking dream?                 Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
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Apr 18, 2022 • 9min

S8E5: "Old Adam, the Carrion Crow" by Thomas Beddoes

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Old Adam, the Carrion Crow" by Thomas Beddoes. Poem begins at timestamp 7:00.   "Old Adam, the Carrion Crow" by Thomas Beddoes Old Adam, the carrion crow,         The old crow of Cairo;     He sat in the shower, and let it flow         Under his tail and over his crest;           And through every feather           Leak'd the wet weather;         And the bough swung under his nest;         For his beak it was heavy with marrow.           Is that the wind dying? O no;           It's only two devils, that blow,           Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,           In the ghosts' moonshine.       Ho! Eve, my grey carrion wife,         When we have supped on king's marrow,     Where shall we drink and make merry our life?         Our nest it is queen Cleopatra's skull,           'Tis cloven and crack'd,           And batter'd and hack'd,         But with tears of blue eyes it is full:         Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo!           Is that the wind dying? O no;           It's only two devils, that blow           Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,           In the ghosts' moonshine.
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Apr 11, 2022 • 10min

S8E4: "Le Corbeau et le Renard (The Crow and the Fox)" by Jean de la Fontaine

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Le Corbeau et le Renard (The Crow and the Fox)" by Jean de la Fontaine, translated from the French by Norman Spector. Poem begins at timestamp 7:08. "Le Corbeau et le Renard (The Crow and the Fox)" by Jean de la Fontaine (trans. by Norman Spector) At the top of a tree perched Master Crow; In his beak he was holding a cheese. Drawn by the smell, Master Fox spoke, below. The words, more or less, were these: "Hey, now, Sir Crow! Good day, good day! How very handsome you do look, how grandly distingué! No lie, if those songs you sing Match the plumage of your wing, You’re the phoenix of these woods, our choice." Hearing this, the Crow was all rapture and wonder. To show off his handsome voice, He opened beak wide and let go of his plunder. The Fox snapped it up and then said, "My Good Sir, Learn that each flatterer Lives at the cost of those who heed. This lesson is well worth the cheese, indeed." The Crow, ashamed and sick, Swore, a bit late, not to fall again for that trick.
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Apr 4, 2022 • 10min

S8E3: "The Oven Bird" by Robert Frost

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "The Oven Bird" by Robert Frost. Poem begins at timestamp 3:42. "The Oven Bird" by Robert Frost There is a singer everyone has heard, Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird, Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again. He says that leaves are old and that for flowers Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten. He says the early petal-fall is past When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers On sunny days a moment overcast; And comes that other fall we name the fall. He says the highway dust is over all. The bird would cease and be as other birds But that he knows in singing not to sing. The question that he frames in all but words Is what to make of a diminished thing.
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Mar 28, 2022 • 9min

S8E2: "The Eagle" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "The Eagle" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poem begins at timestamp  7:51. "The Eagle" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.   The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

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