Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

William Blake: Ah, Sunflower

Ah, sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun

July 26, 2019 · 2 Comments

John Clare: Summer

I’ll lean upon her breast and I’ll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o’sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.

June 28, 2019 · Leave a comment

John Clare: The Badger

The badger grunting on his woodland track
With shaggy hide and sharp nose scrowed with black
Roots in the bushes and the woods, and makes
A great high burrow in the ferns and brakes.

May 31, 2019 · Leave a comment

William Blake: A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. . And … Continue reading

March 1, 2019 · 2 Comments

William Wordsworth: Tintern Abbey

Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798 . Five years have past; five summers, with the … Continue reading

January 6, 2019 · 1 Comment

Dorothy Wordsworth: The moon had the old moon in her arms

The columbine … is a graceful slender creature, a female seeking retirement, and growing freest and most graceful where it is most alone. I observed that the more shaded plants … Continue reading

November 16, 2018 · Leave a comment

John Keats: To Autumn

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 … Continue reading

October 26, 2018 · Leave a comment

Percy Bysshe Shelley: Stanzas Written in Dejection, Near Naples

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon’s transparent might, The breath of the … Continue reading

August 1, 2018 · Leave a comment

Djelloul Marbrook: The donnée as entry to the temple

A crucial point in the making of some poems, especially long ones, arrives when the poet must decide whether to push through a kind of caesura in the process. That’s the … Continue reading

January 28, 2018 · 2 Comments

William Blake: The Tyger

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of … Continue reading

September 26, 2016 · 1 Comment

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