One Hundred and One Famous Poems (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)

By Roy J. Cook

This treasury of beloved poems collects all your favorite poets in one book. Whether you’re looking for a love poem or something to mend a broken heart, perhaps you’re feeling patriotic or struggling to understand the nature of man, the timeless words of Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, John Milton, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti are at your fingertips.  

 

From the Romantic poets like Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Keats to the Transcendentalists like Ralph Waldo Emerson, this comprehensive collection contains examples of the many periods of writing from England to Scotland and on to the United States.

 

Included are such favorites as:

 

Walt Whitman’s O Captain! My Captain!

Eugene Field’s Little Boy Blue

Percy Bysshe Shelley’s To a Skylark

Joyce Kilmer’s Trees

Robert Burns’ Letter to a Young Friend

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s Paul Revere’s Ride

Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven

 

Three indices let you find your favorite poems by title, author, and first line.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barnes & Noble
• Release date: Apr 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781411468788

Book preview

PREFACE

THIS IS THE AGE OF SCIENCE, OF STEEL—OF SPEED AND THE CEMENT ROAD. The age of hard faces and hard highways. Science and steel demand the medium of prose. Speed requires only the look—the gesture. What need then, for poetry?

Great need!

There are souls, in these noise-tired times, that turn aside into unfrequented lanes, where the deep woods have harbored the fragrances of many a blossoming season. Here the light, filtering through perfect forms, arranges itself in lovely patterns for those who perceive beauty.

It is the purpose of this little volume to enrich, ennoble, encourage. And for man, who has learned to love convenience, it is hardly larger than his concealing pocket.

ROY J. COOK, EDITOR

THE BUILDERS

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

All are architects of Fate,

Working in these walls of Time;

Some with massive deeds and great,

Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;

Each thing in its place is best;

And what seems but idle show

Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,

Time is with materials filled;

Our todays and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;

Leave no yawning gaps between;

Think not, because no man sees,

Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,

Builders wrought with greatest care

Each minute and unseen part;

For the gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,

Both the unseen and the seen;

Make the house where gods may dwell

Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,

Standing in these walls of Time,

Broken stairways, where the feet

Stumble, as they seek to climb.

Build today, then, strong and sure,

With a firm and ample base;

And ascending and secure

Shall tomorrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain

To those turrets, where the eye

Sees the world as one vast plain,

And one boundless reach of sky.

OPPORTUNITY

Edward R. Sill (1841-1887)

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:

There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;

And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged

A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords

Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner

Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle’s edge,

And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel—

That blue blade that the king’s son bears—but this

Blunt thing!" he snapped and flung it from his hand.

And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,

Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,

And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout

Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,

And saved a great cause that heroic day.

OUT TO OLD AUNT MARY’S

James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)

Wasn’t it pleasant, O brother mine,

In those old days of the lost sunshine

Of youth—when the Saturday’s chores were through,

And the Sunday’s wood in the kitchen, too,

And we went visiting, me and you,

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s?

It all comes back so clear today!

Though I am as bald as you are gray—

Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,

We patter along in the dust again,

As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

We cross the pasture, and through the wood

Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,

Where the hammering red-heads hopped awry,

And the buzzard raised in the clearing sky,

And lolled and circled, as we went by,

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.

And then in the dust of the road again;

And the teams we met, and the countrymen;

And the long highway, with sunshine spread

As thick as butter on country bread,

Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.

Why, I see her now in the open door,

Where the little gourds grew up the sides, and o’er

The clapboard roof! And her face—ah, me!

Wasn’t it good for a boy to see—

And wasn’t it good for a boy to be

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s?

The jelly—the jam and the marmalade,

And the cherry and quince preserves she made!

And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,

With cinnamon in ’em, and all things rare!

And the more we ate was the more to spare,

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom

Of the willow-trees, and the cooler room

Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept—

Where the cream in a golden languor slept

While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept—

Out to old Aunt Mary’s!

And as many a time have you and I—

Barefoot boys in the days gone by—

Knelt, and in tremulous ecstasies

Dipped our lips into sweets like these—

Memory now is on her knees

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

And O, my brother, so far away,

This is to tell you she waits today

To welcome us: Aunt Mary fell

Asleep this morning, whispering, "Tell

The boys to come!" And all is well

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

EACH AND ALL

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown

Of thee from the hilltop looking down;

The heifer that lows in the upland farm,

Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;

The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,

Deems not that great Napoleon

Stops his horse, and lists with delight,

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;

Nor knowest thou what argument

Thy life to thy neighbor’s creed has lent.

All are needed by each one—

Nothing is fair or good alone.

I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven,

Singing at dawn on the alder bough;

I brought him home, in his nest, at even;

He sings the song, but it cheers not now;

For I did not bring home the river and sky;

He sang to my ear—they sang to my eye.

The delicate shells lay on the shore;

The bubbles of the latest wave

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,

And the bellowing of the savage sea

Greeted their safe escape to me.

I wiped away the weeds and foam—

I fetched my sea-born treasures home;

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things

Had left their beauty on the shore

With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.

The lover watched his graceful maid,

As ’mid the virgin train she strayed,

Nor knew her beauty’s best attire

Was woven still by the snow-white choir.

At last she came to his hermitage,

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;

The gay enchantment was undone—

A gentle wife, but fairy none.

Then I said, "I covet truth;

Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat;

I leave it behind with the games of youth."

As I spoke, beneath my feet

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,

Running over the club-moss burrs;

I inhaled the violet’s breath;

Around me stood the oaks and firs;

Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;

Over me soared the eternal sky,

Full of light and of deity;

Again I saw, again I heard,

The rolling river, the morning bird;

Beauty through my senses stole;

I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

THE RHODORA

On Being Asked Whence Is the Flower Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

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 redbird 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.

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Forward, the Light Brigade!

Was there a man dismayed?

Not tho’ the soldiers knew

Someone had blundered:

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thunder’d;

Storm’d at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air,

Sab’ring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:

Plunged in the battery smoke,

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not—

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Game thro’ the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

Oh, the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble Six Hundred!

THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES

Francis William Bourdillon (1852-1921)

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When love is done.

THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

Sam Walter Foss (1858-911)

He was a friend to man, and he lived

In a house by the side of the road.

—HOMER

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn

In the place of their self-content;

There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,

In a fellowless firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths

Where highways never ran—

But let me live by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,

Where the race of men go by—

The men who are good and the men who are bad,

As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner’s seat,

Or hurl the cynic’s ban—

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,

By the side of the highway of life,

The men who press with the ardor of hope,

The men who are faint with the strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,

Both parts of an infinite plan—

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead

And mountains of wearisome height;

That the road passes on through the long afternoon

And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice.

And weep with the strangers that moan,

Nor live in my house by the side of the road

Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road—

It’s here the race of men go by.

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish—so am I;

Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat,

Or hurl the cynic’s ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH

Alan Seeger

Reviews for One Hundred and One Famous Poems (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)

[bdtrump · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Some solid entries, and others that are not widely distributed anymore. On the other hand, some entries that seem forced or don't need to be here.

I did like the prose supplement, even if it isn't completely topical.

A worthwhile venture into basic poetry for anyone.

[murphy4jacobs · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I have this book in two editions -- one dating from the early 20th century and another from the 1990s. The earlier one has been read more. There's a certain thrill to read a poem with a little inset portrait of the poet above it, and the poet's dates of birth and death under the picture -- only the date of death is not yet filled in because the poet was alive when the book was published.

[datrappert · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I grew up with this book in the house and have turned to it countless times over the years. Merely by inclusion in this book, a poem became an automatic classic to me. The selection is varied and enjoyable. Although looking at the paperback versions I see pictured in "Popular Covers", it just doesn't seem quite the same as the vintage version I have.

[carterchristian1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

There is an inscription in this frojmj 1944, my first summer at camp in North Carloina, Camp Carlyle. It was an award. I loved the poems. especially The Highwayman and Trees. Truly favorites

[devenish_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This does truly contains most of my favourite poems. It has 'Charge of the Light Brigade' (Tennyson),'Trees' (Kilmer),'Recessional' & 'If' (Kipling),'Song of the Shirt (Hood).'Mercy' & 'Soliquy from Hamlet'(Shakespeare),'Abou Ben Adhem' (Leigh Hunt),'The Bells' & 'The Raven' (Poe),'Sea Fever'(Masefield),'The Highwayman' (Noyes),'The Spider and the Fly' (Howitt) and many others.A nice handy size and shape to slip into the pocket too.On a personal note,this is one of the books which has been in my possession the longest. It is also a bit of a mystery as somewhere along the line it has lost its introduction (does begin at the first poem as luck would have it) It has also lost page 59-60,so if anyone out there can help with either of the missing page information I would be most obliged.

[kylljoi · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

My mother and grandmother used to read poems from this collection to me when I was a child.

[virginiagill · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I chose this book for one reason only. It gave me the ability to have many of both my husband's and my favorite poems in one place. Better yet it was available as an e-book! So now I have the comfort of poetry everywhere I go. As I read to my husband several weeks ago at the cancer center it was neat to have other patients and staff stopping in to listen and enjoy the poems as well. That moment has made this a cherished possession.

[srtrent_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In the face of all the famous poems out there, 101 poems isn't a whole lot. However, this is a great little book to stick in your pocket or bag for those moments when you find yourself waiting for someone or something...the bus, the doctor's office...

[seoulful · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A lovely book of poems reflecting the appreciation of the poetry reading public of 1924 America. This book was given to my mother by a close friend, a practice which is also indicative of those times when a book of poetry was considered a welcomed gift. Many of the poems extol nature, others speak in the aftermath of WWI on the sadness of loss of young life, others reflect on the brevity and meaning of life in general and others are happy, wistful celebrations of childhood. Reading the book through, you come repeatedly across famous lines that have made their way into the cultural fabric of the English language. Two examples are: From Milton's Sonnet on His Blindness, "They also serve who only stand and wait." or from Thomas Gray's Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard, "The paths of glory lead but to the grave." It is with nostalgia that we consider the values and standards expressed in these poems of bygone ages.

[jweatherly8 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excellent collection of cherished poems! This one is an "American Standard."

[bestine_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

As a hack writer, I\'ve found this little volume incredibly useful as a quick reference.