Pocket Book of Poetry (Barnes & Noble Collectible Editions)

By Barnes & Noble

The sixty poems selected for Pocket Book of Poetry span more than four centuries and some rank among the greatest works of literature in the English language. Many are popular favorites and several represent the best works written by their authors, among them William Shakespeares sonnets, Samuel Taylor Coleridges "Kubla Khan," John Keats "Ode on a Grecian Urn," William Butler Yeats "The Second Coming," and Robert Frosts "The Road Not Taken."   Although some of these poems share themes and verse forms, each is a unique work unto itself. All suggest a world much greater than can be encompassed in their words, and the way in which they transport the reader to that realm is a large part of the pleasure that they offer.   Pocket Book of Poetry is one of Barnes & Nobles Collectible Editions classics. Each volume features authoritative texts by the worlds greatest authors in an exquisitely designed bonded-leather binding, with distinctive gilt edging.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barnes & Noble
• Release date: Dec 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781435157583

Book preview

William Shakespeare

Sonnet XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm’d,

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Sonnet XXIX

When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon my self and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d,

Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least,

Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,

Haply I think on thee,—and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Sonnet CXVI

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me prov’d,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

Christopher Marlowe

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my Love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dales and fields,

Or woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,

And see the shepherds feed their flocks

By shallow rivers, to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies;

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-buds

With coral clasps and amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me and be my Love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my Love.

John Donne

Death

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.

From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;

And soonest our best men with thee do go—

Rest of their bones and souls’ delivery!

Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

The Sun Rising

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,

Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?

Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?

Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide

Late school-boys, or sour prentices,

Go tell court-huntsmen, that the king will ride,

Call country ants to harvest offices;

Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,

No hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend and strong,

Why shouldst thou think?

I could eclipse, and cloud them with a wink,

But that I would not lose her sight so long.

If her eyes have not blinded thine,

Look, and to-morrow late tell