Have you ever had an epiphanic moment while reading a poem where you were left awestruck and stunned speechless at how relatable it is? That’s what literature does, doesn’t it? Binds us with one big thread, all over the world, and pokes every emotion or realisation that we keep buried within ourselves. Poetry brings out all of that, and so much more. So, if you have kept that bag packed at the corner of your room for long, or keep postponing your ticket, we have a few poems for you that might just make your feet tingle and your heart skip a beat, and finally, get, set, go for as much an inward as an outward journey. By Shubhanjana Das
1. Life by Henry Van Dyke
Let me but live my life from year to year,
With forward face and unreluctant soul;
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal;
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils; but with a whole
And happy heart, that pays its toll
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.
So let the way wind up the hill or down,
O’er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy:
Still seeking what I sought when but a boy,
New friendship, high adventure, and a crown,
My heart will keep the courage of the quest,
And hope the road’s last turn will be the best.
2. Our Journey Had Advanced by Emily Dickinson
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Moody early spring days call for moody early spring poems. 🖤// . A Light exists in Spring Not present on the Year At any other period – When March is scarcely here . A Color stands abroad On Solitary Fields That Science cannot overtake, But Human Nature feels. . It waits upon the Lawn; It shows the furthest Tree Upon the furthest Slope we know; It almost speaks to me. . Then as Horizons step Or Noons report away, Without the Formula of sound It passes and we stay – . A quality of loss Affecting our Content, As Trade had suddenly encroached Upon a Sacrament. . #emilydickinson #poetry #spring
Our journey had advanced —
Our feet were almost come
To that odd Fork in Being’s Road —
Eternity — by Term —
Our pace took sudden awe —
Our feet — reluctant — led —
Before — were Cities — but Between —
The Forest of the Dead —
Retreat — was out of Hope —
Behind — a Sealed Route —
Eternity’s White Flag — Before —
And God — at every Gate –
3. Journey Home by Rabindranath Tagore
The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.
I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my
voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet.
It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself,
and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.
The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own,
and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.
My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said `Here art thou!’
The question and the cry `Oh, where?’ melt into tears of a thousand
streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance `I am!’
4. Up-Hill by Christina Rossetti
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Christina Georgina Rossetti fu una poetessa britannica del XIX secolo.⠀ ⠀ Figlia di Gabriele Rossetti, critico letterario e patriota italiano di origini abruzzesi che fu esiliato, visse Londra, e Frances Polidori, donna erudita di forte fede anglicana, sorella del medico personale di Lord Byron. L'ambiente di apprendimento creato dai genitori, favorì lo sviluppo culturale della poetessa e dei suoi fratelli (Dante Gabriel Rossetti, pittore preraffaellita, William Michael Rossetti, critico letterario e autore, Maria Francesca Rossetti, scrittrice) spesso a contatto con studiosi, artisti e rivoluzionari. La sua educazione fu affidata alla madre, figura forte che la influenzò facendola aderire alla fede anglicana. Durante la sua vita rifiutò tre proposte di matrimonio per motivi religiosi.⠀ ⠀ Pubblicò i primi componimenti a 18 anni, ma i riconoscimenti della critica arrivarono nel 1862 con "Il mercato dei folletti" in cui la poesia d'apertura che dà il nome alla raccolta, narra le disavventure di due sorelle con alcuni folletti maligni. Il poemetto, apparentemente rivolto ad un pubblico infantile, fu erroneamente interpretato in chiave erotica; in realtà si tratta di un'allegoria di peccato e redenzione. Insomma un'opera singolare se confrontata con la produzione della Rossetti caratterizzata da liriche d'amore o religiose. La sua anima dolce e sfuggente si manifestava soprattutto con le poesie d'amore benedette da una musicalità cristallina.⠀ ⠀ Lavorò come volontaria in una casa d'accoglienza per prostitute, era contro la guerra, la schiavitù, contro la crudeltà sugli animali e contro lo sfruttamento sessuale delle minorenni. Molti hanno trovato una vena femminista tra le tematiche a lei care.⠀ ⠀ Ora non resta che riscoprire la sua poesia dimenticata. ⠀ ⠀ #leggere #instalibri #instabook #lettura #leggeresempre #book #leggerechepassione #letteratura. #bookstagram #leggerefabene #librisulibri #currentlyreading #ilmercatodeifolletti #libridaleggere #libribelli #DiRosso
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
5. Sea Fever by John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.