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Posts Tagged ‘iambic pentameter’

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind’s masonry,
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Mauger the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

 

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Iambic are those two successive lines.
Pentameter in count is what defines
The length their feet walk ere they make a turn
And walk another line from stem to stern.
The couplet like a man and wife both chime,
As one paired mate, together in a rhyme.
Great Chaucer used them, but it took a Pope
To make them popular in use and scope.

 

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heroic_couplet

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examples:

The poem above is an example of heroic couplets. 

https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2015/03/13/on-donnes-poetry-by-samuel-taylor-coleridge/

https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2015/06/08/a-prayer-in-spring-by-robert-frost/

https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2013/06/06/vice-by-alexander-pope/

https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2015/08/25/to-the-right-honorable-william-earl-of-dartmouth-by-phillis-wheatley/

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

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……The War Gave Birth To War

The World War that we sadly now call One
Began with glee from those quite innocent,
The very ones that old men who are done
Send forth as babes to bear the bloody brunt.

The war was grand; it was a glorious thing
For men as knights to go forth and be bold.
And then, great honor due, the praise would ring,
Adorning men like jewels and precious gold.

The tempting siren, Glory, thus deceived,
And millions died, their final whispered cry,
And that of those who were of them bereaved,
Was agonized, a wailing “Why? Oh, WHY?

And when a devil like a hateful horn
Rose out of that same reddened battleground,
Because of sanguine weight of war still borne,
They shuddered at the sudden saber sound.

The Great War was a wound within the mind –
A generation’s blood was yet to dry;
The hearts still grieved; the teeth would sometimes grind –
France and Great Britain, bitten, both were shy.

They ran away from war in full retreat:
Versailles, a cracker broken into crumbs.
At Munich, pen gave land as if defeat,
And Chamberlain declared, “We’ve stilled the drums.”

But Hitler swallowed Poland in a bite
And France was like a feather swept away.
The nations backed from war into the night,
And backed so far, they backed into its day.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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………………..Chaucer

An old man in a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note
Of lark and linnet, and from every page
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.

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……………….Sonnet 50

How heavy do I journey on the way
When what I seek (my weary travel’s end)
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
‘Thus far the miles are measur’d from thy friend!’
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov’d not speed, being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide;
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind –
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

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English: Cobbe portrait, claimed to be a portr...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)


No Peer

God spoke to Moses on the mount,
   Before, to Abraham.
He is creator of us all,
   Eternal, great I Am. 

He is the giver of good gifts
   From bread to smitten Lamb.
He gifted Shakespeare with his craft –
   Made Will the great iamb.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

 

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