The Needed Aspects of Poetry (WIP)

Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea, One of the Mountains; each a mighty Voice; In both from age to age Thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen Music, Liberty! There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought’st against Him; but hast vainly striven; Where not a torrent murmurs heard by the. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft: Then cleave, O cleave to that which is still left! For, high-soul’d Maid, what sorrow would it be That mountain Floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!-William Wordsworth "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer" Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold         And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;         Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told         That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;         Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies         When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes         He stared at the Pacific—and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise—         Silent, upon a peak in Darien. -John Keats Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered Saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.-John Milton Márgarét, are you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves, líke the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! ás the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you wíll weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sórrow's spríngs áre the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for. -Gerard Manley Hopkins