/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.18184455]

Shelley>Keats>Blake>Wordsworth>Byron>Coleridge

[Anonymous No.18184458]

>>18184455
Blake>all, though it's barely accurate to call him a "Romantic" in the first place.

[Anonymous No.18184854]

>>18184458
>though it's barely accurate to call him a "Romantic" in the first place
elaborate

[Anonymous No.18184863]

>>18184455
I cannot imagine being a person who would not immediately think "Blake>the rest"
Wtf OP

[Anonymous No.18184865]

>>18184854
The only thing he had in common to the rest was being a sexual deviant and living around the same time

[Anonymous No.18184866]

>>18184455
Always wish I could get into Keats, but he filters me way too hard. Byron is great and I plan on checking the rest soon.

[Anonymous No.18184885]

>>18184455
Blake > Byron > Shelley > Keats > Coleridge = Wordsworth

[Anonymous No.18184907]

Only one way to solve this: excerpt fight
I'll start with blake

A little black thing among the snow,
Crying "weep! 'weep!" in notes of woe!
"Where are thy father and mother? say?"
"They are both gone up to the church to pray.

Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil'd among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King,
Who make up a heaven of our misery."

[Anonymous No.18184947]

>>18184907
Byron

And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov'd, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.

[Anonymous No.18184963]

>>18184947
Shelley

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky East,
A white and shapeless mass.

[Anonymous No.18184971]

>>18184963
Keats

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

[Anonymous No.18184982]

>>18184971
Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

[Anonymous No.18184985]

>>18184971
Coleridge

Since all that beat about in Nature's range,
Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain
The only constant in a world of change,
O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain?
Call to the Hours, that in the distance play,
The faery people of the future day—
Fond Thought! not one of all that shining swarm
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath,
Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm,
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!
Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see,
She is not thou, and only thou are she,
Still, still as though some dear embodied Good,
Some living Love before my eyes there stood
With answering look a ready ear to lend,
I mourn to thee and say—'Ah! loveliest friend!
That this the meed of all my toils might be,
To have a home, an English home, and thee!'
Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one.
The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall shine upon,
Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark,
Without thee were but a becalméd bark,
Whose Helmsman on an ocean waste and wide
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.

And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when
The woodman winding westward up the glen
At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze,
Sees full before him, gliding without tread,
An image with a glory round its head;
The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues,
Nor knows he makes the shadow, he pursues!

[Anonymous No.18185003]

>>18184455
Keats is literally one of the best poets of the English language. The rest are good, but can't compare.

[Anonymous No.18185024]

>>18184963
this wins

[Anonymous No.18185031]

>>18184458
Good Post. Songs of Innocence/Experience are wonderful.

[Anonymous No.18185055]

>>18184455
Blake>Keats>Shelley>Wordsworth>>>>>>>>Byron

[Anonymous No.18185064]

[Anonymous No.18185091]

>>18185064
>Penguin
>Not Norton

[Anonymous No.18185093]

>>18185064
>byron's cover is just a portrait of himself
Bro we get it he was a narcissist

[Anonymous No.18185112]

>>18185093
He didn't even ask to have his face on a Penguin classic. Only one writer in history has ever reached that level of narcissism.

[Anonymous No.18185362]

>>18185091
penguin’s are cuter

[Anonymous No.18185391]

>>18185093
To be fair nobody would buy an edition with this on the cover

[Anonymous No.18185402]

>>18185362
Wordsworth's were founded by pic related, so they win every time.

[Anonymous No.18185700]

>>18184458
All>Blake

[Anonymous No.18185873]

Kubla Khan>>>>Ozymandias>>>>everything else.

[Anonymous No.18185918]

>>18184455
>Just do drugs maaaaan
>It's for my consumption

[Anonymous No.18185924]

>>18185112
Moz is great, if only because he is so good at making insecure dicklets reeee

[Anonymous No.18186035]

>>18184455
Shelley sucked, Keats' entire reputation is built on "what if he DIDN'T die when he was 25?", I agree with the rest as long as you don't hold Blake's schizopoetry against him (you shouldn't).

[Anonymous No.18186112]

>>18184455
Byron was a chad who swam between continents and fought in a war of independence. He therefore beats all the others.

[Anonymous No.18186549]

>>18184455
Keats>Byron>Shelley
Blake’s not really a romantic and I don’t care about the other two.

[Anonymous No.18186852]

Blake is the best of these by far

[Anonymous No.18186864]

BLAKE > WORDSWORTH > COLERIDGE

Haven't read much from the others. Should I?

[Anonymous No.18186880]

>>18184907
Divine inspiration
>>18184947
Feels too artificial and premeditated
>>18184963
Too short to tell
>>18184971
Heard it too many times to make a fair judgement
>>18184982
Also too overused
>>18184985
Coleridge always sounds smart when writing poetry

[Anonymous No.18187658]

bump

[Anonymous No.18187663]

>>18184866
just spend a bit of time with Keats, his poems aren't that hard really

[Anonymous No.18187673]

>>18185918
Tedious cunt

[Anonymous No.18187696]

>>18184455
Good poetry > bad poetry
Good Lord can you actually discuss literature instead of going through with these autistic author fights

[Anonymous No.18187710]

>>18187696
You first

[Anonymous No.18187967]

>>18187696
NO, BYRON IS BEST

[Anonymous No.18187984]

>>18184455
Byron > all other poets in general

[Anonymous No.18188139]

>>18184455
I'm a bit biased, but The Eve of St. Agnes puts Keats near the top for me, the way he arrests & revives momentum with the narrative is incredible

[Anonymous No.18188502]

>>18187984
Byron is too stuffy, there's no joy or sorrow in what he writes. It's just bland witticisms