/lit/ - Literature

>Dad disowned my brother for saying the Republic was allegorical

>>21269962
>Start learning German
>Can't get anywhere without learning hundreds of inflections that might be totally irregular depending on the word
German makes me feel like a total idiot, I really respect people who put in the effort to learn a foreign language as an adult.

>>18844669
No.

Keats is the flashy choice and Byron isn't far behind. But if you wish to honestly, objectively discover who the best of the English Romantics was, you are always inescapably led to Wordsworth. "Tintern Abbey" alone mogs the shit out of anything the others wrote, even Keats' Odes.

What's your favorite meter in English poetry, /lit/?

Obviously iambic pentameter is the king, but I also kind of like fourteener meter.

>>17722540
>dude being against anti-semitism is so fucking CRINGE BRO

>>17561276
Read Wordsworth's Prelude and learn about "spots of time"

Do you guys like him? Have you read the Prelude? if so, what did you think. I just finished Book 2.

>>17033937
Why shouldn't he write it in a poem/? Why use more words than necessary? Prosefags HATE this question

My diary. About a year ago, on a fine autumn day, I found myself in the park. The afternoon sun glowed on the leaves, red and orange and brown, and I sat, reading Wordsworth's 14-Book Prelude, and from time to time I pauses, raised my eyes from the page, and sighed at the beauty. It was during one of these spots of time that I noticed her, sitting on a bench like my own, on the far side of the path that wended through the trees. She was, I suppose, what they call an art hoe, but such an appellation does not convey what I felt upon seeing her. Her hair was dark, her face pale; in the Byronic idiom, she had a beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that was best of dark and bright met in her aspect and her eyes. I noticed that she too had a book, though I could not tell which.

At that moment (oh happy time!), she looked up, and her eyes met mine, and I confess I was afraid. I have rarely spoken to women, being absorbed in my studies and unwilling to risk the distractions of the feminine form, and how right I was, and yet how wrong! For all thought of Wordsworth and his Prelude fell from my mind, but in their place came a contemplation of Beauty so profound that, like the great poet of Grasmere, I wished to cry "I feel- I feel it all!"

Presently I wondered whether I should approach and speak to her. Her gaze had gone back to her book, as had mine, though of course the words imparted no meaning to my mind (for the light of mere signs is as darkness before such radiant Beauty). I had almost decided to chance a conversation when it happened, and I heard a voice, soft but insistent. "M-my favorite poem is Wordsworth's 'The World is Too Much With Us,' but I've only read the 2-Book Prelude." My heart leapt up at her words, for how could it not! I beheld her face again, lovelier by far than any I had yet seen, and had the urge to take her hand. Instead, I asked her to sit beside me, and she did, her body close to my own, and yet her presence did not make me tremble. It gave me strength, and manfully I expounded on the great poet's efforts, his impossible quest to write a prelude to an even greater work, a work of philosophy so wondrous that it could not be glimpsed, and even its Prelude could not be finished in this life.

As we conversed, her mouth curling sweetly into smiles and her fingers tapping in nervous happiness, I waxed great with love. The feeling grew stronger still when she showed me her book: the Riverside Chaucer, well-worn and with copious notes. "I'm just rereading the Wife of Bath's prologue," she explained. "She's kind of a feminist icon, don't you think?" I did not mind this display of pseudo-political fervor, misguided though it was, no more than I minded that she had not read the entire Prelude. What could be better than to help another soul (and one so lovely!) grow in wisdom? Since then we have spent many nights together in the pleasures of body and mind, and I know more about women than almost all men

>>16804311
Wordsworth. No contest. Next question.

About a year ago, on a fine autumn day, I found myself in the park. The afternoon sun glowed on the leaves, red and orange and brown, and I sat, reading Wordsworth's 14-Book Prelude, and from time to time I pauses, raised my eyes from the page, and sighed at the beauty. It was during one of these spots of time that I noticed her, sitting on a bench like my own, on the far side of the path that wended through the trees. She was, I suppose, what they call an art hoe, but such an appellation does not convey what I felt upon seeing her. Her hair was dark, her face pale; in the Byronic idiom, she had a beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that was best of dark and bright met in her aspect and her eyes. I noticed that she too had a book, though I could not tell which.

At that moment (oh happy time!), she looked up, and her eyes met mine, and I confess I was afraid. I have rarely spoken to women, being absorbed in my studies and unwilling to risk the distractions of the feminine form, and how right I was, and yet how wrong! For all thought of Wordsworth and his Prelude fell from my mind, but in their place came a contemplation of Beauty so profound that, like the great poet of Grasmere, I wished to cry "I feel- I feel it all!"

Presently I wondered whether I should approach and speak to her. Her gaze had gone back to her book, as had mine, though of course the words imparted no meaning to my mind (for the light of mere signs is as darkness before such radiant Beauty). I had almost decided to chance a conversation when it happened, and I heard a voice, soft but insistent. "M-my favorite poem is Wordsworth's 'The World is Too Much With Us,' but I've only read the 2-Book Prelude." My heart leapt up at her words, for how could it not! I beheld her face again, lovelier by far than any I had yet seen, and had the urge to take her hand. Instead, I asked her to sit beside me, and she did, her body close to my own, and yet her presence did not make me tremble. It gave me strength, and manfully I expounded on the great poet's efforts, his impossible quest to write a prelude to an even greater work, a work of philosophy so wondrous that it could not be glimpsed, and even its Prelude could not be finished in this life.

As we conversed, her mouth curling sweetly into smiles and her fingers tapping in nervous happiness, I waxed great with love. The feeling grew stronger still when she showed me her book: the Riverside Chaucer, well-worn and with copious notes. "I'm just rereading the Wife of Bath's prologue," she explained. "She's kind of a feminist icon, don't you think?" I did not mind this display of pseudo-political fervor, misguided though it was, no more than I minded that she had not read the entire Prelude. What could be better than to help another soul (and one so lovely!) grow in wisdom? Since then, we have spent many nights together in the pleasures of body and mind, and I pray you will one day find an art hoe of your own.

About a year ago, on a fine autumn day, I found myself in the park. The afternoon sun glowed on the leaves, red and orange and brown, and I sat, reading Wordsworth's 14-Book Prelude, and from time to time I pauses, raised my eyes from the page, and sighed at the beauty. It was during one of these spots of time that I noticed her, sitting on a bench like my own, on the far side of the path that wended through the trees. She was, I suppose, what they call an art hoe, but such an appellation does not convey what I felt upon seeing her. Her hair was dark, her face pale; in the Byronic idiom, she had a beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that was best of dark and bright met in her aspect and her eyes. I noticed that she too had a book, though I could not tell which.

At that moment (oh happy time!), she looked up, and her eyes met mine, and I confess I was afraid. I have rarely spoken to women, being absorbed in my studies and unwilling to risk the distractions of the feminine form, and how right I was, and yet how wrong! For all thought of Wordsworth and his Prelude fell from my mind, but in their place came a contemplation of Beauty so profound that, like the great poet of Grasmere, I wished to cry "I feel- I feel it all!"

Presently I wondered whether I should approach and speak to her. Her gaze had gone back to her book, as had mine, though of course the words imparted no meaning to my mind (for the light of mere signs is as darkness before such radiant Beauty). I had almost decided to chance a conversation when it happened, and I heard a voice, soft but insistent. "M-my favorite poem is Wordsworth's 'The World is Too Much With Us,' but I've only read the 2-Book Prelude." My heart leapt up at her words, for how could it not! I beheld her face again, lovelier by far than any I had yet seen, and had the urge to take her hand. Instead, I asked her to sit beside me, and she did, her body close to my own, and yet her presence did not make me tremble. It gave me strength, and manfully I expounded on the great poet's efforts, his impossible quest to write a prelude to an even greater work, a work of philosophy so wondrous that it could not be glimpsed, and even its Prelude could not be finished in this life.

As we conversed, her mouth curling sweetly into smiles and her fingers tapping in nervous happiness, I waxed great with love. The feeling grew stronger still when she showed me her book: the Riverside Chaucer, well-worn and with copious notes. "I'm just rereading the Wife of Bath's prologue," she explained. "She's kind of a feminist icon, don't you think?" I did not mind this display of pseudo-political fervor, misguided though it was, no more than I minded that she had not read the entire Prelude. What could be better than to help another soul (and one so lovely!) grow in wisdom? Since then, we have spent many nights together in the pleasures of body and mind, and I pray you will one day find an art hoe of your own.

Cringe

>>16472596
Guess again, homosexual but Keats is also very good

>HEY GUYS I LIKE EDMUND BURKE HAVE YOU HEARD OF EDMUND BURKE HEY POOR PEOPLE GUESS WHAT? EDMUND BURKE. HAHAH BASED BURKE TIME TO COLLECT MUH GOVERMENT SHEKELS

What did he mean by this?

Yeats - The Second Coming
Eliot - Prufrock to start I guess
Keats - Ode on a Grecian Urn
Pound - the paris metro one lol
Shelley - the Ozymandias one (thanks normies)
Rilke - The Panther
Coleridge - Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Wordsworth - She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Ashbery - This Room

>mfw translated poetry

I followed your stupid start with the greeks meme and have read nothing but greek mythology, poetry, drama, and philosophy for three years. Yesterday I went to the bookshop to buy some Virgil but it had turned into a Little Caesars. Now there is nowhere to buy books in my town and the nearest city with a bookshop is three hours away. Big deal, I can just drive there right? Nope, I spent the last THREE YEARS reading hellenic drivel instead of working more than a part time job in a cement factory.

And I can't buy them online because the shipping to my house is ridiculously expensive. I'm talking ten to twenty times the cost of the book itself. I'm going to save up the money to buy my neighbor's bike so I can ride to the bookshop but that's gonna take at least another year. I guess I will have to reread the greeks if I don't snap and dunk my head in some fresh cement.

>>9064595

>>9055610
Willy agrees

>>9045499

>>9044509

>>9044474

"If I have sex with this hillock, will my urges be satisfied?"
-William Wordsworth