A Treasury of Great Poems
This classic collection, long recognized as one of the most widely read and comprehensive anthologies of poetry in the English language, offers more than 1,300 pages containing nearly 1,000 poems by almost 200 poets. Beginning with the earliest English ballads and selections from the King James Version of the Bible, the book continues with the immortal works of Shakespeare, Donne, Milton, Pope, Whittier, Poe, Tennyson, and many others, concluding with an outstanding array of 20th-century poetry by such luminaries as Wallace Stevens, Dylan Thomas, and Marianne Moore. Louis Untermeyer--the renowned critic, biographer, and teacher who edited this remarkable work--is said to have introduced more poets to readers and more readers to poetry than any other American. Treasury of Great Poems is indexed by poet, poem and first lines.
which human is reality it* the poet's greatest accom- —ARCHIBALD MACLEISH is lost. of poetry is the before without at all times necessary, for which all fix is its unpredictability. Its element surprise: is the surprise of finding something strange in the familiar, some- thing familiar in the strange. . . . The power of poetry ability to express the inexpressible— and to express is a light upon them (the poets), especially upon bethans and Keats, Wordsworth,
O." "O 1 nae killed my fadii deir, Mither, mither, O I my hae killed and wae Alas, is fadir deir, mee O!" "And whatten penance wul ye drie for that, Edward, Edward? And whatten penance wul ye drie My deir son, now tell me O." "He set my feet in yonder boat, for that? Mither, mither. He my set And yonder boat. He fare ovir the sea O." feet in "And what wul and your ha,^ Edward, Edward? And what wul ye doe wi your towirs and your ha. That were sae fair to see O?" "He let thame
son? where hae ye been, my handsome young man?" "I hae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." "O where hae O "Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I dined wi' my true-love; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." "What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?" I Bear. 9 Such.
no afterthoughts, no xlix Preface exercise of the speculative mind. But poetry, being the product of intuition as well as experience, transcends plain statements; it surpasses fact and leaps ahead of logic. Simple arithmetic to the contrary, a poem is not the sum of its parts. A poem is greater than its parts; it is even something beyond its parts. It is prompted by an idea, enhanced by rhyme, pointed by meter, colored by metaphor. This fusion, this enrichment and
not an anthology of light verse, it is not neglecthumor has played in poetry. It is a part which ful of the part that is not always recognized and, when recognized, not always approved. But the wit of Pope, an eminence of its own, is not so sky-consuming that it need crowd out the smaller peaks attained by Edward Lear and W. S. Gilbert. The l)Tics of Lear and the bab ballads are not only as worthy of a place in literary history as the rape of the lock, they are, with alice in wonderland, as