A Treasury of Great Poems
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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.
festne his hood under his chin, He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pin: . . Geoffrey Chaucer (i^40?-i^oo) jg Her nose was straight, her Her mouth was small, but eyes transparent grey, very soft and red. Hers was a noble and a fair forehead, Almost a span in breadth, one realized; For she was small but scarcely undersized. Her cloak was well designed, I was aware; Her arm was graced with corals, and she bare A string in which the green glass beads were bold. And from it hung a brilliant
your freend? Now certes, I were worse than a feend, If I to yow wolde harm or vileinye. I am nat come your counseil for t'espye; But trewely, the cause of my cominge Was only for to herkne how that ye singe. Fro his contrarie, Though he For trewely ye have as mery a stevene As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene; Therwith ye han in musik more felinge Than hadde Boece, or any that can singe. My lord your fader (god his soule blessel) And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse, Han in myn hous
his bak toward the wode him beer. For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed. O been eschewed! Chauntecleer fleigh fro the hemes! Alias, his wyf ne roghte nat of dremes! And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce. O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce. Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, And in thy service dide al his poweer. More for delyt, than world to multiplye, Why woldestow sufFre him on thy day to dye? O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn, That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn
With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore, Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore The Friday for to chyde, as diden ye? (For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude pleyne For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne. Certes, swich cry ne lamentacioun Was never of ladies maad, whan Ilioun destinee, that mayst nat Alias, that Geoffrey Chaucer (i^^oT-i^oo) lop have read in Sir Burnell the Ass, how that there was a cock Who, all because a priest's son gave
all! Chanticleer, alas!" quoth he, "I fear that I have done you injury! frightened you by seizing you so hard And rushing with you hither from your yard; But, sire, I did it with no ill intentI Come down, and I will tell you what I meant. God help me, I will speak you fair and true." "Nay, then," quoth he, "my curse upon us two, And first I'll curse myself, both blood and bones. If thou shalt fool me oftener than once! Thou shalt no more with crafty flatteries Make me to sing for thee and