About the Joy of verse

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I have loved poetry as far back as I can remember, and after years of reading and studying poetry and poets, I have a little better appreciation and understating of what poetry is about.  My favorite poet is Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)] one of America’s most famous poets, who lived almost her entire life in the same house in Amherst, Massachusetts and who wrote nearly 1700 poems. My favorite poem was written by English poet Thomas Gray and is bound to stir the emotions of most readers. I hope you enjoy the poems I post here and that you will give me some feedback about what you like.

First Poetry Post is about Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
by Thomas Grey (1716 – 1771)

A Country Churchyard

“ Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” has an easy-to-read rhyming scheme, but because of its length and mood changes, I will post only a few stanzas at a time, and I hope you will take time to absorb the beauty and message of each group. Each new group of stanzas will be added to the Poetry Page until the entire poem has been posted. I’ll post a notification on Facebook and Twitter when a new group of stanzas has been posted. Even if you’ve never read this poem before, I’ll be surprised if you don’t recognize some line or theme that you’ve heard or read, because this poem is one of the most popular poems written in the English language I will appreciate your comments about your interpretation of the various verses and how they make you feel. Just click “contact” in the menu at the top of the page and send me an E-mail or a Facebook Message.

Link to Entire Poem – Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard


The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
The poet describes the men buried here as uncultured and uneducated. He then goes on to mention some of the simple joys of country life they enjoyed, among them the joy of a wife and doting children.