A Recipe For Poetic Phrase
In most regards, there is a tendency to boast about who bore the most prominent poet, bar none. Try as they might, students will inevitably encounter a herculean task before them when attempting to best the Shakespearean script of English Renaissance or the work of Romanticism by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, for instance.
Among those who struggled against the somber effects of the classic tales of a bygone world are–in high school, perhaps–ones left only to confess of lingering literary maladroitness, others left clinging by the wisdom and the peril that is charted so eloquently along its verse–moments diligently unearthed in college, presumably. We have it all: regret, romance, regalia, reverie. Tragedy cloaked in comic dialogue, tedium flocked in character and circumstance, a flavor for all discerning tastes.
In British literature, no other scribe can better pen sentiment than Shakespeare. Can a sweet rose outlast the tapestry of emotion in Romeo and Juliet, or do more justice to theatrics than Camelot, nigh deliverance of dialogue to Richard III, or tantalize like Taylor Coleridge?
All the grandeur that awaits when conquest is first and foremost, the being emanates love and the crown basks in splendor; the lord marvels in his dominion. Then, pride and prosody is mere audience to the etchings of dialogue within our mind and soul; yet, linger blissfully at our young, impressionable, and eclectic appetite. A galvanzing selection of line to inure even the sternmost, ensues.
Lady, you know no rules of charity,
Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.
Villain, thou know’st not law of God nor man.
No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.
But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
O, wonderful, when devils tell the truth!
Then, on to matters of the heart; be they pure, be they spectacle, be they family lineage.
Romeo and Juliet
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
I love thee, I love but thee
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold
And the stars grow old.
So dear I love him that with him,
All deaths I could endure.
Without him, live no life.
Did my heart love till now?
Forswear it sight,
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.
(A courtship quenched)
Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.
(A sentiment immortalized)
And when I shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
(Then much ado about the other)
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandl’d were,
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, ’twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she—
Ending with reverence to the motherland; thine kind host to Camelot. Arthurian scholar, Norris J. Lacy, clarifies that “Camelot, located no where in particular, can be anywhere”.
Don’t let it be forgot / That once there was a spot / For one brief shining moment / That was known as Camelot!
In short, there’s simply not / a more congenial spot / for happily ever aftering than here in Camelot.
One notion heretofore remains–Are these poetics still merely a trite quibble for the unrequited masses–or a resounding tablet of transcending wisdom for the prescient, undiluted few? You are left to reminisce, or rebuke.
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