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F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Princeton poetry
Like William Faulkner’s verse, many of his poems served as a training ground for his prose
- The Staying Up All Night
- The warm fire.
- The comfortable chairs.
- The merry companions.
- The stroke of twelve.
- The wild suggestion.
- The good sports.
- The man who hasn’t slept for weeks.
- The people who have done it before.
- The long anecdotes.
- The best looking girl yawns.
- The forced raillery.
- The stroke of one.
- The best looking girl goes to bed.
- The stroke of two.
- The empty pantry.
- The lack of firewood.
- The second best looking girl goes to bed.
- The weather-beaten ones who don’t.
- The stroke of four.
- The dozing off.
- The amateur ‘life of the party.’
- We Leave Tonight
- We leave to-night . . .
- Silent, we filled the still, deserted street,
- A column of dim gray,
- And ghosts rose startled at the muffled beat
- Along the moonless way;
- The shadowy shipyards echoed to the feet
- That turned from night and day.
- And so we linger on the windless decks,
- See on the spectre shore
- Shades of a thousand days, poor gray-ribbed wrecks . . .
- Oh, shall we then deplore
- Those futile years!
- See how the sea is white!
- The clouds have broken and the heavens burn
- To hollow highways, paved with gravelled light
- The churning of the waves about the stern
- Rises to one voluminous nocturne,
- . . . We leave to-night.
- Princeton: The Last Day
- The last light wanes and drifts across the land,
- The low, long land, the sunny land of spires.
- The ghosts of evening tune again their lyres
- And wander singing, in a plaintive band
- Down the long corridors of trees. Pale fires
- Echo the night from tower top to tower.
- Oh sleep that dreams and dream that never tires,
- Press from the petals of the lotus-flower
- Something of this to keep, the essence of an hour!
- No more to wait the twilight of the moon
- In this sequestrated vale of star and spire;
- For one, eternal morning of desire
- Passes to time and earthy afternoon.
- Here, Heracletus, did you build of fire
- And changing stuffs your prophecy far hurled
- Down the dead years; this midnight I aspire
- To see, mirrored among the embers, curled
- In flame, the splendor and the sadness of the world.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), an American novelist and short story writer, was the unofficial artistic spokesman for the Jazz Age (1920s-1930s). His fiction is filled with the excess and exaggerated exuberance that defined this era—although his own style, crafted with precision and discipline, and edged with a tragic tone, served as a perfect counterpoint to (and thereby transcended) the age about which he wrote. A victim of the these same excesses, however, he died of complications of “the bottle.” His early death precluded any firm estimation of his full potential as a writer; nonetheless, the work he did accomplish (especially The Great Gatsby (1925)) earned him a place among the great modern American novelists, including Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner. Like Faulkner’s verse, many of his poems (written during his days as a Princeton student), served as a training ground for his prose, and like Hemingway’s verse, it was occasional but often pointed up the thematic concerns he also explored in his fiction.
Here's something you might be interested in.
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Princeton poetry
Like William Faulkner’s verse, many of his poems served as a training ground for his prose
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Princeton poetry
Like William Faulkner’s verse, many of his poems served as a training ground for his prose
- The Staying Up All Night
- The warm fire.
- The comfortable chairs.
- The merry companions.
- The stroke of twelve.
- The wild suggestion.
- The good sports.
- The man who hasn’t slept for weeks.
- The people who have done it before.
- The long anecdotes.
- The best looking girl yawns.
- The forced raillery.
- The stroke of one.
- The best looking girl goes to bed.
- The stroke of two.
- The empty pantry.
- The lack of firewood.
- The second best looking girl goes to bed.
- The weather-beaten ones who don’t.
- The stroke of four.
- The dozing off.
- The amateur ‘life of the party.’
- We Leave Tonight
- We leave to-night . . .
- Silent, we filled the still, deserted street,
- A column of dim gray,
- And ghosts rose startled at the muffled beat
- Along the moonless way;
- The shadowy shipyards echoed to the feet
- That turned from night and day.
- And so we linger on the windless decks,
- See on the spectre shore
- Shades of a thousand days, poor gray-ribbed wrecks . . .
- Oh, shall we then deplore
- Those futile years!
- See how the sea is white!
- The clouds have broken and the heavens burn
- To hollow highways, paved with gravelled light
- The churning of the waves about the stern
- Rises to one voluminous nocturne,
- . . . We leave to-night.
- Princeton: The Last Day
- The last light wanes and drifts across the land,
- The low, long land, the sunny land of spires.
- The ghosts of evening tune again their lyres
- And wander singing, in a plaintive band
- Down the long corridors of trees. Pale fires
- Echo the night from tower top to tower.
- Oh sleep that dreams and dream that never tires,
- Press from the petals of the lotus-flower
- Something of this to keep, the essence of an hour!
- No more to wait the twilight of the moon
- In this sequestrated vale of star and spire;
- For one, eternal morning of desire
- Passes to time and earthy afternoon.
- Here, Heracletus, did you build of fire
- And changing stuffs your prophecy far hurled
- Down the dead years; this midnight I aspire
- To see, mirrored among the embers, curled
- In flame, the splendor and the sadness of the world.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), an American novelist and short story writer, was the unofficial artistic spokesman for the Jazz Age (1920s-1930s). His fiction is filled with the excess and exaggerated exuberance that defined this era—although his own style, crafted with precision and discipline, and edged with a tragic tone, served as a perfect counterpoint to (and thereby transcended) the age about which he wrote. A victim of the these same excesses, however, he died of complications of “the bottle.” His early death precluded any firm estimation of his full potential as a writer; nonetheless, the work he did accomplish (especially The Great Gatsby (1925)) earned him a place among the great modern American novelists, including Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner. Like Faulkner’s verse, many of his poems (written during his days as a Princeton student), served as a training ground for his prose, and like Hemingway’s verse, it was occasional but often pointed up the thematic concerns he also explored in his fiction.
Commentsyigiso29
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March 29, 2020
judygsmith77
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March 30, 2020