1.

William Wordsworth (1770–1850) menghasilkan beberapa puisi Inggris terbesar

pada akhir 1700-an dan awal 1800-an.

Adapun karyanya, yaitu :

Buku dan puisi

 Lyrical Ballads (1798)

 The prelude
 I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
 Poetical works of Wordsworth
 Lines Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey
 Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
 Poems of William Wordsworth
 The Excursion
 The recluse
 Guide to the Lakes
 King of Sweden
 Argument For Suicide
 To Sleep
 To Lady Beaumont
 The Sonnet Ii
 The Sailor's Mother
 The Longest Day
 A Farewell
 A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal
 Foresight

Adapun contohnya, yaitu:

2. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

2. Ellizabeth Barrett browning.

Karyanya :

 Sonnets from the Portuguese

 Aurora Leigh
 The poetical works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning
 Poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
 Casa Guidi Windows: A Poem
 The Battle of Marathon: A Poem

contoh karyanya :

Sonnets from the Portuguese 43: How do I love thee? Let me count the ways 
BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

from Aurora Leigh, First Book

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

In those days, though, I never analysed

Myself even. All analysis comes late.

You catch a sight of Nature, earliest,

In full front sun-face, and your eyelids wink

And drop before the wonder of ‘t; you miss

The form, through seeing the light. I lived, those days,

And wrote because I lived–unlicensed else:

My heart beat in my brain. Life’s violent flood

Abolished bounds,–and, which my neighbour’s field,

Which mine, what mattered? It is so in youth.

We play at leap-frog over the god Term;

The love within us and the love without

Are mixed, confounded; if we are loved or love,

We scarce distinguish. So, with other power.

Being acted on and acting seem the same:

In that first onrush of life’s chariot-wheels,

We know not if the forests move or we.

And so, like most young poets, in a flush

Of individual life, I poured myself

Along the veins of others, achieved

Mere lifeless imitations of life verse,

And made the living answer for the dead,

Profaning nature. ‘Touch not, do not taste,

Nor handle,’–we’re too legal, who write young:

We beat the phorminx till we hurt our thumbs,

As if still ignorant of counterpoint;

We call the Muse ... ‘O Muse, benignant Muse!’–

As if we had seen her purple-braided head.

With the eyes in it start between the boughs

As often as a stag’s. What make-believe,

With so much earnest! what effete results,

From virile efforts! what cold wire-drawn odes

From such white heats!–bucolics, where the cows

Would scare the writer if they splashed the mud

In lashing off the flies,–didactics, driven

Against the heels of what the master said;

And counterfeiting epics, shrill with trumps

A babe might blow between two straining cheeks

Of bubbled rose, to make his mother laugh;

And elegiac griefs, and songs of love,

Like cast-off nosegays picked up on the road,

The worse for being warm: all these things, writ

On happy mornings, with a morning heart,

That leaps for love, is active for resolve,

Weak for art only. Oft, the forms

Will thrill, indeed, in carrying the young blood.

The wine-skins, now and then, a little warped,

Will crack even, as the new wine gurgles in.

Spare the old bottles!–spill not the new wine.

By Keats’s soul, the man who never stepped

In gradual progress like another man,

But, turning grandly on his central self,

Ensphered himself in twenty perfect years

And died, not young,–(the life of a long life,

Distilled to a mere drop, falling like a tear

Upon the world’s cold cheek to make it burn

For ever;) by that strong excepted soul,

I count it strange, and hard to understand,

That nearly all young poets should write old;

That Pope was sexagenarian at sixteen,

And beardless Byron academical,

And so with others. It may be, perhaps,

Such have not settled long and deep enough

In trance, to attain to clairvoyance,–and still

The memory mixes with the vision, spoils,

And works it turbid.

                  Or perhaps, again,

In order to discover the Muse-Sphinx,

The melancholy desert must sweep round,

Behind you, as before.–

For me, I wrote

False poems, like the rest, and thought them true.

Because myself was true in writing them.

I, peradventure, have writ true ones since

With less complacence.

                    But I could not hide

My quickening inner life from those at watch.

They saw a light at a window now and then,

They had not set there. Who had set it there?

My father’s sister started when she caught

My soul agaze in my eyes. She could not say

I had no business with a sort of soul,

But plainly she objected,–and demurred,

That souls were dangerous things to carry straight

Through all the spilt saltpetre of the world.

She said sometimes, ‘Aurora, have you done

Your task this morning?–have you read that book?

And are you ready for the crochet here?’–

As if she said, ‘I know there’s something wrong,

I know I have not ground you down enough

To flatten and bake you to a wholesome crust

For household uses and proprieties,

Before the rain has got into my barn

And set the grains a-sprouting. What, you’re green

With out-door impudence? you almost grow?’

To which I answered, ‘Would she hear my task,

And verify my abstract of the book?

And should I sit down to the crochet work?

Was such her pleasure?’ ... Then I sate and teased

The patient needle til it split the thread,

Which oozed off from it in meandering lace

From hour to hour. I was not, thereforBrownin

My soul was singing at a work apart

Behind the wall of sense, as safe from harm

As sings the lark when sucked up out of sight,

In vortices of glory and blue air.

And so, through forced work and spontaneous work,

The inner life informed the outer life,

Reduced the irregular blood to settled rhythms,

Made cool the forehead with fresh-sprinkling dreams,

And, rounding to the spheric soul the thin

Pined body, struck a colour up the cheeks,

Though somewhat faint. I clenched my brows across

My blue eyes greatening in the looking-glass,

And said, ‘We’ll live, Aurt we will not die.’

3. Robert Browning

Karyanya :

 The Ring and the Book

 Strafford
 My Last Duchess
 Men and Women
 The love-letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps

Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace—all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked

Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech—which I have not—to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—

E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master’s known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

4. Lewis carrol
 Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
 Through the Looking-Glass
 The Hunting of the Snark
 Jabberwocky

contoh karya;

Jabberwocky

BY LEWIS CARROLL

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it cawoo

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe

The Mad Gardener’s Song

by Lewis Carroll (pen name of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, 1832-1898)

He thought he saw an Elephant

That practised on a fife:

He looked again, and found it was

A letter from his wife.

"At length I realise," he said,

"The bitterness of Life!"

He thought he saw a Buffalo

Upon the chimney-piece:

He looked again, and found it was

His Sister's Husband's Niece.

"Unless you leave this house," he said,

"I'll send for the Police!"

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake

That questioned him in Greek:

He looked again, and found it was

The Middle of Next Week.

"The one thing I regret," he said,

"Is that it cannot speak!"

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk

Descending from the bus:

He looked again, and found it was

A Hippopotamus.

"If this should stay to dine," he said,

"There won't be much for us!"

He thought he saw a Kangaroo

That worked a coffee-mill:

He looked again, and found it was

A Vegetable-Pill.

"Were I to swallow this," he said,

"I should be very ill!"

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four

That stood beside his bed:

He looked again, and found it was

A Bear without a Head.

"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!

It's waiting to be fed!"

He thought he saw an Albatross

That fluttered round the lamp:

He looked again, and found it was

A Penny-Postage-Stamp.

"You'd best be getting home," he said,

"The nights are very damp!"

He thought he saw a Garden-Door

That opened with a key:

He looked again, and found it was

A Double Rule of Three:

"And all its mystery," he said,

"Is clear as day to me!"

He thought he saw an Argument

That proved he was the Pope:

He looked again, and found it was

A Bar of Mottled Soap.

"A fact so dread," he faintly said,

"Extinguishes all hope!"