John Crowe Ransom

John Crowe Ransom (April 30, 1888, Pulaski, Tennessee – July 3, 1974, Gambier, Ohio) was an American poet, essayist, magazine editor, and professor.

Read more about John Crowe Ransom:  Life, Poet, Criticism, Agrarian Theorist

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    A boy not beautiful, nor good, nor clever,
    A black cloud full of storms too hot for keeping,
    A sword beneath his mother’s heart— yet never
    Woman bewept her babe as this is weeping.
    John Crowe Ransom (1888–1974)

    Alas,

    For the tireless heart within the little
    Lady with rod that made them rise
    From their noon apple-dreams, and scuttle
    Goose-fashion under the skies!
    —John Crowe Ransom (1888–1974)

    Fair, rich, and young: how rare is her perfection,
    Were it not mingled with one foul infection!
    I mean, so proud a heart, so curst a tongue,
    As makes her seem nor fair, nor rich, nor young.
    —Sir John Harington (1561–1612)

    Not to these shores she came! this other Thrace,
    Environ barbarous to the royal Attic;
    How could her delicate dirge run democratic,
    Delivered in a cloudless boundless public place
    To an inordinate race?
    —John Crowe Ransom (1888–1974)

    The image cannot be dispossessed of a primordial freshness, which idea can never claim. An idea is derivative and tamed. The image is in the natural or wild state, and it has to be discovered there, not put there, obeying its own law and none of ours. We think we can lay hold of image and take it captive, but the docile captive is not the real image but only the idea, which is the image with its character beaten out of it.
    —John Crowe Ransom (1888–1974)