Your Favorite Poems

[RedGlitter]

Here is one of mine:

i carry your heart with me by E. E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

[neffy]

this mine red,hence why i called my daughter shelley:)



Percy Bysshe Shelley - Love's Philosophy

The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle -

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdain'd its brother:

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea -

What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?

[RedGlitter]

That's a nice one, Neffy.

[neffy]

Thanks Red,i first read that poem when i was only 16and that was it for me i was shelleys no 1 fan:wah:

[Mia]

This poem was written by a lovely lady called Annie. I found it very touching



A rose is but a flower

But as images grow pale

The essence of a memory

Is never going to fail



A rose is for today

And it's sweet perfume will die

But there upon it's wilted leaf

A child is born to cry

And all the worst passages

And all the best tears

Wont bring her the sweetest things

That were lost throughout the years



And when the rose has turned to dust

And all the poems are grey

Her children are left to bloom, and then fade away

And so tomorrows promise is held in every bloom

And we will wish to live again, when rose is in the room

[neffy]

i liked that mia very deep

[sunny104]

I love Edgar Allen Poe and how he uses words/language. This has been one of my most favorite poems since high school. :-6

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -

Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -

This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -

'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -

Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -

Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -

On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -

What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee

Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -

On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -

Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -

`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted - nevermore!

[dubs]

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,

I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew -

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untresspassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.



Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee

No 412 squadron, RCAF

Killed 11 December 1941

[Patrick]

Thank you for naming this thread "Favorite Poems." I'm sure I could never just have one.

I'm a big Sara Teasdale fan... here's one my favorites

There will come Soft Rain

There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire.

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

If mankind perished utterly.

And Spring herself when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

[RedGlitter]

sunny104;673355 wrote: I love Edgar Allen Poe and how he uses words/language. This has been one of my most favorite poems since high school. :-6

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe




That's a great one Sunny.

I'm fond of Annabel Lee. I think that's my favorite of Poe's.



Annabel Lee



It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of ANNABEL LEE;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love-

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me-

Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we-

Of many far wiser than we-

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

[RedGlitter]

Really nice poems here.

Mia, yours was lovely.

Dubs, I thought yours was moving and then I saw the author and it became even more so. "Touched the face of God..." that got me. I used the same words in my mom's eulogy.

Thank you.

Patrick, thanks for joining us! I've heard of Sara Teasdale but am not familiar with her work. I really like that poem and will look into more of hers.

More poems please!!

:-6

[Patrick]

dubs;673367 wrote: High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,

I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew -

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untresspassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.



Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee

No 412 squadron, RCAF

Killed 11 December 1941


dubs, that's a great one! My Dad loves that poem.

[Chookie]

The Freedom Come a' Ye

By Hamish Henderson



Roch the wind in the clear days dawin'

Blaws the cloods heelster gowdy ow'r the bay

But there's mair nor a roch wind blawin'

Through the great glen o' the warld the day.

It's a thocht that will gar oor rottans

A' they rogues that gang gallus fresh and gay

Tak the road an' seek ither loanins

For their ill ploys tae sport an' play

Nae mair will the bonnie callants

Mairch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw,

Nor wee weans frae pit-heid an' clachan

Mourn the ships sailing doon the Broomielaw.

Broken families in lands we've herriet

Will curse Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair.

Black and white, ane til ither mairriet

Mak' the vile barracks o' their masters bare.

So come all ye at hame wi' freedom

Never heed whit the hoodies croak for doom

In your hoose a' the bairns o' Adam

Can find breid, barley bree an' painted room.

When MacLean meets wi's freens in Springburn

A' the roses an' geans will turn tae bloom

And a black boy frae yont Nyanga

Dings the fell gallows o' the burghers doon.



If a translation is needed, the usual rates apply.

[Patrick]

JABBERWOCKY

`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 came!



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, has 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.

[RedGlitter]

Chookie, I think I'm in deep need of a translation please. I tried hard but I need help with this one.

[Chookie]

One translation (as requested)

Rough the wind in the clear days dawning

Blows the clouds here and there above the bay

But there's more than a rough wind blowing

Through the great glen of the world today.

It's a thought which will make our villains

All those rogues who go with brash arrogance

Take the road and seek other places

For their ill games to sport and play

No more will the brave young men

March to war when our braggarts loudly cry

Nor will children from pit-head or village

Mourn the ships sailing down the Broomielaw

Broken families in lands we've harried

Will curse Scotland the Brave no more, no more

Black and White, to each other married

Make the vile barracks of their masters bare.

So come all ye in love with freedom

Never heed what the ravens croak for doom

In your homes all the bairns of Adam

Can get bread, drink and room to breathe.

When MacLean meets with friends from Springburn

All the roses and cherries will surely bloom

And a black boy from beyond Nyanga

Throws the foul gallows of the burghers down.

________________

Addenda:

The "black boy frae yont Nyanga" is Nelson Mandela

I'm afraid it loses a lot in translation.

[RedGlitter]

Ah! That's quite the poem now that I understand it. Thank you for translating, Chookie and for the heads-up on Mandela because I would have missed that completely on my own. Thanks a bunch!

I'm so glad you guys like this thread! :-6

[Chookie]

RedGlitter;673872 wrote: Ah! That's quite the poem now that I understand it. Thank you for translating, Chookie


No problem, but as I said it loses a lot.

[RedGlitter]

Chookie;673904 wrote: No problem, but as I said it loses a lot.


It does lose a little of its charm but it keeps its strength, I think.

[Patrick]

Off topic... Chookie does "Pòg mo thòn" mean what I think it do? My Grandmother still speaks Gaelic from time to time... mostly while driving in bad traffic.

On topic... A little Americana...

Casey at the Bat

By Ernest Lawrence Thayer

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that

We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;

For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped

"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;

And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville, mighty Casey has struck out.

[[love]light]

This poem spoke volumes to me while I was deep into a very bad place.



Sylvia Plath

Conversation Among the Ruins

Through portico of my elegant house you stalk

With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit

And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net

Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.

Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak

Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light

Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight

Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.

Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;

While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit

Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,

Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:

Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,

What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

[Lon]

When I awoke one morning, and left my nice warm bed

I walked over to the window to view my lovely homestead

Suddenly, I spied, a pretty little bird, with a lovely yellow bill

I beckoned him to come and sit upon my window sill

I offered, and he accepted, my humble piece of bread

And then





I slammed the window





and crushed his little head

[RedGlitter]

LoveLight, good choice! Have you ever read The Bell Jar? I think it's quite good.

Lon, your poem is very familiar to me. Who wrote that?

[Lon]

RedGlitter;674038 wrote: LoveLight, good choice! Have you ever read The Bell Jar? I think it's quite good.

Lon, your poem is very familiar to me. Who wrote that?


Actually----------I wrote it in 1970 and posted it in this Forum shortly after joining.

[RedGlitter]

Lon;674067 wrote: Actually----------I wrote it in 1970 and posted it in this Forum shortly after joining.


Is that right? That must be why it's familiar to me.

[RedGlitter]

Wow, two of my favorites, Horatio. John Waterhouse and Loreena McKennitt.

I'm familiar with The Lady of Shallot...very, very good poem, I agree.

I am a huge Waterhouse fan and Loreena's "The Mummers Dance" is my favorite of hers.

[Chookie]

Patrick: It very well may mean what you think.

Back on topic, here's one by Robert W. Service:-



Madam La Marquise

Said Hongray de la Glaciere unto his proud Papa:

"I want to take a wife mon Père," The Marquis laughed: "Ha! Ha!

And whose, my son?" he slyly said; but Hongray with a frown

Cried, "Fi! Papa, I mean - to wed, I want to settle down."

The Marquis de la Glaciere responded with a smile;

"You're young my boy; I much prefer that you should wait awhile."

But Hongray sighed: "I cannot wait, for I am twenty-four;

And I have met my blessed fate: I worship and adore.

Such beauty, grace and charm has she, I'm sure you will approve,

For if I live a century none other can I love."

"I have no doubt," the Marquis shrugged, "that she's a proper pet;

But has she got a decent dot, and is she of our set?"

"Her dot," said Hongray, "will suffice; her family you know.

The girl with whom I fain would splice is Mirabelle du Veau."



What made the Marquis start and stare, and clutch his perfumed beard?

Why did he stagger to a chair and murmur: "As I feared?"

Dilated were his eyes with dread, and in a voice of woe

He wailed: "My son, you cannot wed with Mirabelle du Veau."

"Why not? my Parent," Hongray cried. "Her name's without a slur.

Why should you look so horrified that I should wed with her?"

The Marquis groaned: "Unhappy lad! Forget her if you can,

And see in your respected Dad a miserable man."

"What id the matter? I repeat," said Hongray growing hot.

"She's witty, pretty, rich and sweet... Then- mille diables!- what?"

The Marquis moaned: "Alas! that I your dreams of bliss should banish;

It happened in the days gone-by, when I was Don Juanish.

Her mother was your mother's friend, and we were much together.

Ah well! You know how such things end. (I blame it on the weather.)

We had a very sultry spell. One day, mon Dieu! I kissed her.

My son, you can't wed Mirabelle. She is... she is your sister."



So broken-hearted Hongray went and roamed the world around,

Till hunting in the Occident forgetfulness he found.

Then quite recovered, he returned to the paternal nest,

Until one day, with brow that burned, the Marquis he addresses:

"Felicitate me, Father mine; my brain is in a whirl;

For I have found the mate divine, the one, the perfect girl.

She's healthy, wealthy, witching, wise, with loveliness serene.

And Proud am I to win a prize, half angel and half queen."

"'Tis time to wed," the Marquis said, "You must be twenty-seven.

But who is she whose lot may be to make your life a heaven?"

"A friend of childhood," Hongray cried. "For whom regard you feel.

The maid I fain would be my bride is Raymonde de la Veal."



The Marquis de la Glaciere collapsed upon the floor,

And all the words he uttered were: "Forgive me, I implore.

My sins are heavy on my head. Profound remorse I feel.

My son, you simply cannot wed with Raymonde de la Veal."

Then Hongray spoke voice that broke, and corrugated brow:

"Inform me, Sir, why you demur. What is the matter now?"

The Marquis wailed: "My wicked youth! Ah! how it gives me pain.

But let me tell the awful truth, my agony explain...

A cursed Casanova I; a finished flirt her mother;

And so alas! it came to pass we fell for one another:

Our lives were blent in bliss and joy, The sequel you may gather:

You cannot wed Raymonde, my boy, because I am...her father."



Again sore-stricken Hongray fled, and sought his grief to smother,

And as he writhed upon his bed to him there came his Mother.

The Marquise de la Glaciere was snowy-haired and frigid.

Her wintry featured chiselled were, her manner stiff and rigid.

The pride of race was in her face, her bearing high and stately,

And sinking down by Hongray's side she spoke to him sedately:

"What ails you so, my precious child? What throngs of sorrow smite you?

Why are your eyes so wet and wild? Come tell me, I invite you."

"Ah! if I told you, Mother dear," said Hongray with a shiver,

"Another's honour would, I fear, be in the soup forever."

"Nay trust," she begged, "My only boy, the fond Mama who bore you.

Perhaps I may, your grief alloy. Please tell me, I implore you."



And so his story Hngray told, in accents choked and muffled.

The Marquise listened calm and cold, her visage quite unruffled.

He told of Mirabelle du Veau, his agony revealing.

For Raymonde de la Veal his woe was quite beyond concealing.

And still she sat without a word, her look so high and haughty,

You'd ne'er have thought it was her lord who had behaved so naughty.

Then Hongray finished up: "For life my hopes are doomed to slaughter;

For if I choose another wife, she's sure to be his daughter."

The Marquise rose. "Cheer up," said she, "the last word is not spoken.

A Mother cannot sit and see her boy's heart rudely broken.

So dry your tears and calm your fears; no longer need you tarry;

To-day your bride you may decide, to-morrow you may marry.

Yes, you may wed with Mirabelle, or Raymonde if you'd rather...

For I as well the truth may tell...Papa is not your father."

[RedGlitter]

:wah:

That was great!! What a build!

[chocoholic]

Couldn't resist joining this thread, I love poetry, these are 2 of my favourites.

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

by: W.B. Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;



And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.



When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.



Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

and

The Highwayman

by Alfred Noyes



The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding--

Riding--riding--

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh.

And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,

His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,

But he loved the landlord's daughter,

The landlord's red-lipped daughter,

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say--

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,

When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,

A red-coat troop came marching--

Marching--marching--

King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,

But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side.

There was death at every window;

And hell at one dark window;

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.

They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast.

"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say--

Look for me by moonlight;

Watch for me by moonlight;

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good.

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood.

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.

Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding,

Riding, riding!

The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know who stood

Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood.

Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear

How Bess, the landlord's daughter,

The landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,

When they shot him down on the highway,

Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.



And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding--

Riding--riding--

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

[chocoholic]

There is a great poetry site http://www.poetry-archive.com

or

http://www.poets.org

They are great for finding poems if you only know a title or an author.:-6

[RedGlitter]

OLD MAIDS

-Sandra Cisneros

My cousins and I,

we don't marry.

We're too old

by Mexican standards. And the relatives

have long suspected

we can't anymore

in white.

My cousins and I,

we're all old

maids at thirty.

Who won't dress children,

and never saints--

though we undress them.

The aunts,

they've given up on us.

No longer nudge--You're next.

Instead--

What happened in your childhood?

What left you all mean teens?

Who hurt you, honey?

But we've studied

marriages too long--

Aunt Ariadne,

Tia Vashti,

Comadre Penelope,

querida Malintzin,

Senora Pumpkin Shell--

lessons that served us well.

[kazalala]

One of my faves , cant remember where i got it from though:-3

Saga Love

WILL YOU LOVE ME WHEN I’M OLD AND SHOCKING?

WILL YOU PEEL OFF MY ELASTIC STOCKINGS TO

SWING ME FROM THE CHANDELIER?

‘COS I’M SURE TO BE A RANDY OLD DEAR!



WILL YOU PUSH ME IN MY PINK WHEELCHAIR?

LET ME PLAIT YOUR WHITE CHEST HAIR?

WE COULD SCARE THE KIDS WHEN WE SWAP DENTURES

GEEEEZ WE’LL HAVE SOME GREAT ADVENTURES!





WH EN WE MAKE LOVE, WE’LL HAVE A BALL

WE’LL WRESTLE WITH OUR DAMP PROOF SMALLS

AND OH! WE’LL LAUGH WITH NO CONSTRAINT

AS WE LICK OFF CHOCOLATE BODY PAINT.



WE’LL HOLIDAY IN SPECIAL PLACES

WATCHING ALL THE SMILING FACES

YOU IN SHORTS AND SOCKS AND SANDALS

ME WITH WARTS AND HUGE LOVE HANDLES!



HOLD ME SAFE THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT

STROKE MY HAIR THAT’S NOW TURNED WHITE

BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAY IT’S TRUE

I’VE WAITED ALL MY LIVES FOR YOU

[kazalala]

And Another:wah: I like funny poems. I like serious ones too, some of the poems on here are lovely.

When I am Old

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me,

And I shall spend my pension

on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals,

and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired,

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells,

And run my stick along the public railings,

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people's gardens,

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat,

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go,

Or only bread and pickle for a week,

And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats

and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry,

And pay our rent and not swear in the street,

And set a good example for the children.

We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me

are not too shocked and surprised,

When suddenly I am old

and start to wear purple!

Jenny Joseph

[JacksDad]

Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the color of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hunting for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.



Pablo Neruda

[Kathy Ellen]

"All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten"

by Robert Fulghum



Most of what I really need

To know about how to live

And what to do and how to be

I learned in kindergarten.

These are the things I learned:

Share everything.

Play fair.

Don't hit people.

Put things back where you found them.

Clean up your own mess.

Don't take things that aren't yours.

Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.

Wash your hands before you eat.

Flush.

Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.

Live a balanced life -

Learn some and think some

And draw and paint and sing and dance

And play and work everyday some.

Take a nap every afternoon.

When you go out into the world,

Watch out for traffic,

Hold hands and stick together.

Be aware of wonder.

[Kathy Ellen]

kazalala;688340 wrote: And Another:wah: I like funny poems. I like serious ones too, some of the poems on here are lovely.

When I am Old

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me,

And I shall spend my pension

on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals,

and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired,

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells,

And run my stick along the public railings,

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people's gardens,

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat,

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go,

Or only bread and pickle for a week,

And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats

and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry,

And pay our rent and not swear in the street,

And set a good example for the children.

We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me

are not too shocked and surprised,

When suddenly I am old

and start to wear purple!

Jenny Joseph


Kaz, This is definitely a poem for "Aussie Pam" I love this poem.

[kazalala]

Kathy Ellen;688903 wrote: Kaz, This is definitely a poem for "Aussie Pam" I love this poem.


Thanks Kathy, i loved yours too:-4 So true as well!!:D

[Chookie]

Lament for the Makars

William Dunbar - circa 1500(ish)

I THAT in heill was and gladnèss

Am trublit now with great sickness

And feblit with infirmitie:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance here is all vain glory,

This fals world is but transitory,

The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

The state of man does change and vary,

Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary,

Now dansand mirry, now like to die:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

No state in Erd here standis sicker;

As with the wynd wavis the wicker

So wannis this world's vanitie:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Unto the Death gois all Estatis,

Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis,

Baith rich and poor of all degree:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He takis the knichtis in to the field

Enarmit under helm and scheild;

Victor he is at all mellie:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

That strong unmerciful tyrandTakis,

on the motheris breast sowkand,

The babe full of benignitie:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He takis the campion in the stour,

The captain closit in the tour,

The lady in bour full of bewtie:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He spairis no lord for his piscence,

Na clerk for his intelligence;

His awful straik may no man flee:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Art-magicianis and astrologgis,

Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,

Them helpis no conclusionis slee:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

In medecine the most practicianis,

Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis,

Themself from Death may not supplee:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.



I see that makaris amang the lave

Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave;

Sparit is nocht their facultie:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has done petuously devour

The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,

The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun,

Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun,

He has tane out of this cuntrie:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

That scorpion fell has done infeck

Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek,

Fra ballat-making and tragedie:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Holland and Barbour he has berevit;

Alas! that he not with us levit

Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane,

That made the anteris of Gawaine;

Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill

Slain with his schour of mortal hail,

Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has reft Merseir his endite,

That did in luve so lively write,

So short, so quick, of sentence hie:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has tane Rowll of Aberdene,

And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine;

Two better fallowis did no man see:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

In Dunfermline he has tane Broun

With Maister Robert Henrysoun;

Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

And he has now tane, last of a,

Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw,

Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Good Maister Walter Kennedy

In point of Death lies verily;

Great ruth it were that so suld be:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Sen he has all my brether tane,

He will naught let me live alane;

Of force I man his next prey be:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Since for the Death remeid is none,

Best is that we for Death dispone,

After our death that live may we:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

[The Rob]

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth.



Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same.



And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.



I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost

[The Rob]

The Purist

I give you now Professor Twist,

A conscientious scientist,

Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!"

And sent him off to distant jungles.

Camped on a tropic riverside,

One day he missed his loving bride.

She had, the guide informed him later,

Been eaten by an alligator.

Professor Twist could not but smile.

"You mean," he said, "a crocodile."

- Ogden Nash

[The Rob]

One more from Ogden Nash. The man's stuff just kills me. :wah:



So Does Everybody Else, Only Not So Much

O all ye exorcizers come and exorcize now, and ye clergymen draw nigh and clerge, For I wish to be purged of an urge. It is an irksome urge, compounded of nettles and glue, And it is turning all my friends back into acquaintances, and all my acquaintances into people who look the other way when I heave into view. It is an indication that my mental buttery is butterless and my mental larder lardless, And it consists not of "Stop me if you've heard this one," but of "I know you've heard this one because I told it to you myself, but I'm going to tell it to you again regardless," Yes I fear I am living beyond my mental means. When I realize that it is not only anecdotes that I reiterate but what is far worse, summaries of radio programs and descriptions of caroons in newspapers and magazines. I want to resist but I cannot resist recounting the bright sayins of celebrities that everybody already is familiar with every word of; I want to refrain but cannot refrain from telling the same audience on two successive evenings the same little snatches of domestic gossip about people I used to know that they have never heard of. When I remember some titlating episode of my childhood I figure that if it's worth narrating once it's worth narrating twice, in spite of lackluster eyes and dropping jaws, And indeed I have now worked my way backward from titllating episodes in my own childhood to titillating episodes in the childhood of my parents or even my parents-in-laws, And what really turns my corpuscles to ice, I carry around clippings and read them to people twice. And I know what I am doing while I am doing it and I don't want to do it but I can't help doing it and I am just another Ancient Mariner, And the prospects for my future social life couldn't possibly be barrener. Did I tell you that the prospects for my future social life couldn't be barrener?

-Ogden Nash

[History buff]

'[love wrote: light;673927']This poem spoke volumes to me while I was deep into a very bad place.



Sylvia Plath

(snipped)




Do you own a copy of her life and work from the Voices and Visions series from PBS/Annenberg CPB project? Sadly, I know she took her own life like Anne Sexton did also.

These are excellently produced and narrated volumes. She was a powerful poet indeed.

I can't link URL's yet, but you can find it by searching.

Some volumes in the series are Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Wallace Stevens and Marianne Moore, among others.

[History buff]

sunny104;673355 wrote: I love Edgar Allen Poe and how he uses words/language. This has been one of my most favorite poems since high school. :-6

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

(snipped)




Poe, ah what a masterful short story writer also. Died at a young age like Keats, Shelley and Byron.

[RedGlitter]

History buff;744783 wrote: Poe, ah what a masterful short story writer also. Died at a young age like Keats, Shelley and Byron.


Annabel Lee still remains my favorite poem of all. :-6

Buff, are you familiar with Poe's Ulalume? Talk about masterful writing and the beauty of words long ago having ceased to be used. I am a fan of the late Jeff Buckley, a singer, and I came across Ulalume through Jeff's reading of it. If you can manage to find that on the web, it's not common, I think you might be impressed by it.

[History buff]

RedGlitter;744786 wrote: Annabel Lee still remains my favorite poem of all. :-6


Written for and after his wife died, his when married, 13 year old cousin, Virginia Clemm.

It drained Poe and he basically died of a broken heart "broken heart syndrome", scientifically documented.

[RedGlitter]

History buff;744789 wrote: Written for and after his wife died, his when married, 13 year old cousin, Virginia Clemm.

It drained Poe and he basically died of a broken heart "broken heart syndrome", scientifically documented.


My, you are definitely a Poe afficionado! As well as a History Buff!

How nice to have another fan to visit with! I really think you'll like it here at FG. :-6

[History buff]

RedGlitter;744798 wrote: My, you are definitely a Poe afficionado! As well as a History Buff!

How nice to have another fan to visit with! I really think you'll like it here at FG. :-6




Why thank you RG. I have a broad range of interests. The old noggin' is wearin' down though.

[Kathy Ellen]

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep

[Kathy Ellen]

Velvet Shoes



Let us walk in the white snow

In a soundless space;

With footsteps quiet and slow,

At a tranquil pace,

Under veils of white lace.



I shall go shod in silk,

And you in wool,

White as white cow's milk,

More beautiful

Than the breast of a gull.



We shall walk through the still town

In a windless peace;

We shall step upon white down,

Upon silver fleece,

Upon softer than these.



We shall walk in velvet shoes:

Wherever we go

Silence will fall like dews

On white silence below.

We shall walk in the snow.



Elinor Wylie

[american parable]

Current favorite:

"Sailing to Byzantium"

That is no country for old men. The young

In one another's arms, birds in the trees -

Those dying generations - at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in the sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clasp its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire

As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

And be the singing-masters of my soul.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire

And fastened to a dying animal

It knows not what it is; and gather me

Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emporer awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

-William Butler Yeats-

I'm currently loving this poem because it explains so much with regard to the recent Academy Award winning movie: No Country For Old Men. The movie title comes from the first line of the poem, obviously.