Favorite poem?

[ElizabethBennet]

I generally love all poems that talk about nature and the great outdoors. Here are a couple of my favourites that keep coming to my mind. The former, in particular, takes me away to a fairyland of distant dreams. (I usually judge poems by how emotionally drawn I feel to them)
1.Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth.
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: -do I wake or sleep?

John Keats

[ElizabethBennet]

And here's the second one:

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
Search on this Page:
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.

William Wordsworth

[Arania]

To Riesa:

I love Sylvia Plath. Have you read "Two Lovers and A Beachcomber by the Real Sea?"

My favorite poem is T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men." I apologize if someone already posted it.

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

[dramasnot6]

Im so glad you like that poem too Arania! It is one of my favorites, definetly in my top 3 poems.
My favorite part is:
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Absolutely brilliant

[Yelena]

Here's my favorite poem by Emily Dickinson:
Again—his voice is at the door—
I feel the old Degree—
I hear him ask the servant
For such an one—as me—

I take a flower—as I go—
My face to justify—
He never saw me—in this life—
I might surprise his eye!

I cross the Hall with mingled steps—
I—silent—pass the door—
I look on all this world contains—
Just his face—nothing more!

We talk in careless—and it toss—
A kind of plummet strain—
Each—sounding—shyly—
Just—how—deep—
The other’s one—had been—

We walk—I leave my Dog—at home—
A tender—thoughtful Moon—
Goes with us—just a little way—
And—then—we are alone—

Alone—if Angels are “alone”—
First time they try the sky!
Alone—if those “veiled faces”—be—
We cannot count—on High!

I’d give—to live that hour—again—
The purple—in my Vein—
But He must count the drops—himself—
My price for every stain!

[ktd222]

Here's my favorite poem by Emily Dickinson:
Again—his voice is at the door—
I feel the old Degree—
I hear him ask the servant
For such an one—as me—

I take a flower—as I go—
My face to justify—
He never saw me—in this life—
I might surprise his eye!

I cross the Hall with mingled steps—
I—silent—pass the door—
I look on all this world contains—
Just his face—nothing more!

We talk in careless—and it toss—
A kind of plummet strain—
Each—sounding—shyly—
Just—how—deep—
The other’s one—had been—

We walk—I leave my Dog—at home—
A tender—thoughtful Moon—
Goes with us—just a little way—
And—then—we are alone—

Alone—if Angels are “alone”—
First time they try the sky!
Alone—if those “veiled faces”—be—
We cannot count—on High!

I’d give—to live that hour—again—
The purple—in my Vein—
But He must count the drops—himself—
My price for every stain!

That's a nice choice, Yelena. Though, I, myself consider hundreds of her poems among my favorites. She makes me so sad when she speaks of instances so amplified in importance to her, but of little meaning to the other in her poem.

[Poetess]

I don`t have a particular one, if it`s right to say "paticular ones".
I love all of Poe`s and Emily Dickinson`s.
First of all, I was growing very fond of William Blake and William Wordsworth.
I like the figurative language and scenes of "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" by William Wordsworth;
I don`t have enough of reading "The World Is Too Much with Us" by Wordsworth, too, which shows how and what`s wrong with out modern world.
"In the sonnet "The World Is Too Much with Us" the poet contrasts Nature with the world of materialism and "making it." Because we are insensitive to the richness of Nature, we may be forfeiting our souls. To us there is nothing wonderful or mysterious about the natural world, but ancients who were pagans created a colorful mythology out of their awe of Nature."

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; (1)
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, (2)
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus (3) rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton (4) blow his wreathed horn.




Apart from that:


Acquainted with the Night


I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

.............................................



"I Am Not Yours"


I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Sarah Teasdale

[Arania]

What about Poe´s For Annie? It was my first ¨favorite poem.¨ I love the meter. It is beautiful. I´m going to post it. I promise it´s worth the read.

THANK Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called 'Living' 5
Is conquer'd at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length: 10
But no matter—I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder 15
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing, 20
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea— 25
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That madden'd my brain—
With the fever called 'Living'
That burn'd in my brain. 30

And O! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river 35
Of Passion accurst—
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst.

—Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound, 40
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never 45
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy,
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed— 50
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never 55
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies 60
A holier odour
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odour,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful 65
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie— 70
Drown'd in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kiss'd me,
She fondly caress'd,
And then I fell gently 75
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguish'd,
She cover'd me warm, 80
And she pray'd to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly, 85
Now, in my bed
(Knowing her love),
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed 90
(With her love at my breast),
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter 95
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie— 100
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.

[Janine]

Just saw this poem on Poets' Corner and thought it was appropriate to the site:

Fragment

What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.

Amy Lowell

[Janine]

"I Am Not Yours"


I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Sarah Teasdale

Poetess, I love this poem by Sarah Teasdale, have for many years now. I love her poetry so much; I have a book of her collection, but cannot presently find it...hidden somewhere in the deepest recesses of my bookshelves.
I enjoyed the other poems you posted very much. Loved the Frost poem about night...never heard it before. Janine

[ALI ASGHAR JOYO]

Whether hot or cold march on,
There is no time to rest
Lest you fail to find your beloved`s track


O sleeper awake arise sleep no so,
Royal affection can not be achieved by sleeping more.

[Ruede]

T. S. Eliot's Prufrock;

Robert Frost's Fire and Ice;

Alexander Pope's stuff, including Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot;

Robert Browning's My Last Duchess;

John Donne's The Tripple Fool;

...so many... so many! :/

[julien]

In Tagalong
Isangmahol means one love
One word
To express one thing
Where the English language
Imposes separation.

How could one not mean love?
And how could love not mean one?

I know I'm being simple
But I don't have time
For complicated line breaks
Or confusing word structures.
Basically,
I don't have time for bull****.

Love may leave me soon.
So I must embrace it
While I've got it.
And you've got to flaunt what you've got
'cuz
if there's one thing I've learned
from the immigrant experience
it's that a silenced heart
is one that never loves.

The quiet of a hardship never shared
In songs or hugs
Is death.

And the sins of the father unresolved
Fall onto the sun.
And so I yell from stage to stage
On page
And in person.
"I love you."
And mean it.
And back it up.

And have two fists and two fast ****ing kung-fu kicking legs to take down
Anyone
Who says otherwise of me.
'cuz I will not doubt love
in a rough skinned world
of helpless angles clipped
because they feel isolated.

Beautiful creatures broken by
Systems and cultures and wars
Who leave homelands searching
Instead of reaching out for home in others
Through shared experience.

You'll be amazed at what a common childhood will do
For two who have always felt alone.
And what holding that person will be like
For the rest of your life on.

I must live love always.

I don't write these words
To make it easy.

I write them to remind myself
How much work I have left,
How many layers I must melt,
How many more people
I have to quit excluding.

I'm not noble.
My anger and hate occupy spaces
Only love should.
But I'd rather acknowledge something
That I can work on
Than deny something
That will later consume me.

That's right.
I'm talking about you.
I'm calling you out.
All uncomfortable people
At this point are marked.

Be warned.
Shape up.
Or else you'll be loved
When you least expect it.
You want to be loved, now don't you?

But don't think love it just
A hug and a smile,
A good **** and duty,
A phase and a poem.
Love
is none of these things solely
but all of these things plus.

Plus I got your back when tears exhaust.
Plus I got your back when they come for us.
Plus
I got you
So I'll check ego
In return for us.

This is a call to arms.
A first step in a revolution long overdue.

This is a war, people.

Do you want to die with regret?
Do you want to die holding back?
Do you want to die alone?

Live love always
And I will love you
As long as I live.

Isangmahol.
Isangmahol.
Isangmahol.


Isangmahol by Beau Sia.
--------------------------------------

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Spring and Fall, to a Young Child by Gerard Manley Hopkins

[Elyx]

when i was a boy, some 15 years ago, i had watched a film about WW2 pilots....Memphis Belle, if i'm not mistaken. somewhere in the film....a line caught my attention and had since lodged in my mind.

Those that i fight i do not hate,
those that i guard i do not love . . .

it created some sort of lofty sensation my young heart never knew....even now, with 15 years in between me and the boy i was, the feeling never really left my mind -- a feeling of solitude amidst a world of strife and disillusioment, mutability and....me. from then on, whenever i HAD to choose a poem i love most, it would be --

An Irish Airman Forsees His Death

I know that i shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that i fight i do not hate,
Those that i guard i do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

[Janine]

when i was a boy, some 15 years ago, i had watched a film about WW2 pilots....Memphis Belle, if i'm not mistaken. somewhere in the film....a line caught my attention and had since lodged in my mind.

Those that i fight i do not hate,
those that i guard i do not love . . .

it created some sort of lofty sensation my young heart never knew....even now, with 15 years in between me and the boy i was, the feeling never really left my mind -- a feeling of solitude amidst a world of strife and disillusioment, mutability and....me. from then on, whenever i HAD to choose a poem i love most, it would be --

An Irish Airman Forsees His Death

I know that i shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that i fight i do not hate,
Those that i guard i do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Elyx, interesting and sad poem. I also saw "Memphis Bell" years ago and have been wanting to see the film again. I remember it was really good. Some of the actors in it were quite young then and went on to be big stars.
Do you know who wrote the poem you posted and how did you locate it?
I wondered if a true airman wrote it and would like to know more of the history of the poem, for instance if he really met his death...if so how sad. I understand there was a real plane "Memphis Bell". I just saw a documentary on a film dircector, William Wyer and he joined up during WWII and he flew in the plane to take documentary films. He also manned the guns and became partially deaf because of the intense sound; then he was discharged from the service. He directed such great films as "Ben Hur" and "Best Years of Our Lives". You may know all this but thought it would be of interest to you and others.