Favorite poem?

[Elyx]

An Irish Airman Forsees His Death was written by the Irish William Butler Yeats ( 1865 - 1939 ), a Nobel poet, freedom fighter, and in my opinion, the last romanticist to have braced the modern world. this is of course purely subjective, as many view him as the paragon of modernistic disillusionment.

Yeats never fought in arms....his is a war within, a constant dilemma between spiritual sublimity and the earthly struggle of his people. His peotry hence becomes a medium through which he attempts to conciliate these contending passions. it is for this reason his poems emanate a sense of philosophical fatigue that in turn reflects the modern world more accurately than his contemporaries have.

alot more could be said of Yeats; and even what little i have stated, others would disagree. but one thing is certain: W.B.Yeats is among the best of poets in the western world.

[dumwitliteratur]

I have many favorites but if I had to post on it would be "The Glove And The Lions" by James Leigh Hunt

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another;
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;
She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
"By God!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat:
"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

[omegaxx]

Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" is my all-time favourite. I took on literature in college because of that single poem. Some lines are embarassing to read aloud; so what? The poem still transports me far and wide and leaves me enraptured in the clouds. "Mount Blanc" is another poem I heart. Yes I heart Shelley.


Ode to the West Wind


I


O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill;

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!


II


Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!


III


Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystàlline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!


IV


If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision—I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.


V


Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own?
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

[omegaxx]

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!

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG
This just got me sobbing and sniffling away here

[brokenheartpoet]

The Raven by Edgar allen poe

[Logos]

"Last Words To A Dumb Friend"

Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall -
Foot suspended in its fall -
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.

Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.

From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons' mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.

Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should--by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance -
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man's will,
Of the Imperturbable.

As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.

Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.

Thomas Hardy, October 2, 1904.

[Janine]

"Last Words To A Dumb Friend"

Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall -
Foot suspended in its fall -
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.

Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.

From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons' mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.

Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should--by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance -
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man's will,
Of the Imperturbable.

As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.

Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.

Thomas Hardy, October 2, 1904.

Logos, this poem is so sweet. I love Hardy but never read this one before. I have many departed animal friends - cats, a rabbit and a goose, and this really hit me right (painfully) in the heart like an arrow. Thanks for posting such a great poem.

[Logos]

Yeah, I thought it was a gem, had to post it. I had no idea Thomas Hardy wrote so much poetry, I'm adding *dozens* of his poems now, should be on the site in a few days

[Janine]

Yeah, I thought it was a gem, had to post it. I had no idea Thomas Hardy wrote so much poetry, I'm adding *dozens* of his poems now, should be on the site in a few days

Logos, Those additions would be so nice. Hardy wrote tons of poetry. In fact, I found this out, since I used to belong to a Hardy group; he gave up writing novels after "Jude the Obscure" and wrote poetry exclusively. He thought himself more a poet than a novelist. A friend of mine knows so much about Hardy and visited England just to see Hardy country...he loved it. He is totally obsessed with Hardy and he is now pursuing the full volume of his poetry, but being native born Japanese, it is quite difficult for him. I have one book of his poems, but I don't think I noticed this one. I will have to check and see if it is in my book. I will definitely copy your post of the poem to keep in a file on my hard-drive. Thanks again for posting it.
I haven't seen you around lately so it is nice to see you tonight ~ Janine

[raspberry_jelly]

DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime .-
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

By Wilfred Owen


SONNET 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

By W.Shakespeare

[Drummerzzz]

I read this poem after randomly surfing the web and I've been reading it over and over.

itzamatch.com/smorgazboard_imprezzionz_stirrings.jsp

stirrings. stirrings.

Drip from my body like water
Cleanse me away as you slide off
And onto the ground
Slithering away into the sewers

Are you not entertained as I
By the night's lusty proceedings
Kept, stoked, to juicy consistency
Till oozing in abundance
We could no longer hold it back.

I feel toxic, yet however clean I now feel
I have seen you in the darkness
Bent to bite your neck and taste your saltiness
Bitten into your flesh and savored your pink meat
I savored your moans before biting into you
Lower. Deeper. The hotness of your body
Oil glistening on my skin.

cold ashes.

Mingled about
The tears of passion and desire
I've claimed rapture
Only to fall back spent within
Like so many empty vessels of wine and beer
More, I crave
Till I've killed the woman in you.
The beast
I've raised
I've killed with the weapons
My fathers' loins gave me.

So take me, oh, to your gentling dreams
For I cannot thrash in delight
At such wanton,
To see her mouth full of myself
To see her eyes slaked of its hunger
To fill her depths of thirst
Now abated, now spent

Perhaps when I was younger
The passing into immortality
Would not have been as painful
As it is,

As it is.

[fallingup]

ee cummings.. i haven't read this whole thread so it may have already been posted, as it is one of his most famous -

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

[mjc]

Hi, first time on. Has Keats' Ode to a Nightengale been said a lot? or his La belle dame sans merci. But I also like Pound and The Wasteland...

[Cheese King]

Wow, long thread! My favorites are The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson:

http://www.bartleby.com/236/239.html

And "Recuerdo" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

WE were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

[dorindapaige]

The Lady of Shallot - Tennyson
Ozymandias - Shelley
My Last Duchess - Browning
Death, Be Not Proud - Donne
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night - Thomas
A Poison Tree - Blake
Nothing Gold Can Stay - Frost
Richard Cory - EA Robinson
O Captain! My Captain! - Whitman
Sonnet 121 - Shakespeare