Favorite poem?

[Etienne]

Soir d'hiver
Emile Nelligan

Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Ma vitre est un jardin de givre.
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Qu'est-ce que le spasme de vivre
Ô la douleur que j'ai, que j'ai!

Tous les étangs gisent gelés,
Mon âme est noire: Où vis-je? où vais-je?
Tous ses espoirs gisent gelés:
Je suis la nouvelle Norvège
D'où les blonds ciels s'en sont allés.

Pleurez, oiseaux de février,
Au sinistre frisson des choses,
Pleurez, oiseaux de février,
Pleurez mes pleurs, pleurez mes roses,
Aux branches du genévrier.

Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Ma vitre est un jardin de givre.
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Qu'est-ce que le spasme de vivre
A tout l'ennui que j'ai, que j'ai!...

There is some Emile Nelligan's translations in english, but they're bad. So whoever can read french enjoy this masterpiece, and for those who can't read french, you have no idea what you're missing!

"the raven by edgar allen poe- the tightness of the rhythm is beyond perfection-anybody disagree? am in the mood for a debate..."

Sorry to disappoint you, but there's no debate to be had there

[Beverly S]

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls:
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1851)

[V.Jayalakshmi]

My favorite poem is "Gitanjali" by Rabindranath Tagore.Especially the stanza Mind Without Fear
............................

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up

into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason

has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action---

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
"METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE"
I

METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud--
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one 10
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave

The above by Wordsworth too touches me very much.

V.Jayalakshmi.

[Mattch1331]

The Song of Wandering Aengus - 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 aflame,
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.


Poetry - Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

[white camellia]

Hynd Etin

May Margaret sits in her bower door
Sewing her silken seam;
She heard a note in Elmond’s wood,
And wish’d she there had been.

She loot the seam fa’ frae her side,
The needle to her tae,
And she is on to Elmond’s wood
As fast as she could gae.

She hadna pu’d a nut, a nut,
Nor broken a branch but ane,
Till by there came the Hynd Etin,
Says, ‘Lady, lat alane.

‘O why pu’ ye the nut, the nut,
Or why break ye the tree?
For I am forester o’ this wood:
Ye should spier leave at me.’—

I’ll ask leave at nae living man,
Nor yet will I at thee;
My father is king o’er a’ this realm,
This wood belongs to me.’

The highest tree in Elmond’s wood,
He’s pu’d it by the reet,
And he has built for her a bower
Near by a hallow seat.

He’s kept her there in Elmond’s wood
For six lang years and ane,
Till six pretty sons to him she bare,
And the seventh she’s brought hame.

It fell out ance upon a day
He’s to the hunting gane,
And a’ to carry his game for him
He’s tane his eldest son.

‘A question I will ask, father,
Gin ye wadna angry be.’—
‘Say on, say on, my bonny boy,
Ye’se nae be quarrell’d by me.’

‘I see my mither’s cheeks aye weet,
I never can see them dry;
And I wonder what aileth my mither
To mourn [sae constantly].’—

‘Your mither was a king’s daughtèr,
Sprung frae a high degree;
She might hae wed some worthy prince
Had she na been stown by me.

‘Your mither was a king’s daughtèr
Of noble birth and fame,
But now she’s wife o’ Hynd Etin,
Wha ne’er gat christendame.

‘But we’ll shoot the buntin’ o’ the bush,
The linnet o’ the tree,
And ye’se tak’ them hame to your dear mither,
See if she’ll merrier be.’

It fell upon anither day,
He’s to the hunting gane
And left his seven [young] children
To stay wi’ their mither at hame.

‘O I will tell to you, mither,
Gin ye wadna angry be.’—
‘Speak on, speak on, my little wee boy,
Ye’se nae be quarrell’d by me.’—

‘As we came frae the hind-hunting,
We heard fine music ring.’—
‘My blessings on you, my bonny boy,
I wish I’d been there my lane.’

They wistna weel where they were gaen,
Wi’ the stratlins o’ their feet;
They wistna weel where they were gaen,
Till at her father’s yate.

‘I hae nae money in my pocket,
But royal rings hae three;
I’ll gie them you, my little young son,
And ye’ll walk there for me.

‘Ye’ll gi’e the first to the proud portèr
And he will let you in;
Ye’ll gi’e the next to the butler-boy
And he will show you ben;

‘Ye’ll gi’e the third to the minstrel
That plays before the King;
He’ll play success to the bonny boy
Came thro’ the wood him lane.’

He ga’e the first to the proud portèr
And he open’d and let him in;
He ga’e the next to the butler-boy,
And he has shown him ben.

He ga’e the third to the minstrel
That play’d before the King,
And he play’d success to the bonny boy
Came thro’ the wood him lane.

Now when he came before the King,
Fell low upon his knee;
The King he turn’d him round about,
And the saut tear blint his e’e.

‘Win up, win up, my bonny boy,
Gang frae my companie;
Ye look sae like my dear daughtèr,
My heart will burst in three.’—

‘If I look like your dear daughtèr,
A wonder it is none;
If I look like your dear daughtèr,
I am her eldest son.’—

‘Will ye tell me, ye little wee boy,
Where may my Margaret be?’—
‘She’s just now standing at your yates,
And my six brithers her wi’.’—

‘O where are a’ my porter-boys
That I pay meat and fee,
To open my yates baith wide and braid,
Let her come in to me?’

When she cam’ in before the King,
Fell low down on her knee:
‘Win up, win up, my daughter dear,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.’—

‘Ae bit I canna eat, father,
Nor ae drop can I drink,
Until I see my mither dear,
For lang for her I think.’

When she cam’ in before the queen,
Fell low down on her knee;
‘Win up, win up, my daughter dear,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.’—

‘Ae bit I canna eat, mither,
Nor ae drop can I drink,
Until I see my sister dear,
For lang for her I think.’

When that these twa sisters met,
She hail’d her courteouslie;
‘Come ben, come ben, my sister dear,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.’—

‘Ae bit I canna eat, sister,
Nor ae drop can I drink,
Until I see my dear husband,
So lang for him I think.’—

‘O where are a’ my rangers bold
That I pay meat and fee,
To search the forest far an’ wide,
And bring Etin back to me?’

Out it speaks the little wee boy:
‘Na, na, this mauna be;
Without ye grant a free pardon,
I hope ye’ll nae him see.’—

‘O here I grant a free pardon,
Well seal’d by my own han’;
Ye may mak’ search for Young Etin
As soon as ever ye can.’

They search’d the country wide and braid,
The forests far and near,
And they found him into Elmond’s wood,
Tearing his yellow hair.

‘Win up, win up now, Hynd Etin,
Win up an’ boun wi’ me;
We’re messengers come frae the court;
The King wants you to see.’—

‘O lat them tak’ frae me my head,
Or hang me on a tree;
For since I’ve lost my dear lady,
Life’s no pleasure to me.’—

‘Your head will na be touch’d, Etin,
Nor you hang’d on a tree;
Your lady’s in her father’s court
And a’ he wants is thee.’

When he cam’ in before the King,
Fell low down on his knee;
‘Win up, win up now, Young Etin,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.’

But as they were at dinner set
The wee boy ask’d a boon:
‘I wish we were in a good kirk
For to get christendoun.

‘For we hae lived in gude green wood
This seven years and ane;
But a’ this time since e’er I mind
Was never a kirk within.’—

‘Your asking ’s na sae great, my boy,
But granted it sall be;
This day to gude kirk ye sall gang
And your mither sall gang you wi’.’

When unto the gude kirk she came,
She at the door did stan’;
She was sae sair sunk down wi’ shame,
She couldna come farther ben.

Then out and spak’ the parish priest,
And a sweet smile ga’e he:
‘Come ben, come ben, my lily-flower,
Present your babes to me.’

Charles, Vincent, Sam and Dick,
And likewise John and James;
They call’d the eldest Young Etin,
Which was his father’s name.


Edited by Arthur Quiller-Couch in The Oxford Book of Ballads

[Sylph]

A Sign-Seeker
Thomas Hardy


I MARK the months in liveries dank and dry,
The day-tides many-shaped and hued;
I see the nightfall shades subtrude,
And hear the monotonous hours clang negligently by.

I view the evening bonfires of the sun
On hills where morning rains have hissed;
The eyeless countenance of the mist
Pallidly rising when the summer droughts are done.

I have seen the lightning-blade, the leaping star,
The caldrons of the sea in storm,
Have felt the earthquake's lifting arm,
And trodden where abysmal fires and snowcones are.

I learn to prophesy the hid eclipse,
The coming of eccentric orbs;
To mete the dust the sky absorbs,
To weigh the sun, and fix the hour each planet dips.

I witness fellow earth-men surge and strive;
Assemblies meet, and throb, and part;
Death's soothing finger, sorrow's smart;
--All the vast various moils that mean a world alive.

But that I fain would wot of shuns my sense--
Those sights of which old prophets tell,
Those signs the general word so well,
Vouchsafed to their unheed, denied my watchings tense.

In graveyard green, behind his monument
To glimpse a phantom parent, friend,
Wearing his smile, and "Not the end!"
Outbreathing softly: that were blest enlightenment;

Or, if a dead Love's lips, whom dreams reveal
When midnight imps of King Decay
Delve sly to solve me back to clay,
Should leave some print to prove her spirit-kisses real;

Or, when Earth's Frail lie bleeding of her Strong,
If some Recorder, as in Writ,
Near to the weary scene should flit
And drop one plume as pledge that Heaven inscrolls the wrong.

--There are who, rapt to heights of trancéd trust,
These tokens claim to feel and see,
Read radiant hints of times to be--
Of heart to heart returning after dust to dust.

Such scope is granted not my powers indign...
I have lain in dead men's beds, have walked
The tombs of those with whom I'd talked,
Called many a gone and goodly one to shape a sign,

And panted for response. But none replies;
No warnings loom, nor whisperings
To open out my limitings,
And Nescience mutely muses: When a man falls he lies.

[quasimodo1]

Dies Irae

ON that great, that awful day,
This vain world shall pass away.
Thus the sibyl sang of old,
Thus hath holy David told.
There shall be a deadly fear
When the Avenger shall appear,
And unveiled before his eye
All the works of man shall lie.
Hark! to the great trumpet's tones
Pealing o'er the place of bones:
Hark! it waketh from their bed
All the nations of the dead,--
In a countless throng to meet,
At the eternal judgment seat.
Nature sickens with dismay,
Death may not retain its prey;
And before the Maker stand
All the creatures of his hand.
The great book shall be unfurled,
Whereby God shall judge the world;
What was distant shall be near,
What was hidden shall be clear.
To what shelter shall I fly?
To what guardian shall I cry?
Oh, in that destroying hour,
Source of goodness, Source of power,
Show thou, of thine own free grace,
Help unto a helpless race.
Though I plead not at thy throne
Aught that I for thee have done,
Do not thou unmindful be,
Of what thou hast borne for me:
Of the wandering, of the scorn,
Of the scourge, and of the thorn.
Jesus, hast thou borne the pain,
And hath all been borne in vain?
Shall thy vengeance smite the head
For whose ransom thou hast bled?
Thou, whose dying blessing gave
Glory to a guilty slave:
Thou, who from the crew unclean
Didst release the Magdalene:
Shall not mercy vast and free,
Evermore be found in thee?
Father, turn on me thine eyes,
See my blushes, hear my cries;
Faint though be the cries I make,
Save me for thy mercy's sake,
From the worm, and from the fire,
From the torments of thine ire.
Fold me with the sheep that stand
Pure and safe at thy right hand.
Hear thy guilty child implore thee,
Rolling in the dust before thee.
Oh the horrors of that day!
When this frame of sinful clay,
Starting from its burial place,
Must behold thee face to face.
Hear and pity, hear and aid,
Spare the creatures thou hast made.
Mercy, mercy, save, forgive,
Oh, who shall look on thee and live?

Thomas Babbington Macaulay {Dies Irae, Dies Illa. from the Gregorian chant translated means "Day of wrath, Day of Mourning" which is sung in the Mass for the Dead...Roman Catholic High Mass}

[quasimodo1]

I will come to you in the day time.
I will raise you from your sleep.
I will kiss you in four places,
as I go running down your street.
And I will squeeze the life right out of you.
I will make you laugh and make you cry.
And we may never forget it
'cuz we had the time of our life.
And now all the good times are through.
And I will always love you.
So shed your tears, let's get it over.
I will come to you in at night time.
I will put you to bed.
I will say I love you.
And I won't be happy even when you're dreaming,
because I know I will bleeding
when I tell you, darlin', I'm leaving.
But let's put that aside and have some fun.
We'll never forget it even when we're done.
Because we had the time of our life,
and now that is through.
Please baby, don't cry when I say I love you.
Because now it's time to leave
and we may never forget it.
So baby please say good bye.
Don't shed a tear, no please don't cry.
Together we are, but now miles apart.
The inches between seem like light years.
Emptyness runs down my face in the form of tears.
-- Submitted by Jeff Fair from Centereach
e-mail: [email protected]
{To Logos: This posting is a test as I found alot of poetry advertised as poetry from all over the world, adjusted by subject matter...cr issues are unclear}

[hellsapoppin]

To me, no poem can ever be the equal of,



THANATOPSIS

by: William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

O him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--
Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,
The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round all,
Old Ocean's grey and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound
Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest: and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged by his dungeon; but, sustain'd and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

[*_Annabel Lee_*]

La Beauté

Je suis belle, ô mortels ! comme un rêve de pierre,
Et mon sein, où chacun s’est meurtri tour à tour,
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour
Éternel et muet ainsi que la matière.

Je trône dans l’azur comme un sphinx incompris ;
J’unis un cœur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes ;
Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.

Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j’ai l’air d’emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d’austères études ;

Car j’ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles :
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles !


Charles Baudelaire

[Etienne]

Cors de chasse

Notre histoire est noble et tragique
Comme le masque d'un tyran
Nul drame hasardeux ou magique
Aucun détail indifférent
Ne rend notre amour pathétique

Et Thomas de Quincey buvant
L'opium poison doux et chaste
A sa pauvre Anna allait rêvant
Passons passons puisque tout passe
Je me retournerai souvent
[The two last lines are some of my favorite... incredible]

Les souvenirs sont cors de chasse
Dont meurt le bruit parmi le vent

-Apollinaire

Hercule et Omphalle

Le cul
D'Ophalle
Vaincu
S'affale.

- "Sens-tu
Mon phalle
Aigu
- "Quel mâle!...

Le chien
Me crève!...
Quel rêve?...

- ...Tiens bien?"
Hercule
L'encule.

-Apollinaire

More grotesque but very funny especially in their context, they are from Gargantua and Pantagruel by Rabelais. The young Gargantua is reciting them (I do not like the english translations of them):

Chiard,
Foirard,
Pétard,
Brenous,
Ton lard,
Chappard,
S'épart,
Sur nous,
Ordous,
Merdous,
Egous,
Le feu de saint Antoine t'ard,
Si tous
Te trous
Eclous
Ne torches avant ton départ.

Rondeau

En chiant, l'autre hier, senti
La gabelle qu'à mon cul dois;
L'odeur fut autre que cuidois;
J'en fus du tout empuanti.
Oh! si quelqu'un eut consenti
M'amener une qu'attendais
En chiant!

Car je lui eusse acimenti
Son trou d'urine à mon lourdois;
Cependant eût avec ses doigts
Mon trou de merde garanti
En chiant!

-Young Gargantua to his father Grandgousier

[quasimodo1]

To *_Annabel Lee_* & Etienne: Could I request a translation from you French speaking poetry lovers? Your own would be fine. quasimodo1

[HunterBrown1968]

"Th' Expense of Spirit in a Waste of Shame"

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, muderous bloody, full of blame,
Savage, exstreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight:
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;
Had, having,and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof; and proved a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind a dream,
All this the world knows well; yet none knows well,
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
~William Shakespeare

[Etienne]

To *_Annabel Lee_* & Etienne: Could I request a translation from you French speaking poetry lovers? Your own would be fine. quasimodo1

Hunting horns

Our story’s noble as its tragic
like the grimace of a tyrant
no drama’s chance or magic
no detail that’s indifferent
makes our great love pathetic

And Thomas de Quincey drinking
Opiate poison sweet and chaste
Of his poor Anne went dreaming
We pass we pass since all must pass
Often I’ll be returning

Memories are hunting horns alas
whose note along the wind is dying

-Apollinaire

[patrycja]

My favourite poem is an excerpt from 'Tamburlaine the Great' Part I. The text is as follows:

"Nature, that fram'd us of our four elements
Warring within our breasts for regiment,
Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds.
Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the world,
And measure every wandering planet's course,
Still climbing after knowledge infinite,
And always moving as the restless spheres,
Wills us to wear ourselves and never rest,
Until we reach the ripest fruit of all,
That perfect bliss and sole felicity,
The sweet fruition of an earthly crown."

When it comes to "poem as a poem"... H. G. Hopkins' "The Windhover".

"The Windhover"

To Christ our Lord


I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.