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Thread: Your Favourite or Own Poem(s)

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    Your Favourite or Own Poem(s)


    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
    But make allowance for their doubting too,
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
    Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
    If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
    If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breath a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
    If all men count with you, but none too much,
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
    Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
    And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

    --Rudyard Kipling

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    Post Re: Post Your Favorite Poem And Poet

    At the moment;

    The Earth - John Hall Wheelock
    Grasshopper, your fairy song
    And my poem alike belong
    To the dark and silent earth
    From which all poetry has birth;
    All we say and all we sing
    Is but as the murmuring
    Of that drowsy heart of hers
    When from her deep dream she stirs:
    If we sorrow, or rejoice,
    You and I are but her voice.

    Deftly does the dust express
    In mind her hidden loveliness,
    And from her cool silence stream
    The cricket's cry and Dante's dream;
    For the earth that breeds the trees
    Breeds cities too, and symphonies.
    Equally her beauty flows
    Into a saviour, or a rose --
    Looks down in dream, and from above
    Smiles at herself in Jesus' love.
    Christ's love and Homer's art
    Are but the workings of her heart;
    Through Leonardo's hand she seeks
    Herself, and through Beethoven speaks
    In holy thunderings around
    The awful message of the ground.

    The serene and humble mold
    Does in herself all selves enfold --
    Kingdoms, destinies, and creeds,
    Great dreams, and dauntless deeds,
    Science that metes the firmament,
    The high, inflexible intent
    Of one for many sacrificed --
    Plato's brain, the heart of Christ:
    All love, all legend, and all lore
    Are in the dust forevermore.

    Even as the growing grass
    Up from the soil religions pass,
    And the field that bears the rye
    Bears parables and prophecy.
    Out of the earth the poem grows
    Like the lily, or the rose;
    And all man is, or yet may be,
    Is but herself in agony
    Toiling up the steep ascent
    Toward the complete accomplishment
    When all dust shall be, the whole
    Universe, one conscious soul.
    Yea, the quiet and cool sod
    Bears in her breast the dream of God.

    If you would know what earth is, scan
    The intricate, proud heart of man,
    Which is the earth articulate,
    And learn how holy and how great,
    How limitless and how profound
    Is the nature of the ground --
    How without terror or demur
    We may entrust ourselves to her
    When we are wearied out, and lay
    Our faces in the common clay.

    For she is pity, she is love,
    All wisdom she, all thoughts that move
    About her everlasting breast
    Till she gathers them to rest:
    All tenderness of all the ages,
    Seraphic secrets of the sages,
    Vision and hope of all the seers,
    All prayer, all anguish, and all tears
    Are but the dust, that from her dream
    Awakes, and knows herself supreme --
    Are but earth when she reveals
    All that her secret heart conceals
    Down in the dark and silent loam,
    Which is ourselves, asleep, at home.

    Yea, and this, my poem, too,
    Is part of her as dust and dew,
    Wherein herself she doth declare
    Through my lips, and say her prayer.

  3. #3
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    Post Re: Post Your Favorite Poem And Poet


    by Alfred Tennyson

    It little profits that an idle king,
    By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
    Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
    Unequal laws unto a savage race,
    That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
    Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
    Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
    That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
    Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
    Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;
    For always roaming with a hungry heart
    Much have I seen and known; cities of men
    And manners, climates, councils, governments,
    Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
    And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
    Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
    I am part of all that I have met;
    Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
    Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
    For ever and for ever when I move.
    How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
    To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
    As tho' to breath were life. Life piled on life
    Were all to little, and of one to me
    Little remains: but every hour is saved
    From that eternal silence, something more,
    A bringer of new things; and vile it were
    For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
    And this gray spirit yearning in desire
    To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
    Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
    This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
    To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle-
    Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
    This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
    A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
    Subdue them to the useful and the good.
    Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
    Of common duties, decent not to fail
    In offices of tenderness, and pay
    Meet adoration to my household gods,
    When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
    There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
    There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
    Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me-
    That ever with a frolic welcome took
    The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
    Free hearts, free foreheads- you and I are old;
    Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
    Death closes all: but something ere the end,
    Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
    Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
    The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
    The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
    Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
    'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
    Push off, and sitting well in order smite
    The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
    To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
    Of all the western stars, until I die.
    It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
    It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
    And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
    Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
    We are not now that strength which in the old days
    Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
    One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
    Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
    To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
    Wita sceal geþyldig, ne sceal no to hatheort ne to hrædwyrde, ne to wac wiga ne to wanhydig, ne to forht ne to fægen, ne to feohgifre ne næfre gielpes to georn, ær he geare cunne. Beorn sceal gebidan, þonne he beot spriceð, oþþæt collenferð cunne gearwe hwider hreþra gehygd hweorfan wille.

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    Post Re: Post Your Favorite Poem And Poet

    Not my favorite poet, but definitely my favorite poem:

    The Story We Know

    The way to begin is always the same. Hello,
    Hello. Your hand, your name. So glad, Just fine,
    and Good-bye at the end. That’s every story we know,
    and why pretend? But lunch tomorrow? No?
    Yes? An omelette, salad, chilled white wine?
    The way to begin is simple, sane, Hello,
    and then it’s Sunday, coffee, the Times, a slow
    day by the fire, dinner at eight or nine
    and Good-bye. In the end, this is a story we know
    so well we don’t turn the page, or look below
    the picture, or follow the words to the next line:
    The way to begin is always the same Hello.
    But one night, through the latticed window, snow
    begins to whiten the air, and the tall white pine.
    Good-bye is the end of every story we know
    that night, and when we close the curtains, oh,
    we hold each other against that cold white sign
    of the way we all begin and end. Hello,
    Good-bye is the only story. We know, we know.
    —By Martha Collins
    "I do not know what horrified me most at that time: the economic misery of my companions, their moral and ethical coarseness, or the low level of their intellectual development." Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf

  5. #5

    Re: Post Your Favorite Poem And Poet

    Lord Byron


    I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
    The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
    Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
    Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
    Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
    Morn came and went-and came, and brought no day,
    And men forgot their passions in the dread
    Of this their desolation; and all hearts
    Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light;
    And they did live by watchfires-and the thrones,
    The palaces of crowned kings-the huts,
    The habitations of all things which dwell,
    Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
    And men were gathered round their blazing homes
    To look once more into each other's face;
    Happy were those which dwelt within the eye
    Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch;
    A fearful hope was all the world contained;
    Forests were set on fire-but hour by hour
    They fell and faded-and the crackling trunks
    Extinguished with a crash-and all was black.
    The brows of men by the despairing light
    Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
    The flashes fell upon them: some lay down
    And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
    Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
    And others hurried to and fro, and fed
    Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
    With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
    The pall of a past world; and then again
    With curses cast them down upon the dust,
    And gnashed their teeth and howled; the wild birds shrieked,
    And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
    And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
    Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawled
    And twined themselves among the multitude,
    Hissing, but stingless-they were slain for food;
    And War, which for a moment was no more,
    Did glut himself again;-a meal was bought
    With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
    Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
    All earth was but one thought-and that was death,
    Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
    Of famine fed upon all entrails-men
    Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
    The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
    Even dogs assailed their masters, all save one,
    And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
    The birds and beasts and famished men at bay,
    Till hunger clung them, or the drooping dead
    Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
    But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
    And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
    Which answered not with a caress-he died.
    The crowd was famished by degrees; but two
    Of an enormous city did survive,
    And they were enemies: they met beside
    The dying embers of an altar-place
    Where had been heaped a mass of holy things
    For an unholy usage: they raked up,
    And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
    The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
    Blew for a little life, and made a flame
    Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
    Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
    Each other's aspects-saw, and shrieked, and died-
    Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
    Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
    Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
    The populous and the powerful was a lump,
    Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless-
    A lump of death-a chaos of hard clay.
    The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
    And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
    Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
    And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropped
    They slept on the abyss without a surge-
    The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
    The Moon, their mistress, had expired before;
    The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
    And the clouds perished! Darkness had no need
    Of aid from them-She was the Universe!

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    Re: Post Your Favorite Poem And Poet

    Invictus by William Ernest Henley

    Out of the night that covers me,
    Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
    I thank whatever gods may be
    For my unconquerable soul.

    In the fell clutch of circumstance
    I have not winced nor cried aloud.
    Under the bludgeonings of chance
    My head is bloody, but unbowed.

    Beyond this place of wrath and tears
    Looms but the Horror of the shade,
    And yet the menace oif the years
    Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll,
    I am the master of my fate;
    I am the captain of my soul.

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    Re: Post Your Favorite Poem And Poet


    Said Myrtias (a Syrian student
    in Alexandria during the reign
    of the Emperor Konstans and the Emperor Konstantios;
    in part a heathen, in part chistianized):

    “Strengthened by study and reflection.
    I won’t fear my passions like a coward;
    I’ll give my body to sensual pleasures,
    to enjoyments I’ve dreamed of,
    to the most audacious erotic desires,
    to the lascivious impulses of my blood,
    with no fear at all, because when I wish—
    and I’ll have the will-power, strengthened
    as I shall be by study and reflection—
    when I wish, at critical moments I will recover
    my spirit, ascetic as it was before.”


    And if you can't shape your life the way you want,
    at least try as much as you can
    not to degrade it
    by too much contact with the world,
    by too much activity and talk.

    Try not to degrade it by dragging it along,
    taking it around and exposing it so often
    to the daily silliness
    of social events and parties,
    until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.


    Idealized voices and dear
    Of our dead, or those that
    Like dead to us are they now.

    At times, we hear them to our dreams;
    At times, they talk in our thoughts.

    And with their sounds bring to our minds
    Sounds from the early poetry of our lives
    Like a distant music, in the night, that dies.


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  10. #10
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    Re: Post Your Favorite Poem And Poet

    Fire and Ice

    Some say the world will end in fire,
    Some say in ice.
    From what I've tasted of desire
    I hold with those who favor fire.
    But if it had to perish twice,
    I think I know enough of hate
    To say that for destruction ice
    Is also great
    And would suffice

    [Robert Frost]


    Doch heimlich dürsten wir...

    Anmutig, geistig, arabeskenzart
    Scheint unser Leben sich wie das von Feen
    In sanften Tänzen um das Nichts zu drehen,
    Dem wir geopfert Sein und Gegenwart.

    Schönheit der Träume, holde Spielerei,
    So hingehaucht, so reinlich abgestimmt,
    Tief unter deiner heitern Fläche glimmt
    Sehnsucht nach Nacht, nach Blut, nach Barbarei.

    Im Leeren dreht sich, ohne Zwang und Not,
    Frei unser Leben, stets zum Spiel bereit,
    Doch heimlich dürsten wir nach Wirklichkeit,
    Nach Zeugung und Geburt, nach Leid und Tod.

    [Hermann Hesse]


    Weil ich Dich liebe

    Weil ich Dich liebe, bin ich des Nachts
    So wild und flüsternd zu Dir gekommen,
    Und daß Du mich nimmer vergessen kannst,
    Hab ich Deine Seele mitgenommen.

    Sie ist nun bei mir und gehört mir ganz
    Im Guten und auch im Bösen;
    Von meiner wilden, brennenden Liebe
    Kann Dich kein Engel erlösen;

    [Hermann Hesse]

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