Books : Favourite Poems of All Time?

Favourite Poems of All Time?

"Ode on Melancholy," Keats.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44478/ode-on-melancholy)
"To Autumn," Keats.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44484/to-autumn)
"Kubla Khan," Coleridge.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43991/kubla-khan)
"Rime of the Ancient Mariner," Coleridge.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43997/the-rime-of-the-ancient-mariner-text-of-1834)
"Mending Wall," Frost.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44266/mending-wall)
"Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening," Frost.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42891/stopping-by-woods-on-a-snowy-evening)
"The Hollow Men," Eliot.
- (https://allpoetry.com/the-hollow-men)
"The Tyger," Blake.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43687/the-tyger)
"Sailing to Byzantium," Yeats.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43291/sailing-to-byzantium)
"Darkness," Byron.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43825/darkness-56d222aeeee1b)
"The Ballad of Reading Gaol," Wilde.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45495/the-ballad-of-reading-gaol)
"Night Piece," Joyce.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=32389)
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," Eliot.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/44212/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock)
"The World is Too Much With Us," Wordsworth.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45564/the-world-is-too-much-with-us)
"Because I could not stop for Death," Dickinson.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47652/because-i-could-not-stop-for-death-479)
"Porphyria's Lover," Browning.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46313/porphyrias-lover)
"Goblin Market," Rossetti.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44996/goblin-market)
"Ozymandias," Shelley.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46565/ozymandias)
"The Sleeper," Poe.
- (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48629/the-sleeper-56d22a05d79d5)
"The Wasteland," Eliot.
(https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land

I'm sure there are some I am forgetting, but those are the first few that stuck out in my memory and that I frequently revisit.

How unfortunate to be born at the end of the universe.

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

i'm not so much into poetry, i need to really give it my time tho in the future, so thank u for this thread. i really have to think about that, but for now, and bc i don't want to lose track of this topic, a poem that has shooked me deeply ever since we worked with it in high school class, is "Death Fugue" by Paul Celan. 2 other poems that just popped up in mind are "Night Secret" by Else Lasker-Schüler and "The Panther" by Rainer Maria Rilke.

i'm coming back here. :)

👈😲 i slept on the sidewalk by the side of the castle in the Magic Kingdom 😴👉

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

Beautiful choices, Sophie. I'll include links to English translations of your selections here:

Death Fugue: https://poets.org/poem/death-fugue
Night Secret: https://www.babelmatrix.org/works/de/Lasker-Sch%C3%BCler%2C_Else-1869/Heimlich_zur_nacht/en/33990-Night_Secret
The Panther: http://wenaus.org/poetry/panther.html

How did they do? Are they anywhere near the beauty of their German origination?

If you like "The Panther," you may like a short story called "A Hunger Artist." It was written by Franz Kafka, and was initially published in German under the name "Ein Hungerkünstler." There is a similar passage regarding big cats near its conclusion.

How unfortunate to be born at the end of the universe.

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

i'll get back to u soon, i promise and tell u more about the translations!

👈😲 i slept on the sidewalk by the side of the castle in the Magic Kingdom 😴👉

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We like a lot of the same poems. The Lady of Shalott is another of my favorites.

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good one

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Tennyson has certainly earned his keep amongst the great Victorian poets.

How unfortunate to be born at the end of the universe.

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good thread, jackal.

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Thanks! Your selections were wonderful. I'd not read most.

How unfortunate to be born at the end of the universe.

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Cargoes

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

John Masefield

https://allpoetry.com/cargoes

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

Kinda blasphemous

Invictus: The Unconquerable

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 of 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.

William Ernest Henley

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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

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

All The World's A Stage

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

By Anonymous. Attributed to William Shakespeare.

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

Examination at the Womb-Door

Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.

Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.

Ted Hughes

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The first four lines of The Waste Land, the first few lines of Howl, and Paradise Lost.

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The Wasteland! I knew I was forgetting one. Paradise Lost is a classic. If you'd ever like to discuss or debate it, let me know. I took a few classes dedicated solely to Milton's works.

How unfortunate to be born at the end of the universe.

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

The Listeners. Walter de la Mare

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

Phenomenal Woman
By Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

"It doesn't matter who hurt you,or broke you down,what matters is who made you smile again."

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She Walks in Beauty
By Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

"It doesn't matter who hurt you,or broke you down,what matters is who made you smile again."

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

This one's a bit less endearing when you realise he was writing of his cousin.

How unfortunate to be born at the end of the universe.

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So it has been speculated. I love it because he is talking about inner beauty.

"It doesn't matter who hurt you,or broke you down,what matters is who made you smile again."

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It's not an unusual circumstance. Shelley's original version of Frankenstein featured its titular character as being set to marry his cousin, though it was later revised. It's even more likely when considering that she was a cousin by marriage rather than blood.

How unfortunate to be born at the end of the universe.

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

It is a common thing here in the south But seriously,it was done in an misguided attempt to keep the bloodlines "pure" and keep all the money in the family. Not very romantic is it? lol

"It doesn't matter who hurt you,or broke you down,what matters is who made you smile again."

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Not so much.

How unfortunate to be born at the end of the universe.

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Poems are for fags!

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https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44272/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.




Bittersweet. Conflicting feelings.

let me smell your farts for israel

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dont mention ozymandias!

he was me in one of my previous lives.

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46565/ozymandias



let me smell your farts for israel

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Troubles:

Adam had'em.



Schrodinger's cat walks into a bar, and doesn't.

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

Sean Sean
the Leprechaun
went to school
with no clothes on




Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Remember me to one who lives there,
For once she was a true lover of mine.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Without a seam or needlework,
Then she shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell her to wash it in yonder well,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Where never spring water or rain ever fell,
And she shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell her to dry it on yonder thorn,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Which never bore blossom since Adam was born,
Then she shall be a true lover of mine.

Now he has asked me questions three,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
I hope he'll answer as many for me
Before he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to buy me an acre of land,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Between the salt water and the sea sand,
Then he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to plough it with a ram's horn,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
And sow it all over with one pepper corn,
And he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to sheer't with a sickle of leather,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
And bind it up with a peacock feather.
And he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to thrash it on yonder wall,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,
And never let one corn of it fall,
Then he shall be a true lover of mine.

When he has done and finished his work.
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme:
Oh, tell him to come and he'll have his shirt,
And he shall be a true lover of mine.


https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scarborough-fair-2/

He cares about these helpless mortals?

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He cares about these helpless mortals?

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https://fleursdumal.org/poem/126

Une Charogne

Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme,
Ce beau matin d'été si doux:
Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme
Sur un lit semé de cailloux,

Les jambes en l'air, comme une femme lubrique,
Brûlante et suant les poisons,
Ouvrait d'une façon nonchalante et cynique
Son ventre plein d'exhalaisons.

Le soleil rayonnait sur cette pourriture,
Comme afin de la cuire à point,
Et de rendre au centuple à la grande Nature
Tout ce qu'ensemble elle avait joint;

Et le ciel regardait la carcasse superbe
Comme une fleur s'épanouir.
La puanteur était si forte, que sur l'herbe
Vous crûtes vous évanouir.

Les mouches bourdonnaient sur ce ventre putride,
D'où sortaient de noirs bataillons
De larves, qui coulaient comme un épais liquide
Le long de ces vivants haillons.

Tout cela descendait, montait comme une vague
Ou s'élançait en pétillant;
On eût dit que le corps, enflé d'un souffle vague,
Vivait en se multipliant.

Et ce monde rendait une étrange musique,
Comme l'eau courante et le vent,
Ou le grain qu'un vanneur d'un mouvement rythmique
Agite et tourne dans son van.

Les formes s'effaçaient et n'étaient plus qu'un rêve,
Une ébauche lente à venir
Sur la toile oubliée, et que l'artiste achève
Seulement par le souvenir.

Derrière les rochers une chienne inquiète
Nous regardait d'un oeil fâché,
Epiant le moment de reprendre au squelette
Le morceau qu'elle avait lâché.

— Et pourtant vous serez semblable à cette ordure,
À cette horrible infection,
Etoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature,
Vous, mon ange et ma passion!

Oui! telle vous serez, ô la reine des grâces,
Apres les derniers sacrements,
Quand vous irez, sous l'herbe et les floraisons grasses,
Moisir parmi les ossements.

Alors, ô ma beauté! dites à la vermine
Qui vous mangera de baisers,
Que j'ai gardé la forme et l'essence divine
De mes amours décomposés!

— Charles Baudelaire

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Oh, the butterflies are flying,
Now the winter days are dying.
And the primroses are trying
To be seen.
And the turtle-doves are cooing,
And the woods are up and doing,
For the violets are blue-ing
In the green.
Oh, the honey-bees are gumming
On their little wings, and humming
That the summer, which is coming
Will be fun.
And the cows are almost cooing,
And the turtle doves are mooing,
Which is why a Pooh is poohing
In the sun.
For the spring is really springing;
You can see a skylark singing,
And the blue-bells, which are ringing,
Can be heard.
And the cuckoo isn’t cooing,
But he’s cucking and he’s ooing,
And a Pooh is simply poohing
Like a bird.

Noise, by Pooh
by A. A. Milne

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

In “Sailing to Byzantium,” Yeats speaks of the once-perfect utopia that was later conquered. “The young / In one another’s arms, birds in the trees / …Monuments of unaging intellect” describe Byzantium as a land of youth, vigor, and vitality. I believe Yeats wants readers to feel that Byzantium, before the conquer, was a near-perfect utopia. He compares Byzantium here as a stand-in for old Ireland before the rebellion. The conquering of Byzantium is analogous to the Easter Rising.

After the conquering of Byzantium, the utopia quickly dissolved into a dystopia. Yeats likes using the element of contrast here; and alternates between the utopia turned dystopia in a matter of a couple lines. “–These dying generations – at their song,” describes the deaths in the conquering of Byzantium but serves as a metaphor for those who died in the Rising whom Yeats greatly admired. “Whatever is begotten born and dies. / Caught in that sensual music of neglect / Monuments of unaging intellect” describe the destruction of Byzantium, not unlike what happened to Ireland during and after the Rising.

The first line “whatever is begotten…” hints to the idea that a utopia cannot exist forever, and eventually will be overthrown. Yeats here is insinuating that one must enjoy life while they can, for this world is temporary, which also brings in his religious connotation. The “whatever” in the line could not only be a metaphor for old Ireland, but for the universe itself and humanity’s temporary time here. “That sensual music” is the patriotic songs and songs of rebellion that were played during battle.

“Monuments of unaging intellect” refer to the static, unchanging position one has regarding politics; a soldier, or politician, will pick which side of battle in which to support and participate, based on his geographic location, community and culture without any substantial reasoning or rationality and consequently closing his/her mind to alternative views.

While “Sailing to Byzantium” deals with the character discovering the battle in real time, “Byzantium” deals with its character reflecting on its aftermath. In this poem, the battle is now but a memory; “The unpurged images of day recede;” and “The Emperor’s drunken soldiery are abed;” both attest to the battle now being over and how it’s a memory in its citizens minds. The Emperor in this case is a metaphor for the soldiers who fought the battle sometimes inebriated.

The second stanza of the poem reflects Yeats’s spiritual openness and eagerness for supernatural exploration; “Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than a man, more image than a shade;” could attest to his interest in the paranormal. He sees an image, or a shade, but ponders that it could very well be a “man” taking form in an image, hence hinting at paranormal communication. Yeats uses several words relating to religious themes, including miracle, spirit, life, death, and “blood” which in this context (similar to the Eucharist) symbolizes the dolphin’s transformation. Here, Yeats could be referring to reincarnation or spiritual rejuvenation (what many Protestant’s call being “born again) when he writes “Astraddle on the dolphin’s mire and blood, / Spirit after spirit! The smithies break the flood,” and “Miracle, bird, or golden handiwork, /…And all complexities of mire or blood.”

Even more, these lines illustrate that even non-human animals are capable of changing forms, or were once human and now inhabit a new body (reincarnation). Yeats choice of the word “changeless” in the line “In glory of changeless metal” relates to the soul of the animals (when I say animals, I include humans) which is unchanging. The “Spirit after spirits” Yeats sees “astraddle” on the dolphin’s could be referring to the death of those who lost their lives in battle whose now souls are riding on the dolphin’s back. “That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea” is more symbolism of the aftermath.

Yeats uses first person again, and strangely, Yeats, as the protagonist, observes the horrible aftermath of the battle but strangely remains calm. He takes what he sees for granted, as if he’s been down this path before. To him, it’s a routine visual illustration. One might say that he’s completely indifferent and neutral to his surroundings. His ability to remain calm and content is reflective of his expanding spirituality; he’s in a state of meditation and is less bothered by repercussions in the physical, material world.

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I tried my hand at gambling
I did not win a dime
I tried my hand at love
But no one wanted to be mine
I tried to climb that ladder
That they call success
But I never made it up
More than one or two steps
Can you help me?

Can you help me ease the pain
Can you make everything alright
Can you help me make it to tomorrow
Can you help me make it through tonight

I went to grab those bottles
of Jose and Jim Beam
I drank so much to pass the time
Until I fell asleep
Then it was Jack Daniels
I drank each and every day
Jack and I shared such a bond
That people think we're gay
Can you help me?

-Christopher Marlowe

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Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

The boy stood on the burning deck
Lonely as a cloud
Then he said O what the heck
And played his music loud

https://www.flickr.com/photos/8424687@N08/

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https://poets.org/poem/witch

I have walked a great while over the snow,
And I am not tall nor strong.
My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set,
And the way was hard and long.
I have wandered over the fruitful earth,
But I never came here before.
Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!

The cutting wind is a cruel foe.
I dare not stand in the blast.
My hands are stone, and my voice a groan,
And the worst of death is past.
I am but a little maiden still,
My little white feet are sore.
Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!

Her voice was the voice that women have,
Who plead for their heart's desire.
She came—she came—and the quivering flame
Sunk and died in the fire.
It never was lit again on my hearth
Since I hurried across the floor,
To lift her over the threshold, and let her in at the door.

The Witch


Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

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Sky is my roof,
earth my bed,
and in this shelter
i make my humble keep,
blood flowing red,
on a site run by ed,
i hope him
does not get upset,
by devilry,
wroth and divine,
let me,
drink my wine.

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Shut up, jewess.
Haggen wench!

shortest poem of all time.

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its called chiseling ur face.

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

'My teacher wasn't half as nice as yours
seems to be.
His name was Mister Unsworth and he
taught us history.
And when you didn't know a date he'd get
you by the ear
And start to twist while you sat there quite
paralysed with fear.
He'd twist and twist and twist your ear and
twist it more and more.
Until at last the ear came off and landed on
the floor.
Our class was full of one-eared boys. I'm
certain there were eight.
Who'd had them twisted off because they
didn't know a date.
So let us now praise teachers who today
are all so fine
And yours in particular is totally divine.'

Wh-What!? Are you after my small hole, too!?

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

I can still recite the first half of Kubla Khan by memory. that's decades later.

Coleridge.

Re: Favourite Poems of All Time?

"The Tyger," by Blake - is one of the best for me.
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