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Favourite Poems

Solon

Active Member
I'm not a huge fan of poetry in general, although there are some fine examples around, the shorter the better I think; so at this time of year, I thought to share my favourite poem.

Colloque Sentimental:

In the old park, deserted in the frost
A while ago two shapes came drifting past.

Their eyes have died, their lips become so weak.
That you can barely hear a word they speak.

In the old park, deserted in the frost,
a ghost was reminiscing to a ghost.

-Can you recall our ectasy of long ago ?
-Why stir the memory? why do you want to know?

-Does your heart still beat at just the mention of my name, as ever?
Do you still see my spirit in your dreams-NO NEVER.

-O lovely days of speechless happiness
When our mouths met! - Speechless? perhaps it was.

-How blue the sky was and what hopes we had !
-Hope ran away to the black sky defeated.

So they walk on in the self-seeding grass
With only night to hear them as they pass.

Paul Verlaine
 

Jaymes

The cake is a lie
I am a huge fan of William Blake's The Tyger:

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye.
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

That just has such rhythm to me. :D I love it!
 

Solon

Active Member
Ah Blake, yes I agree, a fine piece of work. One of England's finest.

Thanks for sharing that.

Solon
 

Dark_Waltz

Active Member
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And trho' the field the road run by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.


Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes disk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott


Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the beared barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listing, whispers "'tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."


There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.


And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The Knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.


But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and with lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am, half sick of shadow," she said,
The Lady of Shalott.


A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves,
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.


His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
And from the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.


She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried -- photo
The Lady of Shalott.


In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot; -- photo
Down she cam and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.


Down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance -
With a glassy countenance
She looked to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and shown she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.


Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted slowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.


Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
And out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.


Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
They crossed themselves for fear,
The Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "she has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott
 

jonny

Well-Known Member
I have two favorite poems. The first one is by Robert Frost:

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
 

jonny

Well-Known Member
The second one was written by one of my ancestors and speaks about an experience they had. My mom used to read it to us when we were little.

And now you want a story
One that Grandpa always tells
About the Mormon people
That’s the one he knows so well

I was once a little chatterer
with blue eyes and golden hair
I had all a small boy wanted
I was free from every care.

We lived wealthy in the city
Many friends and neighbors near
Yes, our home was nicely furnished
And we thought our way was clear.

But we heard of the young boy prophet,
And the plates that he had found.
Father went to hear his preaching,
And he loved the very sound.

He at once believed the story.
Told us all he knew ‘twas true,
And from that very moment,
Many friends we loved withdrew.

Now we could not understand it.
We were scoffed at in the street
And we felt so very lonely,
For a friend we’d never meet.

And one day we got a notice,
Father wasn’t wanted more
In the office where he’d labored,
Many days and years before.

Now our home and all was taken,
And we knew not where to stay
So we got our team and wagon
And the city left that day.

We found land that was not taken
But ‘twas covered o’er with sage.
And each one worked late and early
And our hands were all engaged.

Soon we had a little cabin
That we now could call our own.
And a place was plowed and furrowed.
Where the small seeds could be sown.

So we worked and toiled all summer
No one ever thought to cheat
For he knew the fall was coming
And the food we’d need to eat.

Now the hardest time was over
And my brother Anson said,
He would go from home to labor
And in that way earn his bread.

One night we sat round the fireplace.
Something like you children do
Only not so snug and cozy
For the country then was new.

We were startled, someone’s knocking
Whispered mother very low,
And my father stepping forward
Opened wide the rough made door.

And a large, well dressed man entered
Mr. Call, now have no fear
You’re a man we all think lots of,
You’re a man we all need here.

All you need to do is sign this
Or else, now say that you know
Joe Smith is not a prophet
And you do not need to go.

For the mob will be upon you
It is furious with rage.
It takes all that lies before it.
Everything within its gaze.

Do you see the burning dwellings?
In the distance out that way?
This will be exactly like it,
In an hour, now come do sway.

Father stamped his foot in anger,
Let them come. I still will say.
He’s a prophet true and faithful
And I know it every day.

Than my friend you’d better travel
For before five hours have gone
This house and all your ownings
Will be burnt down to the ground.

Then we gathered things around us.
For we knew he told us right
To the corn field we now journeyed
For a long and dreaded night.

Dear mother was weak and weary
And her bed we knelt around.
Breathlessly we shook and trembled
For well we heard a sound.

It was food steps coming nearer
In the corn field now it came
“Father, Father,” was the calling
But he answered not the same.

Mother woke and heard the calling
She knew well it was her son Anson
And she spoke in tones of anguish.
“Answer him so he can come.”

He was frightened and he murmured
In a tone so soft and slow,
“Are all here and out of danger?”
“Yes,” my mother answered low.

“Oh, the mob with rage is furious
List, their curses can be heard.
See, our home in flames is rising
Like a full fledged winged bird.”

And we prayed and watched and waited
Breathlessly around the bed.
Till the flames died down in quiet
And my mother raised her head.

And then we stayed in the corn field
Until after dark next night
When we drove into Nauvoo
Ready for the westward flight.

We found our friends all ready
To leave their homes for the west
Where, we looked for, prayed for and found it
Shelter, freedom, and rest.
 

michel

Administrator Emeritus
Staff member
Seasonal ? Although this was written as a critique of humility, It has a seasonal content to it; an Autumnal feel, I think...........


In all humility lies the greatest vanity
For as the preacher said "Vanity of vanities … all is vanity,”
he knew of what he spoke,
and in that vein drew blood from introvert humility,
and unmasked it for the vanity which it contained.

Nature's sweet revenge on our facaded ways is cunning hid,
and yet the answer's clear to see:
The tree that bears his fruit in leafy solitude,
that tree that laps the sun, and drains the rain;
His bark is there to see, but not to hear....
The silent, humble tree, so full of vanity.

And in the winters of his life,
He stands a naked crippled being,
and yet so stout and firm,
but swaying sometime to the winter wind.
Bleak in his nudity, oustripped of all that leaves
his branches bare, for there the frost to gnaw,
and sometime kill a part of him.....
The silent, humble tree, so full of vanity.

The rains of spring will fall and make him green again;
he'll try once more to do his best to turn another leaf,
to do the best he can, for which he was designed,
before cruel frost and dark beset his soul once more,
and turn his humble nakedness into brash vainglorious vanity,
The silent, humble tree, so full of vanity.;)
 

Solon

Active Member
Good poems, one and all, but keeping in the flavour of the Season, I thought this classsic from Keats most apt, and I can always recall the opening lines, something I've been able to do from youth....

To Autumn

John Keats



Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
[font=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica] [/font]

[font=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica][/font] [font=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica]John Keats
[/font]
 

Solon

Active Member
Frosty morning, chilly air,
Nobody is stopping to to stand and stare,
Some of the girls, still dare,
To show us something bare,

Off the top of my head after being in town this morning :)
 
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