Mookychick Messageboard  
Members Login
Username 
 
Password 
    Remember Me  
Chatbox
Please log in to join the chat!
Post Info TOPIC: Your Favourite Poem


Honoured Mook

Status: Offline
Posts: 498
Date:
RE: Your Favourite Poem


clockbox wrote:

Cirque d'Hiver and The Weed by Elizabeth Bishop (by the way, Ladybird, if you like Gluck and haven't read any Bishop, you should check her out, especially her early stuff!).






Thank you Ms Clockbox. I will buy Elizabeth Bishpp...

__________________
Always keep a party between your ears


Seasoned Mookster

Status: Offline
Posts: 67
Date:

Pablo Neruda, 'I'm Explaining a Few Things'.
The heavens are rearranged every time I read the last bit:
"And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!"

LINK

I also recommend "Arms and the Woman" Dorothea Mackellar but I can't seem to find it online.

__________________
i like trees.


Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 1849
Date:

I like to read poetry but I never get any real emotions from it...

But, I bought the Doors album "strange days" and the track Horse Latitudes is one of Jim Morrisons Poems. I think its powerful because of all the sound effects and wailing in the background. I love it, its so vivid.

When the still sea conspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted
Currents breed tiny monsters,
True sailing is dead.

Awkward instant
And the first animal is jettisoned,
Legs furiously pumping
Their stiff green gallop,
And heads bob up
Poise
Delicate
Pause
Consent
In mute nostril agony
Carefully refined
And sealed over.


Listening to it is better than reading it. :D

__________________


Seasoned Mookster

Status: Offline
Posts: 75
Date:

Henry Longfellow - Suspiria

Take them, O Death! and bear away
Whatever thou canst call thine own!
Thine image, stamped upon this clay,
Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves!

Take them, O great Eternity!
Our little life is but a gust
That bends the branches of thy tree,
And trails its blossoms in the dust!


(Darkwell adapted this into a song. The entire poem/song inspired my A-level photography project and gained me a B, as opposed to my predicted C. Hurrah!)

Also like:
Tennyson - The Lady of Shalott
Spike Milligan - Ning Nang Nong


Generally not a poetry fan, though.


__________________
DeviantART


High Mookish Shaman

Status: Offline
Posts: 646
Date:

I recently got into Tennyson via his poem 'Maud'.

WEIRD POEM.

Everyone knows the bit that inspired Lewis Carroll's garden of live flowers, which I admit is incredibly beautiful:

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;'
And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'
The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'
And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

That last bit especially is wonderful.

But the poem itself is surprisingly gruesome. It starts, 'I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood /Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, /The red-ribb`d ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, / And Echo there, whatever is ask`d her, answers "Death."

And then there's that crazy bit wherebhe's suddenly a dead man buried not deep enough, and he says the chatter of other dead men is enough to drive you mad...

WEIRD WEIRD GREAT WEIRD



__________________
I'd rather have a full bottle in front of me than a full frontal lobotomy


Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 2919
Date:

I am so totally not a poetry person.
And yet, I just bought my first poetry book ever- The Cinnamon Peeler by Michael Ondaatje.
This is the title poem:

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said


this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.

And you searched your arms

for the missing perfume.

and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter

left with no trace

as if not spoken to in an act of love

as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.


You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.



__________________

Souljacker can't get my soul

Left my carcass with the worms and moles

Souljacker can't get my soul

He can hang my neck from the old flagpole

But the souljacker can't get my soul.

 

Silly Whore.



Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 2919
Date:

I couldn't resist posting this, it's an extract from another poem from The Cinnamon Peeler and it's probably my favourite passage in the book:

"I could spend days lying on the ground
seeing the world with the perspective of snails
stumbling the small territory of obsessions
this leaf and grain of you
could attempt the epic
journey over your shoulder."

I'm severely tempted to type out the whole page, but I think that will do.
:)

__________________

Souljacker can't get my soul

Left my carcass with the worms and moles

Souljacker can't get my soul

He can hang my neck from the old flagpole

But the souljacker can't get my soul.

 

Silly Whore.



Dame of Mooky (mod)

Status: Offline
Posts: 1645
Date:

The First poem I remember ever reading and it's stuck with me all this time.

I found my sock,
Beneath my bed
'Where have you been,
All week?' I said.
'
'Hiding away'
The sock replied.
'Another day on your foot,
And i would have died.'



__________________
This is my dream
and
I'll decide where it goes from here.


(Member of The Facebook Sexist Group Eliminating Squad)


High Mookish Shaman

Status: Offline
Posts: 744
Date:

two roads digerged in yellow
and soory I could not travle them both...............
......................................................................
I took the one less travled by
and that has made all the differnce

__________________

The universe is like one be old book. Full of chapters. Humans are but a "page"



Seasoned Mookster

Status: Offline
Posts: 90
Date:

Billy's Rose by George Robert Sims

Billy's dead and gone to glory - so has Billy's sister Nell:
There's a tale I know about them were I poet I would tell
Soft it comes, with perfume laden like a breath of country air
Wafted down that filthy alley bringing fragrant odours there

In that vile and filthy alley long ago one Winter's day
Dying quick of want and fever, hapless,patient Billy lay
while beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom
Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb

Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child
Till his eyes lost half their anguish and his worn, wan features smiled
Tales herself she heard hap-hazard, caught amid the Babel roar
Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mother's door

Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told
How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold,
Where when all the pain was over - when all the tears were shed -
He would be a white frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head.

Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Savior's love
How he built for little children great big playgrounds up above
Where they sang and played at hop-scotch and at horses all the day
And where the beadles or policemen never frightened them away.

This was Nell's idea of heaven - just a bit of what she'd heard,
With a little bit invented, with a little bit inferred.
But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand,
For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the Promised Land.

"Yes" he whispered " I can see it sister Nell;
Oh the children look so happy, they are all so strong and well;
I can see them there with Jesus-He is playing with them too!
Let us run away and join them, if there's room for me and you"

She was eight this little maiden, and her life had all been spent
In the garret and the alley where they starved to pay the rent
When a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blows
Drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its close.

But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell the sinking boy,
"You must die before you are able all these blessings to enjoy.
You must die," she whispered, "Billy I am not even ill;
But I will come to you dear brother, - yes, I promise that I will.

"You are dying, little brother, you are dying, oh so fast;
I heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last
They will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there
While I am left alone to suffer, in this garret bleak and bare."

"Yes I know it," answered Billy." Ah - sister I do not mind.
Gentle Jesus will not beat me he's not cruel or unkind.
But I can't help thinking, Nelly I should like to take away
Something sister that you gave me I might look at every day.

"In the Summer you remember how the mission took us out
To that great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran about
and the van that took us halted by a bright green patch of land,
Where the fine red blossoms grew dear, half as big as mother's hand.

"Nell I asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as those
And I remember that he told me that the pretty name was rose
I have never seen them since, dear- how I wish that I had one
Just to keep and think of you dear, when I am up beyond the sun."

Not a word spoke little Nelly but at night when Billy slept,
On she flung her scanty garments and then down the stairs she crept.
Through the silent streets of London running nimbly as a fawn,
Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn.

When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away,
All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay
She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet,
But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet.

She had found the road by asking she had learnt the way to go
She had found the cruel meadow - it was wrapped in cruel snow,
Not a buttercup or daisy not a single verdant blade
Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed.

With her eyes up cast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground
And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found
Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim;
And a sudden awful tremor seem to seize her every limb.

"Oh, rose!" she moaned," good Jesus - just a rose to take to Bill !"
And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill.
A lady sat there toying with a red rose rare and sweet;
As she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly's feet.

Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret
And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet.
But the poor half blinded Nelly thought it had fallen from the skies
And she murmured," Thank you Jesus! " as she clasped the dainty prize.

Lo that night from out the alley did a child's soul pass away,
From dirt and sin and misery to where God's children play
Lo that night, a wild fierce snowstorm burst in fury o'er the land
And at morn they found Nell frozen, with the red rose in her hand.

Billy's dead and gone to glory - so has Billy's sister Nell;
Am I bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell :-
That the children met in heaven after all their earthly woes,
And that Nelly kissed her brother and said," Billy , here's your rose"

If you managed to get to the end, I expect you're in tears by now.

I also like Tim Burton's collection of poems - The Melancholy Death Of Oyster Boy and Other Stories.

-- Edited by Jadie at 23:49, 2009-01-26

__________________
Jesus loves you...


Regular Crew

Status: Offline
Posts: 14
Date:

Pam Ayres is my favorite Poet, here is one of her poems

I am very fond of Hedgehogs
which makes me want to say
That I'm struckwith wonder
How there's any live today
For each morning as I travel
and no short distance that
all I see are Hedgehogs
sqashered and dead and flat

Now Hedgehogs are not celver,
infact they are quite dim
And when he see's your headlamps
it don't occur to 'em that the wiset thing to do
is up and run away
instead he curls up into a stupid ball
and no doubt starts to prey

Well, motor cars do travel at a most alarming rate
and at unch time when you see him it is very much to late
and thus he is a squashered
unrecorded but for me
with my pen and paper
sittin' in a tree

It is statisically proven
in chapter and in verse
that in a car and Hedgehog race
the Hedgehog comes of worse
When whistlin' down you propshaft
or bouncing down your diff
his coat of nice brown prickles
ain't very effect-iff

A Hedgehog can not make you laugh
whistle dance or sing
he ain't much to look at
and he don't make anthing
and in amoungst his prickles
there are flea's and bugs and that
but it ain't no need to leave him
squashered and dead and flat

Oh spare a thought for Hedgehogs
spare a thought for me
Spare a thought for Heedgehogs
as you drink your cuppa tea
spare a thought for Hedgehogs
hoverin' on the brinkt
spare a thought for Hedgehogs
least they become exstinct



END OF POEM

it might not B all correct since its out of memory, but i luv Pam Ayres and all her poems, and when she says them wih her accent its awesome, they r all really funni

to find more here's a link
http://poetry.mirandasbeach.com/content/view/712/51/




__________________

RULES:
1. Do Not Touch The Panda
2. Do Not Feed The Panda
3. Do Not Give Shiny or Sharp Objects To The Panda
4. Do Not Give Drugs To The Panda
5. Do Not Look At The Panda
6. The Panda Does Bite BEWARE...



Honoured Mook

Status: Offline
Posts: 472
Date:

By the time you swear you are his, shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is infinite and undying-
Lady, make a note of this: One of you is lying
_
Dorothy Parker

__________________

The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue. Dorothy Parker



Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 2919
Date:

Passion by Charlotte Bronte can be found under that link.
I love this poem. At the minute I can totally empathise.hmm.gif

"Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward,
Hope blest with fulness large,
I'd mount the saddle, draw the sword,
And perish in the charge!"


__________________

Souljacker can't get my soul

Left my carcass with the worms and moles

Souljacker can't get my soul

He can hang my neck from the old flagpole

But the souljacker can't get my soul.

 

Silly Whore.



Honoured Mook

Status: Offline
Posts: 133
Date:

clockbox - i'm studying tennyson for my a-level english, and we started Maud today. Random parts of it though, it's strange (we also have looked at In Memoriam but only parts 5, 7, 56, 100, 101. odd.). I like it so far though, although i adore Morte d'Arthur.

I've been trying to think of my actual favourite poem, but I actually cannot decide on just one. A lot of poets have their strong and weak moments. Never really been one for Keats, though. Good to read intoxicated in a hotel room in Paris, though...

Shakespeare's sonnets fail to do anything for me.

This is like trying to pick a favourite song; it just ain't gonna happen, they come and go with my mood and the seasons...





__________________

lock the cellar door, and baby... talk dirty to me.



High Mookish Shaman

Status: Offline
Posts: 646
Date:

Woo Maud!
I had a class on him about a month ago and I now recommend reading his shorter verses in conjunction with Robert Browning, who is wick. I read 'Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister' as my first one ever and I NEVER LOOKED BACK. The man is a genius.

I would like to add Isaac Rosenberg to the list of awesome poets. He was a First World War poet, but unlike Brooke, Sassoon and Owen, he was not an officer (he was a poor and sickly Jewish private whose uniform didn't fit and who asked for all of his pay to be sent home to his mother - they simply didn't pay him and he never found out), who had a second talent - he was an art student at the Slade and really very talented - and he didn't write in strict, old-fashioned, post-Victorian, classically trained verse. In fact, he was an early Modernist, and a god damn good one at that.

__________________
I'd rather have a full bottle in front of me than a full frontal lobotomy

SPAM is destroyed. SPAMMERS are banned. Talk of truth and beauty instead.



High Mookish Shaman

Status: Offline
Posts: 646
Date:

Ah, and 'A Ramble in St James' Park' by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

It begins:

Much wine had passed, with grave discourse
Of who fucks who, and who does worse
(Such as you usually do hear
From those that diet at the Bear),
When I, who still take care to see
Drunkenness relieved by lechery,
Went out into St. Jamess Park
To cool my head and fire my heart.
But though St. James has th honor on t,
Tis consecrate to prick and cunt...


__________________
I'd rather have a full bottle in front of me than a full frontal lobotomy


Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 2919
Date:

I like him already..

__________________

Souljacker can't get my soul

Left my carcass with the worms and moles

Souljacker can't get my soul

He can hang my neck from the old flagpole

But the souljacker can't get my soul.

 

Silly Whore.



Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 1849
Date:

clockbox wrote:

Ah, and 'A Ramble in St James' Park' by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

It begins:

Much wine had passed, with grave discourse
Of who fucks who, and who does worse
(Such as you usually do hear
From those that diet at the Bear),
When I, who still take care to see
Drunkenness relieved by lechery,
Went out into St. Jamess Park
To cool my head and fire my heart.
But though St. James has th honor on t,
Tis consecrate to prick and cunt...




Is that the man Johnny Depp played in a movie. It sounds like him. A shame, that movie could have been so much better...


I love these lines from La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente, Oscar Wilde.

"Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.
Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet's throat
Is not so sweet to look upon."
I'm not sure why but I love those lines.

I also like We'll go no more a-roving by Lord Byron

So, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have a rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
Hmm, I wonder what he's talking about ;)

__________________


High Mookish Shaman

Status: Offline
Posts: 646
Date:

I done looked up his filmography and yesss that's him. Do you not recommend this movie? I shall not see this movie.

I am adding 'Under Milk Wood' and 'Do Not Go Gentle...' by Dylan Thomas.

And 'The Falling City' by Lavinia Greenlaw. It ends,

For a moment, the glass forgave me,
curved like a hand that absolutely
loved me, let me down so gently.

It is about falling through a glass door at the age of eight.

__________________
I'd rather have a full bottle in front of me than a full frontal lobotomy


Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 1849
Date:

Well... It had so much potential to be full of 17th century sex, drugs and rock and roll. There was great promise of sexual deviance and sodomy but the whole movie felt waaaay too toned down. They even kept their clothes on in the sex scenes! Gah! It did the Earl's life little justice.

The best bit is the Prologue and then when he fingers his wife in the carriage but that's about it. XD Although you get to see Johnny Depp romping about in a wig which is nice. Until the end where he's basically rotting away from syphilis... Nice.

Anywho- back to the poetry....


__________________


Honoured Mook

Status: Offline
Posts: 339
Date:

I love Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas. It makes me think of my granddad, just before he died.
I also love Still I Rise by Maya Angelou. It's so powerful.

In terms of poets I like Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickinson. I've just discovered Symon Armitage as well.
My new fave is Kelly Grovier. He taught me last year (I'm studying Creative Writing at university) and I absolutely fell in love with him and his work. His collection, A Lens in the Palm, is just gorgeous.

__________________

"I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat." Rebecca West

Come and stalk me on my blog, or on Twitter



Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 1626
Date:

I couldn't tell fact from fiction
or if my dream was true,
The only sure prediction
in this whole world was you.
I'd touched your features inchly
heard love and dared the cost.
The scented spiel reeled me unreal
and found my senses lost

Senses of Insecurity - Maya Angelou

Anything by this woman is gold. She's awesome.

__________________


Honoured Mook

Status: Offline
Posts: 413
Date:

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-- W.H. Auden


I also love poems by Mascha Kaléko. She has this subtile irony and sadness in her poems at the same time, it just amazes me. I also love shakespearian stuff.

"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever.
One foot in the sea
And one on shore,
To one thing constant never."

__________________

Eine deutsche Mooky :)

My modeling account (German).

I also got a DeviantArt account. Please feel free to add me :)



Professor Mook (mod)

Status: Offline
Posts: 4027
Date:

I love the 'Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S Eliot.

I also LOVE "Valentine" by John Fuller. I really really super strongly recommend looking up the second one if you haven't already. It is a love poem, as the title suggests, and it is mushy, but in a refreshing way. It is beautiful.

__________________

Stalk me on my blog, I guess? xxx



Honoured Mook

Status: Offline
Posts: 248
Date:

Everything that my dad has written ^_^ He writes poems for fun & I have them all over my room walls

__________________

I saw him too. He had a guitar. He winked at me before he jumped out a fourth floor window like he had wings. 

He winked at you?  [tsk] Musicians. 

 

Suddenly I heard a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
What are you talking about? 
You heard me rapping, right? 



Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 2443
Date:

Poem - William Carlos Williams

As the cat
climbed over
the top of

the jamcloset
first the right
forefoot

carefully
then the hind
stepped down
into the pit of
the empty
flowerpot


I like my body when it is with your body - e.e. cummings:

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

__________________
Kittens.


Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 1652
Date:

An E E Cummings poem, and I'm not really his fan but I think this-

who knows if the moon's
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky--filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we'd go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody's ever visited,where

always
it's
Spring)and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves


is beautiful. :)

__________________

too weak to labor on the farm

too indolent to do any exercise

too stupid for the bar

and

too immoral for the pulpit



Mookish Deity Most High

Status: Offline
Posts: 1626
Date:

Untitled - from "Power Politics" // Margaret Atwood
i

We are hard on each other
and call it honesty,
choosing our jagged truths
with care and aiming them across
the neutral table.

The things we say are
true; it is our crooked
aims, our choices
turn them criminal.

ii

Of course your lies
are more amusing:
you make them new each time.

Your truths, painful and boring
repeat themselves over & over
perhaps because you own
so few of them

iii

A truth should exist,
it should not be used
like this. If I love you

is that a fact or a weapon?

iv

Does the body lie
moving like this, are these
touches, hairs, wet
soft marble my tongue runs over
lies you are telling me?

Your body is not a word,
it does not lie or
speak truth either.

It is only
here or not here.

__________________


High Mookish Shaman

Status: Offline
Posts: 521
Date:

I have many favourite poems, but two that come to mind currently are Alone by Edgar Allan Poe and Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare smile

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Sonnet 73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such a fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
      This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong
      To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.



-- Edited by PandaPrincess on Sunday 13th of June 2010 09:49:40 AM

__________________

PandaPrincess~!





Facebook :)

Tumblr :)

Etsy :)



Honoured Mook

Status: Offline
Posts: 475
Date:

Out, Out- by Robert Frost

The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw,
As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap -
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all -
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart -
He saw all was spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off -
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!"
So. The hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then - the watcher at his pulse took a fright.
No one believed. They listened to his heart.
Little - less - nothing! - and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.


Depressing I know, but I'm a sucker for anything that has the ability to make me cry...

__________________
«First  <  1 2 3 4  >  Last»  | Page of 4  sorted by
 
Quick Reply

Please log in to post quick replies.

Tweet this page Post to Digg Post to Del.icio.us