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#21 Binary_Digit

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Posted 24 March 2009 - 04:39 PM

Rawr and Sara, your two poems just jumped on to my list of all-time favorites. Thanks for sharing. =) Mine will bring the collective IQ of the group down, but I love it nonetheless.

Casey At The Bat by Ernest Thayer

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that —
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped —
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.

#22 Ben Mines

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Posted 02 April 2009 - 02:21 PM

UPON JULIA’S CLOTHES
ROBERT HERRICK

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see
That brave vibration, each way free,
O how that glittering taketh me!

#23 Ben Mines

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Posted 02 April 2009 - 02:22 PM

FROM POSTHUMOUS POEMS, 1824
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

THE WANING MOON.

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky East,
A white and shapeless mass—


TO THE MOON.

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,—
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

#24 Ceinwenn

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Posted 02 April 2009 - 06:38 PM

Rawr and Sara, your two poems just jumped on to my list of all-time favorites. Thanks for sharing. =) Mine will bring the collective IQ of the group down, but I love it nonetheless.

Casey At The Bat by Ernest Thayer



Casey at the Bat is a fantastic poem! I first read that when I was 15 & love love loved it!

#25 Suzanne123

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Posted 10 April 2009 - 05:26 PM

Innocentia Veritas Viat Fides. Circumdederunt me inimici mei
(Innocence, Truth, Wyatt and Faith. My enemies surround my soul)

Who list his wealth and ease retain,
Himself let him unknown contain.
Press not too fast in at that gate
Where the return stands by disdain,
For sure, circa Regna tonat.


The high mountains are blasted oft
When the low valley is mild and soft.
Fortune with Health stands at debate.
The fall is grievous from aloft.
And sure, circa Regna tonat.


These bloody days have broken my heart.
My lust, my youth did them depart,
And blind desire of estate.
Who hastes to climb seeks to revert.
Of truth, circa Regna tonat.


The bell tower showed me such sight
That in my head sticks day and night.
There did I learn out of a grate,
For all favour, glory, or might,
That yet circa Regna tonat.


By proof, I say, there did I learn:
Wit helpeth not defence too yerne,
Of innocency to plead or prate.
Bear low, therefore, give God the stern,
For sure, circa Regna tonat.


(circa Regna tonat-It thunders through the realms)

Thomas Wyatt

#26 libri vermis

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Posted 31 October 2009 - 11:10 PM

The first poem I ever read that I remember staying with me. That is why it is my favorite. Plus, she's a fairy! :D


The Lady of Shalott


On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd 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 dusk and shiver
Through 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.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded 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,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
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;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through 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 through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," 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.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still 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.
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 through 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
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;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

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

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
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.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around 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;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All 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."

#27 libri vermis

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Posted 01 November 2009 - 04:42 PM

Two of my three all-time favourites (the third is really long and will need abridging):

Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare

(The perfect explanation of what true love really is)

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


O Me! O Life, Walt Whitman
(Looked up thanks to "Dead Poets Society", Whitman is now one of my
favourite poets - he speaks so simply, yet so powerfully, of life lived as poetry written)

O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.


Oooo, I just saw this post. One of my favorite Shakespeare Sonnets and Walt Whitman is also one of my favorite poets.

Here is a favorite verse from Song of Myself.

48
I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own
funeral drest in his shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the
earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the
learning of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it
may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd
universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed
before a million universes.


And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and
about death.)

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the
least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment
then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the
glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd
by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

Edited by libri vermis, 01 November 2009 - 04:46 PM.


#28 Peacefield

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Posted 01 November 2009 - 04:50 PM

I'm so glad The Lady of Shalott and The Highwayman have been posted! Two of my favorites :).

Another favorite of mine that I've had memorized since I was in middle school-

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost-

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

#29 ii

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Posted 01 November 2009 - 05:16 PM

I've posted this earlier as well, but my favourite for years has been Victor Hugo, and especially his "Je marchais au hasard..."

Je marchais au hasard, devant moi, n'importe où;
Et je ne sais pourquoi je songeais à Coustou
Dont la blanche bergère, au seuil des Tuileries,
Faite pour tant d'amour, a vu tant de furies.

Que de crimes commis dans ce palais! hélas!

Les sculpteurs font voler marbre et pierre en éclats,
Et font sortir des blocs dieux et déesses nues
Qui peuplent des jardins les longues avenues.
O fantômes sacrés! ô spectres radieux!
Leur front serein contemple et la terre et les cieux;
Le temps n'altère pas leurs traits indélébiles;
Ils ont cet air profond des choses immobiles;
Ils ont la nudité, le calme et la beauté;
La nature en secret sent leur divinité;
Les pleurs mystérioux de l'aube les arrosent.
Et je ne comprends pas comment les hommes osent,
Eux dont l'esprit n'a rein que d'obscures lueurs,
Montrer leur coeur difforme à ces marbres rêveurs.

The English translation: (by E. H. and A. M. Blackmore)

"I walked at random, went forward..."

I walked at random, went forward, though where I scarcely knew,
And, for no very good reason, I thought of Coustou,
Of his white shepherdess at the Tuileries gate,
Who, made for so much love, has witnessed so much hate.

So many crimes, alas! committed in that palace!

Sculptors cause stone and marble to shatter in pieces,
Bring out from the masses nakes gods and goddesses
To people the long avenues in the gardens.
O sacred phantoms! O radiant spirits!
Their serene brows are contemplating heaven and earth alike;
Time never degrades their indelible features;
They have the profound air that motionless things have,
They have nudity, peace, and beauty;
Nature secretly senses their deity;
The dawn's mysterious tears are watering them.
And I do not understand how human beings,
Whose minds contain nothing but feeble glimmers,
Dare expose their misshapen souls to these marble dreamers.

#30 BookJumper

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Posted 01 November 2009 - 06:06 PM

I've posted this earlier as well, but my favourite for years has been Victor Hugo

Victor's been my favourite novelist for the past decade; I'll admit shamefully to having never read his poetry though. Seems like I'll have to research that as well as his conversations with the dead (no fair, why did he have a direct line with Shakespeare and I don't?! *sulks*).

#31 Vanwa

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Posted 01 November 2009 - 06:26 PM

(no fair, why did he have a direct line with Shakespeare and I don't?! *sulks*).


:)

#32 Vanwa

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Posted 02 November 2009 - 02:01 PM

Ok, I've been thinking about mine and I've finally come to a decision.

Poe's Annabel Lee has it for me I think.

There's something about the rhthym and poignancy of the words, and the direction the poem takes:

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me -
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we -
Of many far wiser than we -
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea -
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

#33 Kylie

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Posted 02 November 2009 - 10:52 PM

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost-

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


Ah, my favourite poet. I will hopefully be receiving a huge book of his poetry today. :welcome2:

#34 Eryk

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Posted 02 November 2009 - 11:45 PM

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.

--Emily Dickinson

#35 Peacefield

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Posted 03 November 2009 - 12:35 AM

Ah, my favourite poet. I will hopefully be receiving a huge book of his poetry today. :)


Ooh I'm jealous, Kylie! He's one of my favorites as well, and I never get tired of reading his works :welcome2:. When I took a road trip out east a few years ago we stopped in the town of Sugar Hill, New Hampshire where he lived for a short while, supposedly around the time he composed that poem. They now have a writer-in-residency program there and one lucky poet gets to live there every summer and work.

#36 Capture

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Posted 03 November 2009 - 10:49 PM

Another favourite of mine is this:

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes


This is a good one.

#37 Capture

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Posted 03 November 2009 - 10:51 PM

The first poem I ever read that I remember staying with me. That is why it is my favorite. Plus, she's a fairy! :welcome2:


The Lady of Shalott


Another good one.

#38 BookJumper

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Posted 03 November 2009 - 10:53 PM

They now have a writer-in-residency program there and one lucky poet gets to live there every summer and work.

Nice. That's like there being a competition to choose one lucky poet to go live in Shakespeare's Stratford house and soak up the latent genius... DO WANT :welcome2:!

#39 Peacefield

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Posted 05 November 2009 - 12:59 AM

Excellent idea, BookJumper! It's inevitable, right? Being in the same exact spot where a genius once worked and lived and created, the talent is bound to rub off on you! :tong:

#40 metasearcher

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Posted 14 October 2010 - 07:16 AM

I like this one:

"Earth" by William Roscoe

SAD is my lot; among the shining spheres
Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night,
And ever, in my never-ending flight,
Add woes to woes, and count up tears on tears.
Young wives’ and new-born infants’ hapless biers
Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight;
Fresh griefs abhor my fresh returning light;
Pain and remorse and want fill up my years.
My happier children’s farther-piercing eyes
Into the blessed solvent future climb,
And knit the threads of joy and hope and warning;
But I, the ancient mother, am not wise,
And, shut within the blind obscure of time,
Roll on from morn to night, and on from night to morning.




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