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Poetry Corner: Do you have any favourite poems? If so, share them here!
Thread poster: Paul Dixon
Susanna Garcia
Susanna Garcia  Identity Verified
Local time: 11:13
Italian to English
+ ...
In memoriam
Larkin - apologies in advance Feb 27, 2010

Please turn away if you don't like sentiment but it took me such a long long time and a very difficult path to meet my soul mate, and I say this with no irony which may surprise some of you, and I love the thought of being together for eternity to make up for what we've been cheated out of in this lifetime.
Suzi
I'll probably remove this in daylight!

==========================================================

An Arundel Tomb

Side by side, their f
... See more
Please turn away if you don't like sentiment but it took me such a long long time and a very difficult path to meet my soul mate, and I say this with no irony which may surprise some of you, and I love the thought of being together for eternity to make up for what we've been cheated out of in this lifetime.
Suzi
I'll probably remove this in daylight!

==========================================================

An Arundel Tomb

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly, they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the glass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.
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expressisverbis
 
Brian Young
Brian Young  Identity Verified
United States
Local time: 04:13
Danish to English
this too is poetry Feb 27, 2010

Thanks Paul for starting this- I think? It could become addictive though!
The following is from a book.
From “Their Eyes Were Watching God”
Zora Neale Hurston, (1891-1960)
Published 1937

But, this is pure poetry. I never agreed with the idea that poetry had to "look" like a poem. with little short lines, and definitely not that it had to rhyme.
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It was a spring afternoo
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Thanks Paul for starting this- I think? It could become addictive though!
The following is from a book.
From “Their Eyes Were Watching God”
Zora Neale Hurston, (1891-1960)
Published 1937

But, this is pure poetry. I never agreed with the idea that poetry had to "look" like a poem. with little short lines, and definitely not that it had to rhyme.
-------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a spring afternoon in West Florida. Janie had spent most of the day under a blossoming pear tree in the back-yard. She had been spending every minute that she could steal from her chores under that tree for the last three days. That was to say, ever since the first tiny bloom had opened. It had called her to come and gaze on a mystery. From barren brown stems to glistening leaf-buds; from the leaf-buds to snowy virginity of bloom. It stirred her tremendously. How? Why? It was like a flute song forgotten in another existence and remembered again. What? How? Why? This singing she heard that had nothing to do with her ears. The rose of the world was breath¬ing out smell. It followed her through all her waking moments and caressed her in her sleep. It connected itself with other vaguely felt matters that had struck her outside observation and buried themselves in her flesh. Now they emerged and quested about her consciousness.
She was stretched on her back beneath the pear trees soaking in the alto chant of the visiting bees, the gold of the sun and the panting breath of the breeze when the inaudible voice of it all came to her. She saw a dust-bearing bee sink into the sanctum of a bloom; the thousand sister-calyxes arch to meet the love embrace and the ecstatic shiver of the tree from root to tiniest branch creaming in every blossom and frothing with delight. So this was a marriage! She had been summoned to behold a revelation. Then Janie felt a pain remorseless sweet that left her limp and languid.
After a while she got up from where she was and went over the little garden field entire. She was seeking confirmation of the voice and vision, and everywhere she found and acknowledged answers. A personal answer for all other creations except herself. She felt an answer seeking her, but where? When? How? She found herself at the kitchen door and stumbled inside. In the air of the room were flies tumbling and singing, marrying and giving in marriage. When she reached the narrow hallway she was reminded that her grandmother was home with a sick headache. She was lying across the bed asleep so Janie tipped on out of the front door. Oh to be a pear tree—any tree in bloom! With kissing bees singing of the beginning of the world! She was sixteen. She had glossy leaves and bursting buds and she wanted to struggle with life but it seemed to elude her. Where were the singing bees for her? Nothing on the place nor in her grandma's house answered her. She searched as much of the world as she could from the top of the front steps and then went on down to the front gate and leaned over to gaze up and down the road. Looking, waiting, breathing short with impatience. Waiting for the world to be made.
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expressisverbis
 
Susanna Garcia
Susanna Garcia  Identity Verified
Local time: 11:13
Italian to English
+ ...
In memoriam
Warning Feb 27, 2010

I'm half way there already, but in the lead is my Mum.

Warning
by Jenny Joseph

"The nations favourite post war poem"

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn't go and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells... See more
I'm half way there already, but in the lead is my Mum.

Warning
by Jenny Joseph

"The nations favourite post war poem"

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn't go and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only eat bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.

Warning
by Jenny Joseph

"The nations favourite post war poem"

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn't go and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only eat bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.

========================================

And of course, not waving but drowning.

Nos da
Suzi
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expressisverbis
Thomas T. Frost
 
Niraja Nanjundan (X)
Niraja Nanjundan (X)  Identity Verified
Local time: 16:43
German to English
Another one Feb 27, 2010

An old favourite, from my school days.

THE ARRIVAL OF THE BEE BOX

By Sylvia Plath

I ordered this, this clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in
... See more
An old favourite, from my school days.

THE ARRIVAL OF THE BEE BOX

By Sylvia Plath

I ordered this, this clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appals me most of all,
The unintelligble syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.
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expressisverbis
 
Jack Doughty
Jack Doughty  Identity Verified
United Kingdom
Local time: 11:13
Russian to English
+ ...
In memoriam
He Didn't Return from the Battle Feb 27, 2010

Thanks to Elizabeth Kissel for "Where the Pelican Builds". The next theme for a poetry group I belong to is "Journeys", and that will do very well for one of my choices!

Following George Hopkins' example, here is a favourite Russian poem and my translation of it.

ОН НЕ ВЕРНУЛСЯ ИЗ БОЯ

Владимир Высоцкий

Почему всё не так? Вроде всё как всегда:
То же небо, опять �
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Thanks to Elizabeth Kissel for "Where the Pelican Builds". The next theme for a poetry group I belong to is "Journeys", and that will do very well for one of my choices!

Following George Hopkins' example, here is a favourite Russian poem and my translation of it.

ОН НЕ ВЕРНУЛСЯ ИЗ БОЯ

Владимир Высоцкий

Почему всё не так? Вроде всё как всегда:
То же небо, опять голубое,
тот же лес, тот же воздух и та же вода,
только он не вернулся из боя.

Мне теперь не понять, кто же прав был из нас,
в наших спорах без сна и покоя.
Мне не стало хватать его только сейчас,
когда он не вернулся из боя.

Он молчал невпопад и не в такт подпевал,
он всегда говорил про другое,
Он мне спать не давал, он с восходом вставал,
а вчера не вернулся из боя.

То, что пусто теперь, не про то разговор:
Вдруг заметил я – нас было двое...
Для меня словно ветром задуло костёр,
когда он не вернулся из боя.

Нынче вырвалась, будьто из плена, весна,
по ошибке окликнул его я:
«Друг, оставь покурить», - а в ответ – тишина...
Он вчера не вернулся из боя.

Наши мёртвые нас не оставят в беде.
Наши павшие – как часовые...
Отражается небо в лесу, как в воде,
И деревья стоят голубые.

Нам и места в землянке хватало вполне,
Нам и время текло для обоих...
Всё теперь одному, только кажется мне,
это я не вернулся из боя.


HE DIDN’T RETURN FROM THE BATTLE

Why is everything wrong? Yet it seems just as fine:
The same sky, just as blue as before;
The same air, the same water, same forest of pine -
But he didn't come back from the war.

Who was right, who was wrong, I have no idea now,
In our ongoing quarrels and faction.
They wearied me then, now I long for a row,
Since he's been posted missing in action.

He'd go suddenly quiet. He would sing out of tune,
And his voice had a harsh kind of rattle.
He would keep me awake, then he'd get up too soon -
But he didn't return from the battle.

The loneliness isn't just all it's about.
I've just realised, we two made a pair.
It's as if the wind suddenly blew the fire out,
Now I know that he's no longer there.

With the spring blooming out now, in colourful riot,
I called him this morning, forgetting.
"Hey, leave me a dog-end!" No answer. Dead quiet -
For he didn't come back from the fighting.

Our dead will not leave us behind in the lurch.
The fallen still guard us forever.
The trees reach aloft like the nave of a church -
But my friend will return to me never.

There is plenty of room in the dugout below,
But it's time for us both now to yield.
I've the place to myself, yet I feel that I know
It is I who was killed in that field.
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P.L.F. Persio
expressisverbis
Thomas T. Frost
 
Russell Jones
Russell Jones  Identity Verified
United Kingdom
Local time: 11:13
Italian to English
Roger McGough Feb 27, 2010

Let Me Die a Youngman's Death

Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
... See more
Let Me Die a Youngman's Death

Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death
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expressisverbis
 
Maria Korolenkova
Maria Korolenkova
Russian Federation
Local time: 14:13
English to Russian
+ ...
Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll Feb 27, 2010

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in
... See more
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

This was the best "lullaby" for me when I was a little girl (in Russian of course). The poem was gorgeously translated by Dina Orlovskaya, but I appreciated the English version as I grew older.
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P.L.F. Persio
expressisverbis
Zeineb Nalouti
 
Natalia Betiana Manfredi
Natalia Betiana Manfredi
Argentina
Local time: 08:13
English to Spanish
beautiful corner! Feb 27, 2010

Thank you Paul, for starting this wonderful corner... I would like to share one of my favourite poems written by e.e. Cummings:
(note: there are no punctuation mistakes, the poem is written exactly as follows)

when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes
... See more
Thank you Paul, for starting this wonderful corner... I would like to share one of my favourite poems written by e.e. Cummings:
(note: there are no punctuation mistakes, the poem is written exactly as follows)

when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive, dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our nights becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)
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Erzsébet Czopyk
Erzsébet Czopyk  Identity Verified
Hungary
Local time: 12:13
Member (2006)
Russian to Hungarian
+ ...
SITE LOCALIZER
Robert Frost - the same poem to me :-) Feb 27, 2010

toniawind wrote:

One of my favorite poems has always been this one by Robert Frost.

Robert Frost - 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: Járatlan út

Szétvált az út a sárga erdőn
De kár, hogy kétfelé nem mehetek! -,
Sokáig álltam, elmerengőn,
És néztem az egyiket ott, ahol eltűnt
A bozótban, ahol kanyart vetett.

De a másikon indultam tovább,
Tán vonzóbb volt, nem is tudom,
Magas füve épp tapodásra várt;
Bár nagyjából ugyanannyi láb
Járt rajta, mint a másik uton,

Úgy nyúltak el aznap délelőtt
A tiszta avarban mind a ketten.
Hadd járjam végig ezt előbb!
De habár azt mondtam, visszajövök,
A visszatérést nem hihettem.

Ha kérdeznek majd, ezt felelem,
Sóhajtva, sok-sok év után:
Az út ez erdőn kétfelé ment -
A kevésbé járt tetszett nekem,
És így lett mind ami lett, talán.


 
Susanna Garcia
Susanna Garcia  Identity Verified
Local time: 11:13
Italian to English
+ ...
In memoriam
Russell's poem Feb 28, 2010

Russell Jones wrote:

Let Me Die a Youngman's Death

..........

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one


Clearly he should team up with Jenny Jones' old woman! It would be a match made in heaven.


 
George Hopkins
George Hopkins
Local time: 12:13
Swedish to English
Another Marriot Edgar Feb 28, 2010

I enjoyed David Young's contribution, Albert and the lion, so here's another by Marriot Edgar.
A Midlands or North England dialect will give greater enjoyment!


I'll tell of the Magna Charter
As were signed at the Barons' command
On Runningmead Island in t' middle of t' Thames
By King John, as were known as "Lack Land."

Some say it were wrong of the Barons
Their will on the King so to thrust,
But you'll see if you look a
... See more
I enjoyed David Young's contribution, Albert and the lion, so here's another by Marriot Edgar.
A Midlands or North England dialect will give greater enjoyment!


I'll tell of the Magna Charter
As were signed at the Barons' command
On Runningmead Island in t' middle of t' Thames
By King John, as were known as "Lack Land."

Some say it were wrong of the Barons
Their will on the King so to thrust,
But you'll see if you look at both sides of the case
That they had to do something, or bust.

For John, from the moment they crowned him,
Started acting so cunning and sly,
Being King, of course, he couldn't do wrong,
But, by gum, he'd a proper good try.

He squandered the ratepayers' money,
All their cattle and corn did he take,
'Til there wasn't a morsel of bread in the land,
And folk had to manage on cake.

The way he behaved to young Arthur
Went to show as his feelings was bad;
He tried to get Hubert to poke out his eyes,
Which is no way to treat a young lad.

It were all right him being a tyrant
To vassals and folks of that class,
But he tried on his tricks with the Barons an' all,
And that's where he made a 'faux pas'.

He started bombarding their castles,
And burning them over their head,
'Til there wasn't enough castles left to go round,
And they had to sleep six in a bed.

So they went to the King in a body,
And their spokesman, Fitzwalter by name,
He opened the 'ole in his 'elmet and said,
Conciliatory like, " What's the game?"

The King starts to shilly and shally,
He sits and he haws and he hums,
'Til the Barons in rage started gnashing their teeth,
And them with no teeth gnashed their gums

Said Fitz, through the 'ole in his 'elmet,
"It was you as put us in this plight."
And the King having nothing to say to this, murmured
"Leave your address and I'll write".

This angered the gallant Fitzwalter;
He stamped on the floor with his foot,
And were starting to give John a rare ticking off,
When the 'ole in his 'elmet fell shut.

"We'll get him a Magna Charter,"
Said Fitz when his face he had freed;
Said the Barons "That's right and if one's not enough,
Get a couple and happen they'll breed.''

So they set about making a Charter,
When at finish they'd got it drawn up,
It looked like a paper on cattle disease,
Or the entries for t' Waterloo Cup.

Next day, King John, all unsuspecting,
And having the afternoon free,
To Runningmead Island had taken a boat,
And were having some shrimps for his tea.

He'd just pulled the 'ead off a big 'un,
And were pinching its tail with his thumb,
When up came a barge load of Barons, who said,
"We thought you'd be here so we've come"

When they told him they'd brought Magna Charter,
The King seemed to go kind of limp,
But minding his manners he took off his hat
And said " Thanks very much, have a shrimp."

" You'd best sign at once," said Fitzwalter,
" If you don't, I'll tell thee for a start
The next coronation will happen quite soon,
And you won't be there to take part."

So they spread Charter out on t' tea table,
And John signed his name like a lamb,
His writing in places was sticky and thick
Through dipping his pen in the jam.

And it's through that there Magna Charter,
As were signed by the Barons of old,
That in England to-day we can do what we like,
So long as we do what we're told.
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expressisverbis
 
Lingua 5B
Lingua 5B  Identity Verified
Bosnia and Herzegovina
Local time: 12:13
Member (2009)
English to Croatian
+ ...
P.B.Shelley Feb 28, 2010

Here is one by Shelley, a true romanticist and lyric poet.

***
Love's Philosophy

by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)


The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another's being mingle--
Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
An
... See more
Here is one by Shelley, a true romanticist and lyric poet.

***
Love's Philosophy

by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)


The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another's being mingle--
Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?







[Edited at 2010-02-28 22:35 GMT]
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expressisverbis
 
inkweaver
inkweaver  Identity Verified
Germany
Local time: 12:13
French to German
+ ...
JRR Tolkien Feb 28, 2010

I really like this poem, although I have to admit that I have never read one of Tolkien's books:

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering ha
... See more
I really like this poem, although I have to admit that I have never read one of Tolkien's books:

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journey new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

Still 'round the corner there may wait
A new road or secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.
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expressisverbis
 
Tonia Wind
Tonia Wind
United Kingdom
Local time: 11:13
Member (2005)
Spanish to English
+ ...
@ Lingua 5B - Thanks for sharing.... Feb 28, 2010

That is a wonderful poem! I absolutely loved it!


Best regards,
Tonia


 
Arianne Farah
Arianne Farah  Identity Verified
Canada
Local time: 07:13
Member (2008)
English to French
Other than the classics... Mar 1, 2010

Some poems learned in school stay with us forever - such as Death be not proud by Jone Donne and Tyger Tyger by William Blake. But amongst those I have stumbled on myself a few stand out:

With her lips only by Robert Graves:

This honest wife, challenged at dusk
At the garden gate, under a moon perhaps,
In scent of honeysuckle, dared to deny
Love to a urgent lover: with her lips only
Not with her heart.It was no assignation;
Taken aback
... See more
Some poems learned in school stay with us forever - such as Death be not proud by Jone Donne and Tyger Tyger by William Blake. But amongst those I have stumbled on myself a few stand out:

With her lips only by Robert Graves:

This honest wife, challenged at dusk
At the garden gate, under a moon perhaps,
In scent of honeysuckle, dared to deny
Love to a urgent lover: with her lips only
Not with her heart.It was no assignation;
Taken aback, what could she say else?
For the children's sake, the lie was venial;
'For the children's sake', she argued with her conscience.
Yet a mortal lie must follow before dawn:
Challenged as usual in her own bed,
She protests love to an urgent husband,
Not with her heart, but with her lips only;
'For the children's sake', she argues with her conscience,
'For the children'- turning suddenly cold towards them;.

And a poem - if anyone knows who this was written by please mention it as I do not know - I first read this as a teenager in an anthology of short stories and poems called Wellness

He told me I was pretty.
My mother told me I smell like some chemical.
He told me that we would run away together.
My mother told me I better clean up my room.
He told me, "You are my ultimate friend."
My mother told me, "Get off the phone."
Then he suddenly disappeared
And then my mother smelling of warm milk
told me that I was beautiful.

Funny but this short poem which at first glance is nothing special has stayed with me for over 15 years now - it is somehow powerful and it always comes to mind when I think of poems that have moved me.
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expressisverbis
 
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