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Favorite poems?

  • August 21, 2016 6:10 PM EDT

    I'd love to know what your favorite poems are. Mine has always been The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.

     

    "The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    And the highwayman came riding—
    Riding—riding—
    The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

    He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
    They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
    His pistol butts a-twinkle,
    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

    Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
    He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
    He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
    Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

    And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
    Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
    But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
    The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
    Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

    “One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
    But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
    Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
    Then look for me by moonlight,
    Watch for me by moonlight,
    I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

    He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
    But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
    As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
    And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
    (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
    Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

    PART TWO

    He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
    And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
    When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
    A red-coat troop came marching—
    Marching—marching—
    King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

    They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
    But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
    Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
    There was death at every window;
    And hell at one dark window;
    For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

    They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
    They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
    “Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
    Look for me by moonlight;
    Watch for me by moonlight;
    I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

    She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
    She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
    They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
    Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
    Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
    The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

    The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
    Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
    She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
    For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
    Blank and bare in the moonlight;
    And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

    Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
    Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
    Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
    The highwayman came riding—
    Riding—riding—
    The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

    Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
    Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
    Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
    Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
    Her musket shattered the moonlight,
    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

    He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
    Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
    Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
    How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
    The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
    Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

    Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
    With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
    Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
    When they shot him down on the highway,
    Down like a dog on the highway,
    And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat."

    • 4 posts
    August 25, 2016 7:37 PM EDT

    Two of my favorites...

     

    Nothing Gold Can Stay 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.

     

    First Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay

    My candle burns at both ends;
       It will not last the night;
    But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
       It gives a lovely light!
  • September 5, 2016 3:13 PM EDT

    I also love the Highwayman. Also, the Raven by Edgar allen poe, ma boheme by Arthur Rimbaud, and the Tyger by William Blake.

     

    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?
    • 1 posts
    October 6, 2016 9:22 AM EDT

    I like Alone by Edgar Allen Poe:

    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 lov'd -- I lov'd alone --
    Then -- in my childhood -- in the dawn
    Of a most stormy life -- was drawn
    From ev'ry 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 roll'd
    In its autumn tint of gold --
    From the lightning in the sky
    As it pass'd 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 --

    • 2 posts
    March 6, 2017 9:44 PM EST

    I've always loved this poem from Perks of Being a Wallflower.

    Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
    he wrote a poem
    And he called it "Chops"
    because that was the name of his dog

    And that's what it was all about
    And his teacher gave him an A
    and a gold star
    And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
    and read it to his aunts
    That was the year Father Tracy
    took all the kids to the zoo

    And he let them sing on the bus
    And his little sister was born
    with tiny toenails and no hair
    And his mother and father kissed a lot
    And the girl around the corner sent him a
    Valentine signed with a row of X's

    and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
    And his father always tucked him in bed at night
    And was always there to do it

    Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
    he wrote a poem
    And he called it "Autumn"

    because that was the name of the season
    And that's what it was all about
    And his teacher gave him an A
    and asked him to write more clearly
    And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
    because of its new paint

    And the kids told him
    that Father Tracy smoked cigars
    And left butts on the pews
    And sometimes they would burn holes
    That was the year his sister got glasses
    with thick lenses and black frames
    And the girl around the corner laughed

    when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
    And the kids told him why
    his mother and father kissed a lot
    And his father never tucked him in bed at night
    And his father got mad
    when he cried for him to do it.


    Once on a paper torn from his notebook
    he wrote a poem
    And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
    because that was the question about his girl
    And that's what it was all about
    And his professor gave him an A

    and a strange steady look
    And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
    because he never showed her
    That was the year that Father Tracy died
    And he forgot how the end
    of the Apostle's Creed went

    And he caught his sister
    making out on the back porch
    And his mother and father never kissed
    or even talked
    And the girl around the corner
    wore too much makeup
    That made him cough when he kissed her

    but he kissed her anyway
    because that was the thing to do
    And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
    his father snoring soundly

    That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
    he tried another poem

    And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
    Because that's what it was really all about
    And he gave himself an A
    and a slash on each damned wrist
    And he hung it on the bathroom door
    because this time he didn't think

    he could reach the kitchen.

    • 8 posts
    August 31, 2017 12:40 PM EDT

    Personally my favorite and insparation for poetry

    Annabel Lee

    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 wingèd 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 highborn 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 by 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 her sepulchre there by the sea— 
       In her tomb by the sounding sea.
    • 21 posts
    March 12, 2018 12:05 AM EDT

    My favorite poem is The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. While it is the most stereotypical goth thing to say, Edgar is literally one of the only few gothic writers I have read besides Oscar Wilde. 

  • February 8, 2019 1:17 AM EST

    The first poem that comes to mind is The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. It was the first poem that I read by him. 

     

    • 5 posts
    February 8, 2019 6:26 AM EST
    Lord Byron - she walks in beauty, so well crafted. Samuel Taylor Coleridge is great too.