OK, here is a sonnet:

After Death
by Christina Rossetti

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
"Poor child, poor child:" and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.

[ 06-23-2002, 06:09 AM: Message edited by: Epona ]

I'd post some Chinese poetry, but it would have to be in translation, of course... :rolleyes:

There's no Byron on this thread.

SO. WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING
I
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.
II
For the sword out wears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
III
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.

Damn, the last line gave me goosebumps, just like it did the first time I read it, when I was 18.

That was based on a bawdy song, "The Maid of Amsterdam", apologies to Melusine. :D

LOL Roses are red
violets are blue
i'm a drunkass
and so are you :D :D

ooh - nice one

Hickory Dickory Dock
I typed this with my *cough*
The *cough* is done
And now I'm done
Hickory Dickory Dock

:D :D

Gis us some Li Po!

"Gently I stir a white feather fan,
With open shirt sitting in a green wood.
I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting atone;
A wind from the pine-trees trickles on my bare head."

“In the third month the town of Hsien-yang
Is thick-spread with a carpet of fallen flowers.
Who in Spring can bear to grieve alone?
Who, sober, look on sights like these?
Riches and Poverty, long or short life,
By the Maker of Things are portioned and disposed;
But a cup of wine levels life and death
And a thousand things obstinately hard to prove.
When I am drunk, I lose Heaven and Earth,
Motionless—I cleave to my lonely bed.
At last I forget that I exist at all,
And at that moment my joy is great indeed.”

Such a pleasant surprise to know that someone else around here likes Chinese verse too. :D

And now, Byron's tersest and most eloquent poem:

Lady Carolyn Lamb,
Godddamn. :D

Ah but my fave is:

Posterity will ne'er survey
A nobler grave than this.
Here lie the bones of Castlereagh,
Stop, traveller, and piss.