Who Likes Poetry? Post your favourites here....

[Melusine]

William Blake - A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.

[Lioness]

"The Bugle Song" from The Princess by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

1 The splendour falls on castle walls
2 And snowy summits old in story:
3 The long light shakes across the lakes,
4 And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
5 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
6 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

7 O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
8 And thinner, clearer, farther going!
9 O sweet and far from cliff and scar
10 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
11 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
12 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

13 O love, they die in yon rich sky,
14 They faint on hill or field or river:
15 Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
16 And grow for ever and for ever.
17 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
18 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

Oh yes, and: The Ballad Of Sir Patrick Spens.

The king Sits in Denfermline town
Drinking the blood-red wine:
"O where will I get a good sailor,
To sail this ship of mine?"

Up and spake an elder Knight,
Sat at the king's right knee:
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the Sea."

The King Has written a braid letter
And sealed it with his hand.
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens
Was waking on the Strand

"To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the foam;
The kings own daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou must bring her home!"

The first line that Sir Patrick read
A loud, loud laugh laughed he:
The next line that Sir Patrick read
The tear blinded his ee.

"O who is this has done this deed,
This ill deed into me;
To send me out this time o' the year
To sail upon the sea?

"Make haste, make haste, my merry men all,
Our good ship sails the morn."
"O say not so, my master dear,
For I fear a deadly storm.

"I saw the new moon late yestere'en
With the old moon in her arm;
And if we go t sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm."

They had not sailed a league, a league,
A league, but barely three,
When the Sky grew dark, the wind blew loud,
And angry grew the sea.

The anchor broke, the topmast split,
'Twas such a deadly storm.
The waves came over the ship
Till all her sides were torn

O long, long may the ladies sit
With their fans into their hand,
Or ere they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand

O long, long may the maidens stand
With their gold combs in their hair,
Before they'll see their own dear loves
Come home to great them there.

O forty miles off aberdeen
'Tis fifty fathom deep
And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens
With the scots lords at his feet.

[Melusine]

Good choices, Dramnek! I see you posted a longer version of Sir Patrick Spense, there are quite a few different ones about. [img]smile.gif[/img]

Edit: here's the one I had to learn by heart in secondary school, a bit shorter than yours, and without normalised spelling. [img]smile.gif[/img]

Sir Patrick Spence

The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
"O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?"

Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the se."

The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.

"O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se!

"Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne:"
"O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.

"Late late yestreen I saw the new moone,
Wi the auld moone in hir arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will cum to harme."

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.

O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.

Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.


[ 06-22-2002, 10:39 AM: Message edited by: Melusine ]

[Epona]

Originally posted by Dramnek_Ulk: I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear -- "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

Good choice Dramnek, I am a big Shelley fan!

[AzRaeL StoRmBlaDe]

I used to know this word for word, but im not so sure anymore so bear with me, and i will post it as best i can

the 7 ages of man

All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and their entrances and each man in his time plays many parts his acts being seven ages. At first the infant mewling and puke in the nurses arms, and they the whining schoolboy with his satchel and shining morning face creeeping like a snail unwillingly to school. And then the lover sighing like furnace with a woeful ballad made to his mistress' eyebrow. And then the soldier full of strange oaths and bearded like a pard jealous in honor sudden and quick in quarrel seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth. Then the justice in fair round belly with good capon lined, with eyes severe and beard of formal cut full of wise saws and modern instances, And so he plays his part the sixth ages shift into the lean and slippered pantaloon with spectacles on nose, and pouch on side his youthful hose well saved a world to wide for his shrunk shank and his big manly voice turns again toward childish treble pipes and whistles in his sound. and the last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

well thats as good as i am going to remember it, it should be fairly accurate. here are a few frost poems that i liked and remembered as well

Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though.
He will not mind 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 see if there is some mistake,
the only other sound's 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.

The road not taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
and sorry i could not travel both
but be one traveller long i stood
and stared down one as far as I could
to where it bent in the undergrowth.
Then took the other just as fair,
but having perhaps the better claims,
for it was grassy and want wear,
though as for the passing there
had worn them really about the same.
Both in doth moring equally lay
in leaves no step had trodden black,
yet I saved the first for another day,
yet knowing how way leads on to way
doubted if i should ever be 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 travelled by,
and that's made all the difference.

I apologize for any inaccurate words, and punctuation, but my poor brain can only remember so much . I hope you all enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed reading all of yours

[ 06-22-2002, 02:47 PM: Message edited by: AzRaeL StoRmBlaDe ]

[Mouse]

Not letting this drop to page two

Cargoes by John Masefield

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays

[Mouse]

......and

Not Waving But Drowning by Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

[Epona]

Mouse, I particularly like Not Waving But Drowning - again Stevie Smith is one of my favourites! Off to find some more poems now....