Post Poems

[l0rd]

Post poems! (not yours)

 

 

 

Lift your right arm, she said.

 

I lifted my right arm.

 

Lift your left arm, she said.

 

I lifted my left arm. Both of my arms were up.

 

Put down your right arm, she said.

 

I put it down.

 

Put down your left arm, she said.

 

I did.

 

Lift your right arm, she said.

 

I obeyed.

 

Put down your right arm.

 

I did.

 

Lift your left arm.

 

I lifted it.

 

Put down your left arm.

 

I did.

 

Silence. I stood there, both arms down, waiting for her next command. After a while I got impatient and said, what next.

 

Now it's your turn to give the orders, she said.

 

All right, I said. Tell me to lift my right arm.

[dragoonson]

Varrock Library :twss:

[l0rd]

Varrock Library :twss:

 

You're wrong, don't spam. :twss:

[dragoonson]

Varrock Library :twss:

 

You're wrong, don't spam. :twss:

 

 

 

I could've meant there are some there,you know.Either way,I've not read any poem short enough to fit in this screen.I have Homer's Iliad and Oddesy,and some viking (snicker) sagas,in their original language and translated.

[mmmcannibalism]

because someone needed to post this

 

 

 

[hide=]Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

 

`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -

 

Only this, and nothing more.'

 

 

 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

 

Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow

 

From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -

 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

 

Nameless here for evermore.

 

 

 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

 

Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

 

`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -

 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -

 

This it is, and nothing more,'

 

 

 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

 

`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

 

That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -

 

Darkness there, and nothing more.

 

 

 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before

 

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'

 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'

 

Merely this and nothing more.

 

 

 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

 

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

 

`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;

 

Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -

 

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -

 

'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

 

 

 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

 

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.

 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -

 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -

 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

 

 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

 

`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.

 

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -

 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'

 

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

 

Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;

 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -

 

Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

 

With such name as `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,

 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

 

Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -

 

Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -

 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

 

Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

 

`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,

 

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

 

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -

 

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

 

Of "Never-nevermore."'

 

 

 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -

 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

 

Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

 

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

 

 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

 

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

 

`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee

 

Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'

 

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

 

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -

 

On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -

 

Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'

 

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!

 

By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -

 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'

 

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -

 

`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

 

Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!

 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'

 

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

 

Shall be lifted - nevermore![/hide]

[Lateralus]

 

 

 

Groping back to bed after a piss

 

I part thick curtains, and am startled by

 

The rapid clouds, the moon's cleanliness.

 

 

 

Four o'clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lie

 

Under a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.

 

There's something laughable about this,

 

 

 

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow

 

Loosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart

 

(Stone-coloured light sharpening the roofs below)

 

 

 

High and preposterous and separate -

 

Lozenge of love! Medallion of art!

 

O wolves of memory! Immensements! No,

 

 

 

One shivers slightly, looking up there.

 

The hardness and the brightness and the plain

 

Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare

 

 

 

Is a reminder of the strength and pain

 

Of being young; that it can't come again,

 

But is for others undiminished somewhere.

 

 

 

I love Larkin so much.

[Maze]

Roses are red.

 

Violets are blue.

 

Now you're dead.

 

'Cause I pwned you.

 

--

 

 

 

Epic poem I made in about 30.43 seconds. :lol:

[l0rd]

Roses are red.

 

Violets are blue.

 

Now you're dead.

 

'Cause I pwned you.

 

--

 

 

 

Epic poem I made in about 30.43 seconds. :lol:

 

 

 

#-o

 

 

 

Roses are red.

 

Violets are blue.

 

All my base...

 

Are belong to you.

 

 

 

 

#-o :lol:

[EdgedThesis]

Roses are red.

 

Violets are blue.

 

All my base...

 

Are belong to you.

 

 

 

 

 

I didn't make this up. I don't know who did.

 

It can be romantic... in the geekiest of ways. Imagine it in a really sincere tone.

 

Imagine Chief from Arby and the Chief saying it, actually.

[dave0293]

because someone needed to post this

 

 

 

[hide=]Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

 

`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -

 

Only this, and nothing more.'

 

 

 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

 

Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow

 

From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -

 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

 

Nameless here for evermore.

 

 

 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

 

Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

 

`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -

 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -

 

This it is, and nothing more,'

 

 

 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

 

`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

 

That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -

 

Darkness there, and nothing more.

 

 

 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before

 

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'

 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'

 

Merely this and nothing more.

 

 

 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

 

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

 

`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;

 

Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -

 

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -

 

'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

 

 

 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

 

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.

 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -

 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -

 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

 

 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

 

`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.

 

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -

 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'

 

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

 

Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;

 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -

 

Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

 

With such name as `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,

 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

 

Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -

 

Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -

 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

 

Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

 

`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,

 

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

 

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -

 

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

 

Of "Never-nevermore."'

 

 

 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -

 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

 

Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

 

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

 

 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

 

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

 

`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee

 

Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'

 

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

 

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -

 

On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -

 

Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'

 

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!

 

By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -

 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'

 

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -

 

`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

 

Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!

 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'

 

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

 

 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

 

Shall be lifted - nevermore![/hide]

 

 

 

Darn, I was going to post that.

 

 

 

[hide=Jabberwocky - a poem by Lewis Carroll]'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 wiffling 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!

 

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.[/hide]

 

 

 

[hide=Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night]Do not go gentle into that good night,

 

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

 

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

 

Because their words had forked no lightning they

 

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

 

 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

 

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

 

 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

 

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

 

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

 

 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

 

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

 

 

And you, my father, there on that sad height,

 

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

 

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

 

 

Dylan Thomas[/hide]

 

 

 

[hide=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 marked 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[/hide]

 

 

 

[hide=Dream Deferred]What happens to a dream deferred?

 

Does it dry up

 

Like a raisin in the sun?

 

Or fester like a sore--

 

And then run?

 

Does it stink like rotten meat?

 

Or crust and sugar over--

 

like a syrupy sweet?

 

Maybe it just sags

 

like a heavy load.

 

Or does it explode?

 

 

 

Langston Hughes[/hide]

[l0rd]

Thexpense of spirit in a waste of shame

 

 

 

Is lust in action, and, till action, lust

 

 

 

Is perjured, murdrous, bloody, full of blame,

 

 

 

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,

 

 

 

Enjoyed no sooner but despisèd straight,

 

 

 

Past reason hunted, and no sooner had,

 

 

 

Past reason hated as a swallowed bait

 

 

 

On purpose laid to make the taker mad;

 

 

 

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so,

 

 

 

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme,

 

 

 

A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe,

 

 

 

Before, a joy proposed, behind, a dream.

 

 

 

All this the world well knows, yet none knows well

 

 

 

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

[dave0293]

Thexpense of spirit in a waste of shame

 

 

 

Is lust in action, and, till action, lust

 

 

 

Is perjured, murdrous, bloody, full of blame,

 

 

 

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,

 

 

 

Enjoyed no sooner but despisèd straight,

 

 

 

Past reason hunted, and no sooner had,

 

 

 

Past reason hated as a swallowed bait

 

 

 

On purpose laid to make the taker mad;

 

 

 

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so,

 

 

 

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme,

 

 

 

A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe,

 

 

 

Before, a joy proposed, behind, a dream.

 

 

 

All this the world well knows, yet none knows well

 

 

 

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

 

 

 

My favorite by Shakespeare:

 

 

 

[hide=All the World's a Stage]All the world's a stage,

 

And all the men and women merely players;

 

They have their exits and their entrances,

 

And one man in his time plays many parts,

 

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,

 

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

 

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

 

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

 

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

 

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

 

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

 

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

 

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

 

Seeking the bubble reputation

 

Even in the cannon's mouth. And 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 age shifts

 

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

 

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

 

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

 

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

 

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

 

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

 

That ends this strange eventful history,

 

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

 

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

 

 

 

William Shakespeare[/hide]

[assassin_696]

Two favourites of mine.

 

 

 

[hide=Sonnet 116 - Shakespeare]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.[/hide]

 

 

 

[hide=The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock - T.S. Eliot]LET us go then, you and I,

 

When the evening is spread out against the sky

 

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

 

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

 

The muttering retreats 5

 

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

 

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

 

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

 

Of insidious intent

 

To lead you to an overwhelming question 10

 

Oh, do not ask, What is it?

 

Let us go and make our visit.

 

 

 

In the room the women come and go

 

Talking of Michelangelo.

 

 

 

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15

 

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

 

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

 

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

 

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

 

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20

 

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

 

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

 

 

 

And indeed there will be time

 

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

 

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25

 

There will be time, there will be time

 

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

 

There will be time to murder and create,

 

And time for all the works and days of hands

 

That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30

 

Time for you and time for me,

 

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

 

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

 

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

 

 

 

In the room the women come and go 35

 

Talking of Michelangelo.

 

 

 

And indeed there will be time

 

To wonder, Do I dare? and, Do I dare?

 

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

 

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair 40

 

[They will say: How his hair is growing thin!]

 

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

 

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin

 

[They will say: But how his arms and legs are thin!]

 

Do I dare 45

 

Disturb the universe?

 

In a minute there is time

 

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

 

 

 

For I have known them all already, known them all:

 

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50

 

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

 

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

 

Beneath the music from a farther room.

 

So how should I presume?

 

 

 

And I have known the eyes already, known them all 55

 

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

 

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

 

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

 

Then how should I begin

 

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60

 

And how should I presume?

 

 

 

And I have known the arms already, known them all

 

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

 

[but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

 

It is perfume from a dress 65

 

That makes me so digress?

 

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

 

And should I then presume?

 

And how should I begin?

 

. . . . .

 

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70

 

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

 

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

 

 

 

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

 

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

 

. . . . .

 

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75

 

Smoothed by long fingers,

 

Asleep tired or it malingers,

 

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

 

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

 

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80

 

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

 

Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,

 

I am no prophetand heres no great matter;

 

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

 

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85

 

And in short, I was afraid.

 

 

 

And would it have been worth it, after all,

 

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

 

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

 

Would it have been worth while, 90

 

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

 

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

 

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

 

To say: I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

 

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all 95

 

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

 

Should say: That is not what I meant at all.

 

That is not it, at all.

 

 

 

And would it have been worth it, after all,

 

Would it have been worth while, 100

 

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

 

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor

 

And this, and so much more?

 

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

 

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105

 

Would it have been worth while

 

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

 

And turning toward the window, should say:

 

That is not it at all,

 

That is not what I meant, at all.

 

. . . . . 110

 

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

 

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

 

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

 

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

 

Deferential, glad to be of use, 115

 

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

 

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

 

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous

 

Almost, at times, the Fool.

 

 

 

I grow old I grow old 120

 

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

 

 

 

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

 

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

 

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

 

 

 

I do not think that they will sing to me. 125

 

 

 

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

 

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

 

When the wind blows the water white and black.

 

 

 

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

 

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130

 

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.[/hide]

[Omar]

fgsfds, I was going to post Sonnet 116...

 

 

 

 

Love is not all

 

 

 

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

 

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;

 

Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink

 

And rise and sink and rise and sink again;

 

Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,

 

Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;

 

Yet many a man is making friends with death

 

Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

 

It well may be that in a difficult hour,

 

Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,

 

Or nagged by want past resolution's power,

 

I might be driven to sell your love for peace,

 

Or trade the memory of this night for food.

 

It well may be. I do not think I would.

[Princess Viola]

My teacher was lovely, she was quite a lass.

 

She stood there teaching in front of the class.

 

I sat in the back I was quite a loner.

 

When the teacher called on me, I stood up and had a huge...

 

I think you know what was coming.

 

 

 

I was very pleased and filled with elation.

 

Oh no. Premature ejaculation.

 

 

 

Both from Wliia.

[llcoolguy972]

[hide=from The Perks of Being a Wallflower; don't know if Chbosky wrote it, though]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 that 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.[/hide]

 

Really the only poem that I actually like, don't know why since it's so depressing.

[Madmanpur3]

[hide=Taken from "Eloisa to Abelard" by Alexander Pope]How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!

 

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

 

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

 

Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;

 

Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;

 

"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"

 

Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,

 

Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.

 

Grace shines around her with serenest beams,

 

And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.

 

For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,

 

And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,

 

For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,

 

For her white virgins hymeneals sing,

 

To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,

 

And melts in visions of eternal day.[/hide]

 

 

 

Gotta love Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

[Sumpta]

The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock is brilliant. You can't read it out loud without starting to sing it a little bit, it's so melodic. Philip Larkin is brilliant too.

 

 

 

Hard to choose, there's so much, but here we go anyway.

 

 

 

[hide=W.H. Auden - The More Loving One]Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

 

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

 

But on earth indifference is the least

 

We have to dread from man or beast.

 

 

 

How should we like it were stars to burn

 

With a passion for us we could not return?

 

If equal affection cannot be,

 

Let the more loving one be me.

 

 

 

Admirer as I think I am

 

Of stars that do not give a damn,

 

I cannot, now I see them, say

 

I missed one terribly all day.

 

 

 

Were all stars to disappear or die,

 

I should learn to look at an empty sky

 

And feel its total dark sublime,

 

Though this might take me a little time.[/hide]

 

 

 

[hide=Tennyson - The Lady of Shalott]Part I

 

 

 

On either side of the river lie

 

Long fields of barley and of rye,

 

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

 

And through the field the road runs by

 

To many-towered Camelot;

 

And up and down the people go,

 

Gazing where the lilies blow

 

Round an island there below,

 

The island of Shalott.1

 

 

 

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 gray walls, and four gray towers,

 

Overlook a space of flowers,

 

And the silent isle imbowers

 

The Lady of Shalott.

 

 

 

By the margin, willow veiled

 

Slide the heavy barges trailed

 

By slow horses; and unhailed

 

The shallop flitteth silken-sailed

 

Skimming down to Camelot:

 

But who hath seen her wave her hand?

 

Or at the casement seen her stand? 25

 

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 towered Camelot:

 

And by the moon the reaper weary,

 

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

 

Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy

 

Lady of Shalott."

 

 

 

Part II

 

 

 

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 hands before her all the year,

 

Shadows of the world appear.

 

There she sees the highway near

 

Winding down to Camelot: 50

 

There the river eddy whirls,

 

And there the curly 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-haired page in crimson clad,

 

Goes by to towered 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.

 

 

 

Part III

 

 

 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

 

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

 

The sun came dazzling through the leaves, 75

 

And flamed upon the brazen greaves

 

Of bold Sir Lancelot.

 

A red-cross knight for ever kneeled

 

To a lady in his shield,

 

That sparkled on the yellow field,

 

Beside remote Shalott.

 

 

 

The gemmy bridle glittered 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 blazoned baldric slung

 

A mighty silver bugle hung,

 

And as he rode his armour rung,

 

Beside remote Shalott.

 

 

 

All in the blue unclouded weather

 

Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,

 

The helmet and the helmet-feather

 

Burned like one burning flame together,

 

As he rode down to Camelot.

 

As often through the purple night,

 

Below the starry clusters bright,

 

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

 

Moves over still Shalott.

 

 

 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 100

 

On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;

 

From underneath his helmet flowed

 

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 lira," 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 looked down to Camelot.

 

Out flew the web and floated wide;

 

The mirror cracked from side to side;

 

"The curse is come upon me," cried

 

The Lady of Shalott.

 

 

 

Part IV

 

 

 

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 towered Camelot;

 

Down she came and found a boat

 

Beneath a willow left afloat,

 

And round about the prow she wrote 125

 

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

 

Through 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,

 

Turned to towered Camelot.

 

For ere she reached upon the tide 150

 

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 round 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."[/hide]

 

 

 

[hide=W. B. Yeats - Cloths of Heaven]Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

 

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

 

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

 

Of night and light and the half-light,

 

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

 

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

 

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

 

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.[/hide]

[Lateralus]

From the Richard Le Galliene translation of The Rubiyat of Omar Khayyam:

 

 

 

The wine-cup is the little silver well

 

Where Truth, if Truth there be, doth ever dwell;

 

Death too is there, - and Death who would not seek? -

 

And Love that in itself is Heaven and Hell.

 

 

 

The wine-cup is a wistful magic glass,

 

Wherein all day old faces smile and pass,

 

Dead lips press ours upon its scented brim,

 

Old voices whisper man a sweet 'alas!'

 

 

 

And sometimes in the nodding afternoon

 

When all is listening-still and half-a-swoon,

 

Sudden one lifts a shining startled face, -

 

Hark! 'tis the magic bird, the magic tune!

 

 

 

Drunkards! so be it - yet, if all were wise,

 

All would be drunk like us, with dreaming eyes:

 

Poor sober world, so doleful all the day,

 

Leave mosque and mart, and join our Paradise.

 

 

 

He's probably more dangerous than Baudelaire when it comes to romanticising drunkenness. Fantastic.