Poetry anyone? Add your favorites here

[Bang!Zoom!]

I have no idea why it is, but sometimes...poetry can fill a need. Either writing it, or reading it. Have a favorite you'd like to share?

 

I'll start.

 

Here's one that worked some magic for me tonight. Been working on some family genealogy the last month, have loose ends of course, but had to say good bye for a while I get on with other life. This piece by Pinkola Estes seemed to capture some of what I'm feeling tonight as I bid adieu to one of my very favorite chases...here it is.

 

 

Clarissa Pinkola Estes

 

 

Abre la puerta

Her name is Hope and she’s 12 years old,

going on 20 to life. She is god at 5 feet tall.

Abre la Puerta, open the door

and let her in, give her food.

 

Old Florence lives in the parking garage

at the university with her bags and packs

on the floor all around and she washes

her 84 year old body in the sink at the library

with a piece of flannel from her deceased husband’s pajamas.

Abre la Puerta, she’s god.

Florence is God, there’s a God named Florencia.

 

Remember that old abuelita, your grandest grandmother?

How she staggered toward you on legs so thin?

You were just a baby then and she smiled all over your infant self

and when you rose young and steaming from the void

that was God in her abuelita form, crying with joy just to see you,

“Que, que, que babybita†she’d say to you.

“Oh look at you, you babybaby you…â€

 

“Look,†says God, “she talks.†God talks baby talk.

She opened a door in her belly for you.

Your grandmother is God. God is a grandmother

 

And you remember that red room where you grew? That was God.

And remember the warm hands that received you? That was God.

And you remember your father’s hands holding your face,

as though it were some kind of jewel that might break?

In that moment, he was God.

 

Your mate who snores, well… God snores, you see.

Your mate is God, who can never find his socks.

And your lover who burns for things you cannot give,

that is God also.

 

Your mate is God.

God is a housewife in mudface and hair curlers

at the door waving goodbye in a housecoat.

God wears a housecoat.

 

And, oh, the world that is young and has loved so deeply

and been betrayed, whose skin hangs like rags

and whose arms have no muscle and whose eyes have lost luster;

open the door of your heartaches and step through the door of your betrayal.

Pass through the hole that is left in your heart.

Pass through because it is a door.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

 

Do you remember that your legs are el anillo, the ring that circles the lover?

Your legs make a door, pass through the door,

Abre la Puerta pass the bulb through.

Open the door, the most sacred of doors,

the trail through your belly and the road up your spine.

 

Remember, fire is a door.

and song is a door. A scar is a door.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

 

The forest on fire is a door

and the ocean ruined is a door.

Anything that needs us

or calls us to God is a door.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

 

Anything that hurts us,

anything that needs us opens the door.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

 

All of these years of seeming indestructibility,

the grandfather of your world dies

and his heart explodes

and yours breaks into a thousand pieces.

These are doors. Open the doors.

Abre la Puerta. Pass through these doors.

 

The world is a tribe of one-breasted women.

Walk through the door of the scars on their chest.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

 

Over the edge of the world you go,

into the abyss. You march in time.

And put the best medicine in the worst of the wounds.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

 

The lake in which you almost drowned, that is a door.

The slap in the face that made you kiss the floor, that is a door.

The betrayal that sent you straight to hell, that is a door.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

 

Same old story, all strong souls first go to hell

before they do the healing of the world they came here for.

If we are lucky we return to help those still trapped below.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

Hell is a door caused by pain.

 

Opening a flower, rain opening the Earth

the kisses of humans opening the heart of the world

these are doors.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

 

The scar drawn by razors, that is a door.

The scars that are doors are opened, are opened.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

 

The scars drawn by chainsaws across forests, those are doors.

The poem of new life that comes every dawn,

the soaring of sun, that is a door, the grave is a door.

The door to hell is a door.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

 

Your grandmother, your grandfather,

your mother, your father have died leaving a hole in your life.

Step through that hole. It is an opening.

That hole is a threshold. That hole is a door.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

Abre la Puerta, open the door.

[Shawna in Texas]

I'll just post the first that popped in my head when I read the thread title. My favorite is fluid, but this one I've loved for many years. Maybe not loved, but certainly one that does affect me. I read quickly and this is one of the only poems that I read very slowly. Every time.

 

 

Valentine by Carol Ann Duffy

 

 

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

 

I give you an onion.

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light

like the careful undressing of love.

 

Here.

It will blind you with tears

like a lover.

It will make your reflection

a wobbling photo of grief.

 

I am trying to be truthful.

 

Not a cute card or kissogram.

 

I give you an onion.

Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,

possessive and faithful

as we are,

for as long as we are.

 

Take it.

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,

if you like.

Lethal.

Its scent will cling to your fingers,

cling to your knife.

[Chris in VA]

I have many, but here is one.

 

 

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you

 

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

 

That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

 

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

 

I, like an usurp'd town to another due,

 

Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;

 

Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,

 

But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.

 

Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,

 

But am betroth'd unto your enemy;

 

Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,

 

Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

 

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

 

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

[happi duck]

Please excuse the highlighting, I can't seem to get rid of it!

 

The poem in my siggy and also:

 

 

THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

— Wendell Berry

[Desert Rat]

I have two:

 

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

by E. E. Cummings

 

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

 

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

 

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

 

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

 

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

 

And

 

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

[Desert Rat]

Okay and this one because it's just so funny.

 

This Is Just To Say

by William Carlos Williams

 

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

 

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

 

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

[shanvan]

This time of year I always think of The Darkling Thrush. It was written at the end of the year (1899) and the end of the century. Though some people find it pessimistic, I love the big dollop of hope at the end of the poem.

 

I leant upon a coppice gate

When Frost was spectre-gray,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

The weakening eye of day

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

Had sought their household fires.

 

The land's sharp features seemed to be

The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

The wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

Seemed fervourless as I.

 

At once a voice arose among

The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

Upon the growing gloom.

 

So little cause for carolings

Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

And I was unaware.

 

~ Thomas Hardy

[Amy in TX]

Okay and this one because it's just so funny.

 

This Is Just To Say

by William Carlos Williams

 

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

 

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

 

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

 

 

I've always loved that one! And have you read this:

 

 

This Is Just to Say

 

by Erica Lynn Gambino

 

(for William Carlos Williams)

 

I have just

asked you to

get out of my

apartment

 

even though

you never

thought

I would

 

Forgive me

you were

driving

me insane

[Amy in TX]

Here are a couple that I love:

 

Sentimental Story

by Nichita Stanescu

Then we met more often.

I stood at one side of the hour,

you at the other,

like two handles of an amphora.

Only the words flew between us,

back and forth.

You could almost see their swirling,

and suddenly,

I would lower a knee,

and touch my elbow to the ground

to look at the grass, bent

by the falling of some word,

as though by the paw of a lion in flight.

The words spun between us,

back and forth,

and the more I love you, the more

they continued, this whirl almost seen,

the structure of matter, the beginnings of things.

 

A Poem

by Nichita Stanescu

Tell me, if I caught you one day

And kissed the sole of your foot—

Wouldn’t you limp a little afterwards

Afraid you’re going to crush my kiss?

[thescrappyhomeschooler]

I go positively giddy for poetry! Here are a few of my favorites!

 

 

1.LE PONT MIRABEAU

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

Et nos amours

Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne

La joie venait toujours après la peine

 

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure

Les jours s'en vont je demeure

 

Les mains dans les mains restons face à face

Tandis que sous

Le pont de nos bras passe

Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse

 

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure

Les jours s'en vont je demeure

 

L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante

L'amour s'en va

Comme la vie est lente

Et comme l'Espérance est violente

 

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure

Les jours s'en vont je demeure

 

Passent les jours et passent les semaines

Ni temps passé

Ni les amours reviennent

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

 

-Guillaume Apollinaire

 

2. maggie and milly and molly and may

went down to the beach(to play one day)

 

and maggie discovered a shell that sang

so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

 

milly befriended a stranded star

whose rays five languid fingers were;

 

and molly was chased by a horrible thing

which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

 

may came home with a smooth round stone

as small as a world and as large as alone.

 

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)

it's always ourselves we find in the sea

 

- e. e. cummings

 

 

 

3. The Eagle

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

 

 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.

 

4. I WANDERED lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

 

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

 

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

 

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

 

- William Wordsworth

 

I could go on and on, but that is a small sampling.

[shanvan]

Okay, now you've all got me going on poems!

 

As part of our schoolwork we recently compared these 2...

 

 

A Red, Red Rose

O my Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June;

O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry:

 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun:

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

 

And fare thee well, my only Luve

And fare thee well, a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

~Robert Burns

 

Compare to....

 

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)

by William Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

 

My Dc especially love the wires on her head and her reeking breath!

 

And, since we were having so much fun I added in AE Houseman's Terrance this is stupid stuff...(please excuse verse markers, I had a hard time finding a version to copy) Long but good and hilarious.

 

"Terence, this is stupid stuff:

2 You eat your victuals fast enough;

3 There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,

4 To see the rate you drink your beer.

5 But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,

6 It gives a chap the belly-ache.

7 The cow, the old cow, she is dead;

8 It sleeps well, the horned head:

9 We poor lads, 'tis our turn now

10 To hear such tunes as killed the cow.

11 Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme

12 Your friends to death before their time

13 Moping melancholy mad:

14 Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad."

15 Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,

16 There's brisker pipes than poetry.

17 Say, for what were hop-yards meant,

18 Or why was Burton built on Trent?

19 Oh many a peer of England brews

20 Livelier liquor than the Muse,

21 And malt does more than Milton can

22 To justify God's ways to man.

23 Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink

24 For fellows whom it hurts to think:

25 Look into the pewter pot

26 To see the world as the world's not.

27 And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:

28 The mischief is that 'twill not last.

29 Oh I have been to Ludlow fair

30 And left my necktie God knows where,

31 And carried half-way home, or near,

32 Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:

33 Then the world seemed none so bad,

34 And I myself a sterling lad;

35 And down in lovely muck I've lain,

36 Happy till I woke again.

37 Then I saw the morning sky:

38 Heigho, the tale was all a lie;

39 The world, it was the old world yet,

40 I was I, my things were wet,

41 And nothing now remained to do

42 But begin the game anew.

43 Therefore, since the world has still

44 Much good, but much less good than ill,

45 And while the sun and moon endure

46 Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,

47 I'd face it as a wise man would,

48 And train for ill and not for good.

49 'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale

50 Is not so brisk a brew as ale:

51 Out of a stem that scored the hand

52 I wrung it in a weary land.

53 But take it: if the smack is sour,

54 The better for the embittered hour;

55 It should do good to heart and head

56 When your soul is in my soul's stead;

57 And I will friend you, if I may,

58 In the dark and cloudy day.

59 There was a king reigned in the East:

60 There, when kings will sit to feast,

61 They get their fill before they think

62 With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.

63 He gathered all that springs to birth

64 From the many-venomed earth;

65 First a little, thence to more,

66 He sampled all her killing store;

67 And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,

68 Sate the king when healths went round.

69 They put arsenic in his meat

70 And stared aghast to watch him eat;

71 They poured strychnine in his cup

72 And shook to see him drink it up:

73 They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:

74 Them it was their poison hurt.

75 --I tell the tale that I heard told.

76 Mithridates, he died old.

 

See, I told you all you got me started!

[shanvan]

One more that my Dc memorized when they were younger and was always a favorite. And, BTW, this mother doesn't want a dog either.....yet we have 3! I like my cat.

 

 

Mother Doesn't Want a Dog by Judith Viorst

 

Mother doesn't want a dog.

Mother says they smell,

And never sit when you say sit,

Or even when you yell.

And when you come home late at night

And there is ice and snow,

You have to go back out because

The dumb dog has to go.

 

Mother doesn't want a dog.

Mother says they shed,

And always let the strangers in

And bark at friends instead,

And do disgraceful things on rugs,

And track mud on the floor,

And flop upon your bed at night

And snore their doggy snore.

 

Mother doesn't want a dog.

She's making a mistake.

Because, more than a dog, I think

She will not want this snake.

[thescrappyhomeschooler]

The Bard of Avon rocks! Love the sonnet Shannon!

 

I made my kids memorize this one, and ds1 cracks everyone up by saying it in his English accent:

 

 

Winter

 

When icicles hang by the wall

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail

And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,

When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

 

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

 

William Shakespeare

[shanvan]

The Bard of Avon rocks! Love the sonnet Shannon!

 

I made my kids memorize this one, and ds1 cracks everyone up by saying it in his English accent:

 

 

Winter

 

When icicles hang by the wall

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail

And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,

When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

 

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

 

William Shakespeare

 

 

Oh! That is a great one for recitation!

[Mergath]

This one has always been one of my absolute favorites.

 

The More Loving One

W. H. Auden

 

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.

[thescrappyhomeschooler]

Since all the Christmas boxes are out of the way, I was able to access the box of stuff I've saved from my pre-married life. Here is a poem that I found under my door one evening when I came home from doing a tech rehearsal for a college play. This was written by one of the actors in the play as his way of asking me out. I ended up dating him for 3 years. I've saved it for over 25 years now, because it was so sweet.

 

tears

a lame butterfly weeps in a swaying meadow

she cares

whisper softly daughter

i wish god for you

 

making love in the ocean

music in my parade

kissing under the tide

imagine

drowning lilies

love absolute

abstract in the way

 

insight

birth of an idea

let us cast raven upon the head of a maiden

let us create a child of amour

let her be you

 

waiting for the sun

waiting for you to smile

i'm so afraid when you frown

whenever the skies cry

whenever you cease to shine

 

i trip on your laughter

i ride on the impulse of your affection

your face i've seen before

your eyes i've drifted hazily upon in kaleidoscope pictures

 

lemon drops

marble dolls

kooky carnival

a pocket full of gold

ride this rocket to the moon

 

dimpled girl

you belong to heaven

your lips/whistle

i swear the gods shall hear you

your heartbeat and the rhythm of the humming bird

the definition of sacred compassion

the unwritten law

 

reply sweet child/do you wanna fly?

if you wanna then take my hand

we can trip together or apart

doesn't matter cuz the light shines the same

[kalanamak]

This. I put the spaces between the lines in because it is very best read aloud, and I change my voice at there points. Serious the first lines, excited for the next, and sadly calm for the last two. I find it best to ignore line ends (especially the end of line 7) and just stick to punctuation. I have recited this many times, and it grabs people.

 

 

Prothalamium

Fifth section of "Astoria" sequence

© Aaron Kramer

Come, all you who are not satisfied

as ruler in a lone, wallpapered room

full of mute birds, and flowers that falsely bloom,

and closets choked with dreams that long ago died!

 

Come, let us sweep the old streets--like a bride;

sweep out dead leaves with a relentless broom;

prepare for Spring, as though he were our groom

for whose light footstep eagerly we bide.

We'll sweep out shadows, where the rats long fed;

sweep out our shame--and in its place we'll make

a bower for love, a splendid marriage-bed

fragrant with flowers aquiver for the Spring.

 

And when he comes, our murdered dreams shall wake;

and when he comes, all the mute birds shall sing.

[shanvan]

Dot, thank you for reminding me of Adrienne Rich!

[texasmama]

This has been my favorite poem since high school. It never fails to move me.

Ozymandias

 

 

 

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.'

 

Percy Bysshe Shelley

[Alessandra]

This has been my favorite poem since high school. It never fails to move me.

Ozymandias

 

 

 

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.'

 

Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

Oh, what memories! This was my poem for speech class in high school. I never got it right, so I had to say it again and again. Sadly, it would not be on my favorite poem list at all....

[Alessandra]

This is one of my favorites (Yeats).

 

 

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.

 

[edit]

[Jane in NC]

I have many, but here is one.

 

 

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you

 

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

 

That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

 

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

 

...

 

Just a side note: Are you aware that this Donne sonnet was used by John Adams in his opera Dr. Atomic? If you do a Google search, you'll find a clip of this aria. I love it.

[happi duck]

I haven't savored every post yet but wanted to say thanks for this thread!! I will happily be coming back to read each poem.

[Chelle in MO]

One of my favorites:

 

In Flanders Fields

By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)

Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

[ccolopy]

My kids are way more into poetry than I am (I'm not sure how I've managed it!), so I'll post their current favorites. We've never formally memorized poetry, but they always know a few good ones by heart to show off to the grandparents.

 

DS: Duello, by Robert Service

 

A Frenchman and an Englishman

Resolved to fight a duel,

And hit upon a savage plan,

Because their hate was cruel.

They each would fire a single shot

In room of darkness pitchy,

And who was killed and who was not

Would hang on fingers twitchy.

 

The room was bare and dark as death,

And each ferocious fighter

Could hear his fierce opponent's breath

And clutched his pistol tighter.

The Gaston fired - the bullet hissed

On its destructive mission . . .

"Thank God!" said John Bull. "He has missed."

The Frenchman cried: "Perdition!"

 

Then silence followed like a spell,

And as the Briton sought to

Reply he wondered where the hell

His Gallic foe had got to.

 

And then he thought: "I'll mercy show,

Since Hades is a dire place

To send a fellow to - and so

I'll blaze up through the fireplace."

 

So up the chimney he let fly,

Of grace a gallant henchman;

When lo! a sudden cry,

And down there crashed the Frenchman . . .

But if this yarn in France you tell,

Although its vein be skittish,

I think it might be just as well

To make your Frenchman - British.

 

 

DD: In a Station of the Metro, by Ezra Pound

 

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;

Petals on a wet, black bough.

[KrissiK]

This is my favorite poem. I don't know why. I just love it.

 

Solitude

 

 

 

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;

Weep, and you weep alone.

For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,

But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;

Sigh, it is lost on the air.

The echoes bound to a joyful sound,

But shrink from voicing care.

 

Rejoice, and men will seek you;

Grieve, and they turn and go.

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;

Be sad, and you lose them all.

There are none to decline your nectared wine,

But alone you must drink life's gall.

 

Feast, and your halls are crowded;

Fast, and the world goes by.

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a long and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow aisles of pain.

 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

[EducationX2]

Honestly, I have no favorite poem. I can also never pick a favorite book, food, etc. Different moods, different times, different situations...

 

I agree. Well, mostly. I do have one favorite book of all time- Le Petit Prince. But other than that one, my favorites rotate depending on my mood.

 

But, here are some of the poems I love right now. I really love Prévert. I did a paper analyzing some of his work and it was the first long paper I wrote in French, so his work holds a special place in my heart. Plus, his work just sounds so beautiful when recited aloud.

 

Le Jardin

Des milliers et des milliers d'années

Ne sauraient suffire

Pour dire

La petite seconde d'éternité

Où tu m'as embrassé

Où je t'ai embrassé

Un moment dans la lumière de l'hiver

Au Parc Montsouris à Paris

À Paris

Sur la terre

La terre qui est un astre.

 

Le Jardin (English - The Garden)

Thousands and thousands

Of years

Would not suffice

To tell of

The sweet moment of eternity

Where you kissed me

Where I kissed you

One moment in the light of winter

In Montsouris Park in Paris

In Paris

Upon this Earth

This Earth which is a star.

 

 

 

Paris at Night

Trois allumettes une à une allumées dans la nuit

La première pour voir ton visage tout entier

La deuxière pour voir tes yeux

La dernière pour voir ta bouche

Et l’obscurité tout entière pour me rappeler de tout cela

En te serrant dans mes bras.

 

Paris at Night (English)

Three matchsticks lit one by one in the night

The first to see the whole of your face

The second to see your eyes

The third to see your mouth

And complete darkness to remember this all

With you locked in my arms

 

 

I also really love Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market. It's too long to post, but here's a link. http://www.poetryfou...org/poem/174262

[Shamzanne]

One from high school that has stuck with me. Oddly appropriate for Epiphany on Sunday.

 

The Journey of the Magi

by T.S. Eliot

 

 

A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of the year

For a journey, and such a long journey:

The was deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter."

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,

Lying down in the melting snow.

There were times we regretted

The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,

And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling

And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,

And the night-fires gong out, and the lack of shelters,

And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly

And the villages dirty, and charging high prices.:

A hard time we had of it.

At the end we preferred to travel all night,

Sleeping in snatches,

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

 

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,

Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;

With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,

And three trees on the low sky,

And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,

Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,

And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.

But there was no information, and so we continued

And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon

Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

 

All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This: were we lead all that way for

Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,

We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different; this Birth was

Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,

But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.

I should be glad of another death.

[Remudamom]

Love Shakespeare. I believe this is Sonnet 29

 

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

[ElaineJ]

Not my life long favorite, but one I have recently discovered appropriate to this time of year:

 

Year's End

by Richard Wilbur

 

Now winter downs the dying of the year,

And night is all a settlement of snow;

From the soft street the rooms of houses show

A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,

Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin

And still allows some stirring down within.

 

I've known the wind by water banks to shake

The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell

And held in ice as dancers in a spell

Fluttered all winter long into a lake;

Graved on the dark in gestures of descent,

They seemed their own most perfect monument.

 

There was perfection in the death of ferns

Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone

A million years. Great mammoths overthrown

Composedly have made their long sojourns,

Like palaces of patience, in the gray

And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii

 

The little dog lay curled and did not rise

But slept the deeper as the ashes rose

And found the people incomplete, and froze

The random hands, the loose unready eyes

Of men expecting yet another sun

To do the shapely thing they had not done.

 

These sudden ends of time must give us pause.

We fray into the future, rarely wrought

Save in the tapestries of afterthought.

More time, more time. Barrages of aplause

Come muffled from a buried radio.

The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.

[Lizzie in Ma]

I don't know why, exactly, but this has always been my favorite.

 

The Highwayman

 

By Alfred Noyes

 

PART ONE

 

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.â€

 

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, shouting 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.

 

. . .

 

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding—

Riding—riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

 

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.

He whistles 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.

 

Source: Collected Poems (1947)

[shanvan]

Love Shakespeare. I believe this is Sonnet 29

 

 

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

 

One of my favorites. Dh and I had this sonnet read at our wedding! I made it bigger so it's easier to read.

[thescrappyhomeschooler]

I don't know why, exactly, but this has always been my favorite.

 

The Highwayman

 

By Alfred Noyes

 

PART ONE

 

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.

 

 

 

 

I can't see this poem without seeing Anne Shirley reciting it! :001_smile:

[Alessandra]

One of my favorites:

 

In Flanders Fields

By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)

Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

 

 

The WWI poets -- I can't read them without choking up. Here is another that I love:

 

Wilfred Owen (died 11/4/1918)

 

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

 

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

 

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

 

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

[Chelle in MO]

Oh, Alessandra...that's haunting. :crying:

[Alessandra]

Oh, Alessandra...that's haunting. :crying:

 

I am so glad you see it that way -- and to think that Wilfred Owen died just 7 days before the Armistice.

[Chelle in MO]

 

I am so glad you see it that way -- and to think that Wilfred Owen died just 7 days before the Armistice.

 

I didn't know that...I'll have to go look him up.

[AlmiraGulch]

I adore Frost. I love the simplicity of his words combined with the depth of their meaning. Beautiful. This is probably my favorite. It resonates with me often.

 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

 

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see 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 ask 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.

 

Robert Frost

[Chelle in MO]

Beautiful is right, Q. Just beautiful.

[Caitilin]

I love the WWI poets, especially Housman, Millay, Graves.

 

Millay:

Pity Me Not Because The Light Of Day

 

Pity me not because the light of day

At close of day no longer walks the sky;

Pity me not for beauties passed away

From field and thicket as the the year goes by;

Pity me not the waning of the moon,

Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,

Nor that a man's desire is hushed so soon,

And you no longer look with love on me.

This have I known always: Love is no more

Than the wide blossom which the wind assails,

Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,

Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales:

Pity me that the heart is slow to learn

What the swift mind beholds at ever turn.

 

 

Robert Graves:

Knowledge Of God

 

So far from praising he blasphemes

Who says that God has been or is,

Who swears he met with God in dreams

Or face to face in woods and streams,

Meshed in their boundaries.

 

'Has been' and 'is' the seasons bind,

(Here glut of bread, there lack of bread).

The mill-stones grumble as they grind

That if God is, he must be blind,

Or if he was, is dead.

 

Can God with Danae sport and kiss,

Or God with rebel demons fight,

Making a proof as Jove or Dis,

Force, Essence, Knowledge, that or this,

Of Godhead infinite?

 

The caterpillar years-to-come

March head to tail with years-that-were

Round and around the cosmic drum,

To time and space they add their sum

But how is Godhead there?

 

Weep, sleep, be merry, vault the gate

Or down the evening furrow plod,

Hate, and at length withhold your hate,

Rule, or be ruled by certain fate,

But cast no net for God.

 

Housman:

With Rue My Heart Is Laden

 

With rue my heart is laden

For golden friends I had,

For many a rose-lipt maiden

And many a lightfoot lad.

 

By brooks too broad for leaping

The lightfoot boys are laid;

The rose-lipt girls are sleeping

In fields where roses fade.

 

I'm a hopeless romantic, what can I say? ;)

[happi duck]

I really love this thread.

 

So nice to meet new poems and be reminded of old friends.

[Heather in Neverland]

A favorite of mine...

 

 

 

THE SECOND COMING by William Butler Yeats

 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

 

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

 

The darkness drops again but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

 

[Onceuponatime]

Here are a couple of my own:

 

After Christmas Sale

 

Old Man Winter

With a beard of snowy white

Stands outside my door

Pitching his wares

Persistant and unrelenting

Wearing down my defenses

Waiting for a chance

To stick his foot in the door

 

 

 

The Secret

 

A star outside my

window winks its tiny white

eye and I wink back

[Kareni]

This one was a favorite of mine in high school, and I still like it.

 

The Preacher: Ruminates behind the Sermon

by Gwendolyn Brooks

 

 

I think it must be lonely to be God.

Nobody loves a master. No. Despite

The bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and bright

Determined reverence of Sunday eyes.

 

Picture Jehovah striding through the hall

Of his importance, creatures running out

From servant-corners to acclaim, to shout

Appreciation of His merit's gaze.

 

But who walks with Him?--dares to take His arm,

To slap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear,

Buy Him a Coca-Cola or a beer,

Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool?

 

Perhaps--who knows?--He tires of looking down.

Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight.

Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great

In solitude. Without a hand to hold.

 

 

Regards,

Kareni

[MeaganS]

I know next to nothing about poetry, but I like this one:


The Listeners
BY WALTER DE LA MARE
*(poem text removed)*

[The Governess]

I've had this one taking up space in my head for a while:

 

Chidiock (Charles) Tichborne (1563 – 20 September 1586) is remembered as an English conspirator and poet.

 

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,

My crop of corn is but a field of tares,

And all my good is but vain hope of gain;

The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard and yet it was not told,

My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green,

My youth is spent and yet I am not old,

I saw the world and yet I was not seen;

My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,

I looked for life and saw it was a shade,

I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,

And now I die, and now I was but made;

My glass is full, and now my glass is run,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

[KrissiK]

I know next to nothing about poetry, but I like this one:

 

 

The Listeners

BY WALTER DE LA MARE

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses

Of the forest’s ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the Traveller’s head:

And he smote upon the door again a second time;

‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,

Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

By the lonely Traveller’s call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:—

‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word,’ he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Source: The Collected Poems of Walter de la Mare (1979)

I'm not hugely into poetry myself, but I've been having the kids memorize a poem and month and we memorized "Five Eyes" by Walter de la Mare. What a fun poem to memorize. The more I familiarize myself with his work the more I like it!